2.

Thursday, 1 July

It's all about the first win.

I had spent the summer winning the transfer window, winning by plucking weeds from Rachel's garden almost before they had even popped up, winning by retaining my sanity even as the constant spinning of my thoughts threatened to turn me into an actual helicopter. Life as an aircraft could well suit me; I had been pitch perfect for weeks. Bosh! Amazing line. Write that down!

Examples of how well things were going? Here's about 50 from just one of the clubs I was running. Chester's men had accepted their new salaries and their contract extensions - the euphoria of winning a league and cup double while rising to the highest level in a club's history will do that to people. Chester's women had turned professional and the squad was looking sensational. The men's under 18s team was stacked.

The I-can't-believe-we're-really-here party at the Deva would last for weeks, but our fans would only truly accept their new place in football's pecking order when we scored our first win in the second tier. That would be the day they could exhale, relax a little, enjoy the season not just as day trippers but as competitors. I reckoned the first win, if it didn't come in the first league game of the season, would come in the third. My prediction was that we would pick up two wins in the first ten games. 9 points after 10 games was my forecast. We would be near the bottom of the table, but then we would find our sea legs, pick up speed, and pull away from the reefs and rocks at the bottom of the table.

Yeah, Chester were all set. I felt free to turn my mind to more pressing needs.

The doors opened and in strode a few coaches, followed by loads of players. They had been training and I had a few minutes with them before lunch. More players entered. And more.

"Holy shit," I said. "Is this everyone?"

The main coach guy said, "I think, so, yes. Rather a lot of interest, Max."

"Er, the room isn't set up for this. Let's go over there and we'll make a semi-circle."

"Good idea."

It was pretty easy to organise, but there was a mad buzz of chat. "Okay, guys," I said, holding my palms up. The noise levels came down. "I'll try to be quick about this because you must be starving after that session." I looked around and yeah, it really seemed like everyone had turned up. I pointed at one guy. "How many times did I nutmeg you last season?"

There was a burst of laughter and teasing. The guy claimed that the number was zero.

"I'm gonna get my video people to check," I said, before clapping my hands. "Okay, I'm Max Best. Player-manager for Chester FC. I've taken them from the sixth tier to the second, back to back to back to back. I'm the Soccer Supremo, managed Bayern Munich, scored a rainbow flick at Wembley - "

"Broke the world transfer record for a woman goalie!" called one of the goalkeepers.

"Yeah," I said. "But those things aren't what I'm most proud of. My best achievement is the careers I've been able to guide. In some cases I've found complete randos and turned them into Championship players, and I've taken kids chucked out from academies and given them a second chance and some of those lads are doing great."

One of the coaches said, "I've heard you scout the Exit Trials in person."

"You mean instead of sending a minion? Yeah, I do it myself because it's wrong how this sport treats young people. It's actually sick. And this event today, it's sort of like the Exit Trials for older players, isn't it?"

I was in rural Leicestershire, in a fancy wellness and spa hotel. The Professional Footballers' Association (the PFA) were using the facility to put on a pre-season event for 40 players whose contracts had run out. For 8 weeks, the lads would be put through their paces, coached, and used in friendly matches, just like at a real club. The event would keep them fit and make it easier for them to get a new contract.

Coming to this event wasn't quite the same thrill as going to an Exit Trial. For one, I had played against most of the guys and knew their levels. So did other clubs, and half of these players would be picked up before the end of pre-season. Their levels ranged from mid-table Championship to the bottom of League Two, so they were all useful to me in one way or another.

"I've got beef with the PFA because if you're in non-league, they treat you like you don't exist. We're the Professional Footballers' Association and you're a professional footballer but you're not on TV so we're not interested. Garbage. I'm not happy with that and I'm not a member and I won't be until they reach out to everyone, but beef aside, what I saw this morning was fucking brilliant." I gestured towards the coaches. "It's not easy to put on drills for 40 players but these guys managed it. It was exemplary, the quality was good, and the standard from you players was high. I'm impressed."

I took a couple of seconds to centre myself and make sure what I said next came out in the right order.

"You've had a knock, haven't you, with your contracts not being renewed, but most of you will be okay. Some good players in here. Some fucking good players. But there's that risk, isn't there, that you might be one of the five guys in this group who doesn't have a new club by September. And that's why I'm here. I need five players and I'm not picky." I laughed.

A Welsh guy called Davey Barnes called out with a joke. "I can't sign for Chester, Max, I'm a Wrexham lad."

I eyed him. Apart from my beef with the PFA, the main reason I hadn't been to this event before was that I felt I didn't need to. As long as a player was in my database, I would know when his contract expired, and if he was a free agent and he had the right skills I could simply find out his phone number, call him, and have a deal done by lunchtime. When I had turned up to watch the morning's session, there had only been five players of the 40 that I had never scouted before. Davey was one of them, and seeing him was enough to change my attitude towards this event. He set my pulse racing.

Davey had been in Welcome to Wrexham, had featured in the most heart-breaking episode, and the club had made a big deal about how pleased they were that he had signed a contract extension. He was a ball-playing midfielder, which meant he didn't actually suit Paul Parker's hit-and-hope style, and Barnes' appearances had dwindled over time. Wrexham had loaned him out, and just as he was getting to know his new team mates, he had picked up a season-ending injury. And just like that, the cuddly, smiling owners of Wrexham had tossed him into the nearest dumpster.

I smiled at him. "I'm not here with my Chester hat on but I'll tell you what, Davey, if you're not pissed off at how Wrexham treated you, I fucking am. It winds me all the way up and I want to let them know and guess what? Chester are at home to Wrexham in the first game of the season."

Most of the out-of-contract players in the room didn't know there was a big rivalry between Chester and Wrexham, but the coaches certainly did. One of them grinned and said, "Are you gonna put Ryan Reynolds on blast, Max?"

"I want to," I said. "But I've got this Welsh team I've been helping out. We took them from the third tier to the Prem and we won it and now we're in the Champions League. We have our first qualifier in N'ireland - er, that's what my girlfriend and I call Northern Ireland - on Tuesday and I'm gonna play. We can host the first two qualifiers in our new stadium but if we get to the third round, we need to use somewhere with a higher rating, and that means Wrexham, so I have to be nice to Deadfool and his gobby little sidekick. For now."

Davey's eyes bulged. "You're gonna play at The Racecourse? You?"

"We're the champions of Wales, mate. We're the spearhead of a mighty wave of Welshness. Why not play in a Welsh stadium? I'll explain it all if you're interested, but let's just put it like this. If you and I can agree terms by tomorrow, on Monday you will be flying out to Belfast to play alongside Max actual Best, and in a couple of weeks you'll be playing Champions League football at The Racecourse. You won't have to stick two fingers up at the royal box, although I'm happy to negotiate you a cash bonus if you do, but how's that for sticking it to them? They bin you off for the crime of getting injured and you rock up, bossing midfield and scoring long shots in their stadium, in a competition they could only dream of playing in."

Davey was staring at me like I had offered to buy his hair; I had got myself worked up and had to slice off the top of my froth like they do at Octoberfest.

Slightly calmer, I rubbed an eyebrow and spoke to the whole group. "Okay, I've gone in reverse order. I actually wanted to start at the bottom and work up. Heh. So let me tell you about a team called West. They're based in south Manchester and they've gone from tier 9 to tier 6 in three seasons. They are going to absolutely walk the National League North. They have the best starting eleven in the league plus seven talented Exit Trial lads, and if any of you find that you've got absolutely no interest from any clubs, send me a text because there's a place for you at West. You don't want to drop to tier 6, of course you don't, but they're gonna get promoted again and it's going to be an exciting season. Don't sit on your arse the whole winter feeling sorry for yourself, right?

"Okay, then a level above that we've got Newport County, who are going to win the National League, and that's another project an out-of-work player should want to be part of. Again, if you're at a loose end, don't waste your talent. And don't worry about dropping down. It's not a death sentence. In the past I have taken Ian Swan, Charlie Dugdale, and Joel Reid from higher leagues, they've had amazing seasons, and now all three are up in the Championship where they belong. No shortcuts, right? Sometimes you need to pass the ball backwards to get it forwards.

"But what I really want to talk about is Gibraltar. There's a team there called Bruno's Magpies that's owned by my future father-in-law. Holy shit, saying that sent chills down my spine. A year from now I'll be married, holy crap. Er... Okay so the Magpies are in the Conference League qualifiers. The way these qualifiers work is that you get a cash bonus for every round you progress through. For Chelsea or Juventus, that money's a joke, but if you're a tiny club in a tiny country it's a bonanza. For the Magpies, the only real overhead is player wages. If Seb spends 400,000 on wages he can earn 400,000 in prize money. But if he takes a bit of a punt, he can spend 600 and make 800. I'm helping Seb put together a squad that will earn more in prize money than the cost of the players. Does everyone get what I'm saying?

"In the first round they will play a team called..." I pulled a piece of paper from my pocket and pretended to struggle to get the syllables out. "Dau-gav-pils. They're from Latvia. Decent team, obviously, if they have qualified, but... Then in the second round it would either be Mali-she-va from Kosovo or Víking-urrr from Iceland. Lads, they're decent but I could take eleven of you, form a team, and smash them, right? I've already got a squad out there and I'm looking for a bit of extra quality to make sure we get to the third round at least. Last time we got all the way to the league stage and that comes with very decent bonuses, but this isn't about making fat stacks of cash, it's about the experience and putting yourself in a much bigger shop window. I'm guessing 99% of you don't have anything about playing in Europe on your Wikipedia page. Well, I do and that's why my sponsorship deals are up this year, do you know what I mean? I'm hot stuff.

"Okay so that's the general proposal. What does it mean specifically for you? There are different ways to do this, but let's take a typical scenario. You think to yourself, good as this luxury spa lifestyle is, playing in European matches is even better. You sign a two-month contract to play for the Magpies. Best case scenario, you play three qualifying rounds and a playoff. Certainly it's somewhere between two and eight European matches, right? If I can get five of you signed up today, I would fancy us to get to the third round, at least. The fourth round, the playoffs, can have some high-profile teams so there's no guarantee of winning that, but if the Magpies do get into the league stage, the club gets flooded with money and you can either bank your bonus or stay on until January or the whole season if you want.

"I'll say upfront that life in Gibraltar isn't for everyone. It's a really small place, you know? Everyone can hack it for two months, though. So you come back to Britain at the end of August and all that time you've been lining up other clubs. Other clubs who have been watching you on TV! Not being funny but if I'm a director of football and I'm choosing between two players, one who's winning games in the Conference League and one who's getting pedicures in Leicestershire...

"And remember, I've got you a backup. Newport or West Didsbury will be there as your plan C. If you get injured while you're on a short-term deal, don't worry. We'll take care of you, and I don't mean take care of you the way Ryan Reynolds takes care of his injured guys." I mimed shooting a prisoner in the back of the head. "My father-in-law's a top lawyer, very respected, very solid. The other guy you'll meet is Mateo, who is currently selling Tranmere Rovers to Diggy Doggy. I know, I know, that sitch is bonkers. But Mateo's a top top guy and he's building a luxury training complex near Gibraltar because he's leaving English football behind and going all-in on this Gibraltar project. Oh, and you'd be playing in the new national stadium. It's all happening out there! Very exciting times.

"But back to the risks. Everyone involved is solid and we know that the minute we take the piss out of players is the minute this scheme stops working. It's too much fun to risk it by being dicks so if, like, Man United suddenly want to sign you, we'll let you go, or if we get knocked out in the first round and the PFA won't let you back into this camp, I'll make sure you can train with Chester or College or someone else. It's an opportunity, not a prison, if you get me. I did it myself last year and all the guys who did it wanted to do it again. Pascal's not allowed by his new club but everyone else has come back for more.

"The only thing is, we need to move fast. Like I said, the registration deadline for the first round is tomorrow. If I was in your shoes and I went to a room like this and there was a guy with a suspiciously good haircut telling me I needed to sign a document right away, I would be very, very sceptical, but I hope you understand the reason it has to be like this. Your old contracts ran out yesterday and the deadline for registrations is set by UEFA.

"So that's pretty much it. You're out of contract and you're worried about the future and I'm here to say, hey, the fact you're a free agent today isn't a bad thing - it's actually an opportunity to be part of something amazing. It's an opportunity to show the people who doubted you that you can perform on big nights on big stages for high stakes. While your former manager is picking his eleven for a pre-season friendly against fucking... Stevenage - no offence - you'll be lining up against Fiorentina or Real Betis for a shot at the big time.

"Thanks for listening. I don't really have a plan now because this was all a bit impromptu, but why don't most of you go get lunch and I'll stick around here and talk to anyone who's, like, interested in hearing more?"

Six players and all but two of the coaches peeled off and headed towards the exit.

Thirty-four players remained.

"Oh, fuck," I said. I put my hands on my head, closed my eyes, and opened them with a laugh. "All right, I guess I'm spending the afternoon in a luxury wellness hotel. Woe is me! Lads, get your lunch and stick around the lobby afterwards, okay? I'll come and talk to you one by one. You, though," I said, pointing to Davey Barnes. "Let me buy you lunch."

"It's all free," he said. "It's a big buffet and the PFA are paying."

"Top," I said. "In that case, I'll slop a bunch of stuff on a plate for you and bring it to where you're sitting."

"I can choose my own food, thanks, Max."

"Decisive," I said, eyebrows raised to their highest point. "I like that."

His expression locked into place. He eyed the PFA's main coach and said, "What have I got myself in for?"

***

We went to get some food and because there was a (virtual) queue of guys for me to talk to, I got stuck into the details right away. Davey was a 27-year-old central midfielder who could play on the left, and had PA 121, the same as Andrew Harrison, a guy who I had once moved heaven and earth to sign. These days, a guy with the same PA wasn't appealing as a Chester signing, and that was progress. After his long injury, Davey was CA 90 so he wouldn't be much use in the Championship anyway, but for Saltney Town? Yes, please!

I hadn't scouted him when he had been under contract so I didn't know what his old wage was, but we quickly came to a number that was acceptable to both of us. At 2,500 a week, he would be by far the best-paid Saltney Town employee, and he would have the chance to double that if the team won enough in prize money. For added security, I offered to put a clause in his contract allowing him to leave on a free transfer in January if Saltney weren't playing in a European competition then. That was a good compromise because while playing in Europe would be the pinnacle of his career, he was far too good to be playing in the Cymru Prem.

It wasn't the financial package or the terms that gave him doubts. "Max, er, this might seem a bit dim but I don't really watch the Champions League until, like, the quarter-finals, right? So I don't really know any of what goes on."

"It's not dim," I said, slicing a mini-potato into even minnier pieces. "From my perspective, it's smart to avoid thinking about the whole thing because it's chaos and it'll drive you mad. The key to everything, though, is to win the first tie. If you win the first tie, you're gonna have a good time."

"Okay."

"That's why if you're coming, I need you there for the first one because it really makes all the difference."

"Okay."

"So there are three European competitions, yeah? Champions League, Europa League, Conference League. Gold, silver, bronze. They all have three rounds of qualifying and then a playoff. Basically four rounds. But what's mad is how if you lose a round in a higher competition, you drop down to the next round in a lower competition."

"Um..."

"If you win the first round in the Champions League, great. If you lose, you find yourself in the second round of the Conference League."

"Wait, shouldn't it be the Europa League?"

"Yes!" I said, banging the table. "That's what I said! Actually, you know what? I made this flowchart." I got my phone out, swiped around, and showed it to him.

"Fucking hell," he said.

"I know."

"The goal is to move to the right until you end up in one of the leagues."

"Ah! I get it. Sort of. Move right, don't drop down."

"Yeah. How do we get into the coloured cells? Through the playoff round." I tapped a cell I had labelled CL P/O. "Look here at the Champions League playoff cell. You want to hit gold but if you lose, you fall into the silver, the Europa League. That's a huge drop in potential money but you still get millions. It's really not bad! You'll play Tottenham and Roma and Stuttgart and Porto. That sounds fun, right? And if you get to the silver playoff, the loser goes into the bronze, Conference League. Which again, not that bad from a football perspective and financially it's almost the same as the Europa.

"The nightmare for me is to get kicked down to the Conference League playoff and get dumped out by a huge team who shouldn't be there. Right? But if Saltney win the very first tie, we would need to lose the next two rounds to end up in the Conference playoff. I back our team to beat anyone even broadly similar to us or anyone who comes unprepared.

"Oh! And the second round is likely to be against College, the team I played for last season. I've sent them loads of good players again but kept the cream for myself so I'm confident of winning over two legs. If we win Q1 and Q2, we're in this square here, see? I've shaded it green. Green for money. All the routes from that square lead to riches and glory."

Davey was frowning and I couldn't blame him. I hadn't even mentioned the various paths-within-the-paths. "Win the first tie."

"Yep."

"That's against Linfield."

"Yeah."

"What are the chances?"

I shrugged. "High. They've got some kind of world record for winning their league the most times. Some of their fans call them Winfield. Clubs with a culture of winning are dangerous but they're in the Northern Irish league and if you join Saltney, our starting eleven will be about the same level as Chester right now. In two months we'll be approaching Wrexham's levels."

His eyes widened. "You've got a Championship team in the Welsh Prem? How is that possible?"

I took a sip of water while I thought about how to answer that. I decided to be honest. "Because that's how fucking good I am, Davey. I expect Linfield to be tidy, compact, competitive, and fit, but I don't expect to see any players in their starting eleven who would get into ours. I am going at this as hard as I've ever gone at anything. Oh, and it's not just the starters. We've got good backups, too. The problem with this thing I'm doing is that if you have six players on loan who are gone after two months, you leave a huge hole behind. So I've stocked up on players who will keep the club at a certain level through the season, plus some talented youngsters who will explode by getting Champions League minutes. Those guys will play in whatever Euro league we get into, and they'll make sure we win the Welsh league again so we can have another go at this next year. And underneath all that, I've got hundreds of Welsh dragons hatching and soon they'll start leaving their mark on this tournament, and every year it'll get Welsher and Welsher and yes, that's a word."

He had a big chew and a long think. "If something's too good to be true, it usually is. What's the catch?"

I gave him a Cheshire Cat grin. "The catch is you have to let me boss you around. And if we lose against Linfield, we're fucked and there's no money. Heh. But I understand the question. If you've got a half-decent team, you almost can't fail. That's by design, Davey. UEFA don't want big teams getting knocked out of their competitions. The sponsors and broadcasters aren't interested in Saltney versus College. They want Roma versus Porto as a minimum. And if the big clubs don't get special treatment, they will take their ball home and go and make a European Super League again. So it's designed to benefit the big teams. The catch is that I've worked out how to hack it."

Davey frowned again. "What's... What exactly is the hack?"

"The hack is bulking up to be a big team just for the qualifiers. The hack is not caring much what happens when you actually qualify for the league stage. Sign six players on loan and when you get knocked out you send them home. Sign five free agents and release them after two months so they can join a normal club for the rest of the season. The catch is convincing players to take what seems like a risk but isn't. Think about it seriously. Any League One or Championship manager will put a new signing who's just played eight Champions League matches straight into their starting eleven. Won't he?"

"Six loans, five free agents. That's a whole team."

"Exactly. Assembled for one mission, and then they can disperse. They don't have to go. Last year, Magnus was loving his time in Gibraltar and stayed four months longer than everyone else. If Saltney do get into the Champions League, I'm gonna have a hard time telling Wibbers he has to go back across the river."

"Wibbers? William Roberts? He looks a player. Who else will there be?"

"The squad's settled, to be honest. I wasn't planning on adding anyone but you'd be so perfect I had to pitch it. So, goalie's called Sticky. Chester guy, very reliable. He's staying with Saltney for the whole season so watch out for him breaking all sorts of clean sheet records because he has to be the best goalie ever to play in the Welsh Prem. We've got an unbelievable back four. One of the guys has Champions League experience with Bayern Munich and one is a former team mate of yours."

"Who?"

"Henry Dunston."

"You're joking."

"I'm not."

Henry Dunston was not a former Wrexham player, but a current Wrexham player. When negotiating with the club's executives about using The Racecourse to host our qualifiers, I had pitched the idea of them loaning us one of their twenty spare centre backs. It would be top-quality content! A Wrexham player in the Champions League, at last! It had been escalated to the top, and Ryan Reynolds had lost his shit when he heard the idea and told his underlings to make it happen or he would do to them what he had done to Davey. (I have no sources for that last part. The rest is true.) I didn't like the thought of giving Wrexham amazing content for their stupid documentary, but Dunston was 31 years old, had CA 122, and would otherwise spend the season hoping for a spate of injuries just to get on the bench.

Dunston would help me get rich.

"Dunston has checked in, Davey, and our defence is rock solid. For strikers, we've got Gabriel and Wibbers, which is a terrifying prospect if you're the Linfield manager, and Saltney have signed Tom Westwood on a permanent deal. He's got endless stamina and he presses defenders and goalies into making mistakes. He gives me the kind of tactical flexibility I didn't have last time round.

"The midfield is a tiny bit weaker, but I've got loads of options and those players are poised to kick on massively after the first game. I'm thinking of starting with 4-3-3 where I'll be one of the three, focused on keeping us solid, taking the ball from the defence if needed. For the guys next to me, I've got destructive options and more creative options, like I've got Vinni, a Ghanaian DM, and Tockers, a Brazilian wide player. What I like about you is that you're creative but you can get stuck in, too. You'd raise the levels on day one but you'd also improve along with the rest of us, so by the playoff you could really be purring. Plus you're Welsh, and it's a Welsh team and you'll be a brilliant role model, especially for Charlie."

"Charlie?"

"Charlie Cullen. He's 15 going on 16, box-to-box midfielder, absolutely brilliant, and he's gonna be in the first team squad and he's gonna get Champions League minutes."

"At 15?"

"This kid's the real deal. I'm willing to break the bank to pay your wages because your professionalism and attitude will filter down through to the young Welsh players, won't it? If I want Charlie to learn how to boss midfield and score a header from a late run into the box, there's not many better role models than you. And you've been through tough times in your personal life and with your injuries. You're an inspiration, on and off the pitch. Holy shit, I'm getting myself hyped again! How perfect is this deal?"

He stared at his plate and said, "Mmm."

"I'm gonna get my A-listers to blast you with calls. Gwen from the Welsh FA. The assistant manager of the Welsh national team. Ruth, the famous agent."

"What's her involvement?"

"Nothing, she's just got an amazing phone voice. You won't be able to resist her."

Davey smiled. "I should call my wife. It's a big step."

"It really isn't. You don't even have to move house."

"Is Zach Green one of the guys you're loaning to Saltney?"

His question didn't surprise me; Zach and Davey had been at Wrexham at the same time. "No. I've got one defender going to Gibraltar and Zach would have been perfect and it would have been great for his development, but I have to leave some players back for the first games of Chester's season, right? Especially since that first game is against Wrexham. Why? Do you want to talk to him? See if I'm trustworthy?"

"Nah," he said.

"It's a good idea," I said. "I don't mind. He'll give it to you straight, won't he? Do it." I closed my eyes while I calculated. "How interested are you? If you're over 50%, I'll get Emma to draw up a contract so we have the paperwork ready to go. No pressure to sign it, but if you're on, like, 5% I won't call her."

"Emma's your girlfriend?"

"Oh, yeah. She's a lawyer, does bits for a sports law company in Manchester, and co-owns that agency I mentioned. I've had her drafting contracts all summer. Mostly they're boilerplate but yours would be extra work because of the bonuses and the special clauses and all that."

Davey looked around the room at all the unemployed footballers, and I saw the moment he remembered he was one of them. It must have been a mindfuck after the conversation we'd just had. Going from talking about Champions League glory to a buffet with a load of strangers. "I don't resent Wrexham, you know. They did what they had to do."

I shrugged. "They monetised your personal grief and the minute you had nothing left for them to squeeze, they binned you off. I'll resent them for you, mate."

I thought I had killed the deal. Stopped it dead.

Davey gave me an ice-cold look and his words sent shivers down my spine."Call Emma. I'm in."

***

The first win of the day made the rest easy. Some of the other lads had outlandish wage demands, while some asked for twice what I knew their previous contracts had been. Enough played fair with me to get on my shortlist. Then it was a case of mixing and matching ones who would work well together.

The celestial clockmaker did his thing.

***

Me: Choose a number between four and six. That's how many new players I just signed for your Magpies.

Sebastian Weaver: Oh my God, what? That sounds expensive. How much am I in for?

Me: Sorry, I meant to send this to Rachel.

Sebastian: It's my club!

***

Friday, 2 July

My summer 'break', such as it was, had ended, and Emma and I were back to living in Chester. The house was just as we had left it, though Ruth had been in to turn the fridge back on, and she had bought us a pint of milk (thoughtful) and a 'wedding day countdown' wall hanger (romantic yet menacing).

Emma was up before me and came to shake me awake. She said there was a cup of tea waiting for me outside, and I drank it in the already-warm morning air, wearing only boxer shorts. "Aah," I said, as the first hit of tea landed just right. "Lovely, that."

"I hope you were listening to my mum's tips," said Emma, eyeing the back garden.

It had run wild in our absence and would need a fair bit of pruning and tidying. Some plants had massively outcompeted their neighbours and had taken over entire raised beds. Some bushes had failed, but some things we had previously planted that had died had suddenly reappeared and were flourishing. How does that work?

"It's looking pretty decent considering how much of a noob I am."

"There are bees and butterflies," said Emma. "Like we wanted. Loads of slugs," she added, sourly.

"Yeah, but I don't mind that. If a hedgehog is hungry, he'll eat a slug. I want hedgehogs, babes. I guess we'll be living here for a while."

She sipped her coffee. "Is that so bad?"

"No. Course not. It's mint. I just, you know, had spent so much time daydreaming about building our dream house. Off and on since I started making decent money."

"You make Gemma money these days."

"Yeah, but..."

"Yeah."

I had told Emma what Old Nick had told me, without mentioning that he was a demon or that I had a computer game interface in my head. She knew that I had made over £800,000 in the previous season, which was actually a stupendous, almost inconceivable amount of money for a guy who couldn't afford onions on his kebabs the day we met.

She also knew that was one percent of what I needed.

This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

The last round of financing at Temps Perdu valued it at 80 million quid, but while my income had the potential to rise fast, nothing could shoot up faster than a successful medical company's stock price.

I had outlined a general sort of plan based on what seemed realistic. This year I would make 5 million quid. Next year, 15. Year three, 45 million. So long as Temps Perdu didn't make a quick breakthrough I would have a chance at buying a controlling stake.

It was so easy to write those numbers down. 5, 15, 45. Piece of piss. But how to actually get there?

One easy way was to get Saltney Town into the Champions League. An instant 18 million cash injection for the club I 'owned'. 18 million minus player wages, minus bonuses, minus a couple of mill for MD towards paying off his investment. We'd have to leave some money in the pot for transfers... I could trouser 10 million and get far ahead of my own projections. Set up some shell companies to buy a sizable stake in TP already.

If we didn't get to the Champions League, though. If we only got to the Conference League... My final share would probably be much less than a million.

Which would still be amazing...

I would tell Emma that it was amazing.

I would tell myself that it was amazing.

I would be lying.

What if we crashed out in the first round? We would find ourselves in a huge hole. MD's faith would be shaken. He would tighten the purse strings next season, force us to go slower. Slow and steady doesn't win this race. But if we went too fast, we'd trip up.

Emma had spotted the moment my mental treadmill jerked into full speed, sending me tumbling. "I don't need a big house, Max, or a fancy car. But I do need you to go to training." She leaned over and tapped my stomach. "All those mornings you got my mum to bake you a scone? It's payback time." She kissed me. "Don't forget what we talked about. You don't win when you're stressing about the win, and you don't make more money by taking shortcuts."

"No shortcuts," I agreed. A little waft of wind pushed across me and it felt amazing. "We'll get that first win and I'll feel better. It's all about that first win."

The Champions League money was by far - by orders of magnitude - the single biggest pile of cash I could snare. There was a problem, though. If I scored 40 goals for Chester this season, if Saltney dumped a megaclub on their arse with a Max Best hat trick, I would get squashed by The Sentinel, and if I was dead I couldn't help anyone. After much, much thought, I had decided to limit myself to scoring 8 goals this season, and ideally, I would bag no more than 19 assists. Those were not numbers that would grab anyone's attention. Those were numbers that would keep me under the radar. When I played, I was going to play as a DM. I would make interceptions, win headers, play short passes. I wanted to be an 8 out of 10 player. Ideally, I wouldn't even need to play, but if I hadn't played in the cup final, Chester would have been five goals down at half time.

Emma spotted me spiralling again. "You don't need to grab all that UEFA money yourself, babes. You've got College and the Magpies."

"Yeah," I said, looking away from her.

"What?" she said, putting her hands on my cheeks to force eye contact.

I smiled, though I don't know why. "I'm worried I've fucked everything up. Saltney will be okay because I'm there, but College and the Magpies, I mean... If they crash out in the first round, even the second, it's all been a huge waste of time and your dad has bought a club for nothing. What if I have to be at a club to make this scam work? If it doesn't work without me, it won't scale. I've told your dad to sign five more guys. Maybe... It's not too late to back out. And we could send Davey Barnes back to the PFA camp. No need to rope him into my nonsense. He's a great guy and he has been through a lot. He doesn't need my shit."

The more I vented my anxieties, the more Emma smiled at me, peering from eye to eye. "Babes," she said.

"What?"

"It's a year early to be getting cold feet."

I squeezed my eyes closed. "I just don't think it's fair to bring more and more people into my web of madness."

"You read Blake, didn't you?"

"I skimmed it."

"The bird a nest, the spider a web, man friendship. It's not a web of madness, it's a circle of friendship. You know how good those players are, right?"

"Yes."

"And the best thing you can do is to stuff our teams full of the best possible players?"

"Yes."

"And that's what you've been doing. I vote you keep going. Err on the side of awesome. You tell me that Saltney's got the best squad it's possible for them to have and then you call me and say, oops, I found another guy. You tell my dad his Magpies are gonna struggle this year and it might take a while to build up the - actually, never mind, here's a brand new strike force, we're doing 4-2-3-1 and it's going to rock, hahaha! What, you think yesterday wasn't the most fun my dad had since he discovered how much fun it is to jump in puddles? He's buzzing, babes. Everyone's buzzing. Andrew and Gemma are in Gib having the time of their lives. Brooke told me the waiting list for season tickets at Chester is up 140%. Ruth told me the new contracts for the Chester players were the easiest deals she's ever done. Everyone wants to be part of this, babes!"

"Yeah," I said, trying to make myself feel it.

She gave me another kiss. "It's gonna be the best season of all time, Max. Everyone's excited and nervous and they can't wait to see what happens but if College don't do well, no-one's gonna be mad at you, they're gonna feel that they let you down because you set it up so perfect for them. And Magpies aren't gonna be mad at you, they're gonna feel they let you down. So you just focus on training today. Make sure you're ready to play on Tuesday. Make sure you get that first win." She slapped my stomach. "Start working on your wedding bod, babes. Seven-pack is the national average, I think."

"Is it?" I said.

"Yep," she said, with certainty. "I read that."

***

I drove to Bumpers and got changed and ready to train with the Chester first team, or what was left of it. There was still a fair amount of internal work going on in the new buildings, but in most cases it was the finishing touches. I was confident my players would quickly work off the pre-season 'scone flab', as we called it in the industry, and that our CAs would soon start flying up. I'd know soon enough.

The vibe was very, very positive. The first team guys were on a high after a successful season and the fact that so many of their brethren were out playing for European clubs or starring in international tournaments was amazing to them. The presence of a dozen talents from the youth team added to the sense that this was a new and exciting phase in our progression.

Sandra, Colin, and Peter were in charge of the session and they had a couple of months of ideas they wanted to try out. This year's pre-season at Chester was going to combine ruthless, meticulous preparation with big, wild swings. New drills, new approaches, new experiments.

Off to the side were more coaches. There were the old-timers: Ray Hart, Jude, and Terry from the Chester Knights.

Luisa was watching closely. I had formalised her role so that she was properly part of the coaching setup. She would do her first official coaching badges this year, though I had no doubt her numbers would definitely be high. If her Motivating and Man Management were under 18, I would eat a hat. Even if her numbers were terrible, she was absolutely brilliant with the Latin players and knew when they needed to be taken to a bar to get wasted and when they needed to be taken to task.

We had a brand new guy, one I had spotted near the end of last season. He had Coaching Outfield Players 17 and since he had been working for lowly York City, he had been easy to poach. We had nicknamed him Yorkie. For the moment he was listening and learning.

Last but not least was Vikki. I had met her on my Norway trip and had tapped her up thinking she might make a good manager for the women's team. That role had gone to Jay Cope, so when Vikki had called me to say she was thinking about quitting her job and taking up a new challenge, I had told her to come over so I could talk to her about it face to face and if things didn't work out, I'd pay for her to spend two weeks in a spa hotel.

Things had worked out. As I had sensed (or hoped) in our brief meeting, her numbers were fantastic. Now I just needed to find the right role for her. In the meantime, like all the others, she would be delivering high-class one-on-one and small-group training. I wanted my players to hit the ground running, big time. Through the season this fleet of coaches would work on specific parts of a player's game. Which parts? That would depend how we got on in the first five matches.

Sandra came over to me as I was tying my laces by the side of the pitch. "Do you want to address the troops, boss?"

"Um, no. Do you need me to?"

"Not really. It's simple, isn't it? Six friendlies, build fitness, work on our tactics with half the team missing."

"It's not half the team. Six guys are out on loan, including our fourth-choice goalie."

"And the two free agents. Sticky. Magnus. Remember them?"

"Right, yeah."

"And Dazza's still away. And Bark. While you've been stocking up your teams in Gibraltar, did you remember we need another goalie?"

I looked into the distance. "Goalie. That rings a bell..."

"Aiden will ring your bell if you leave me without a backup goalie against Wrexham. I know they're your best mates these days but if they smash us five-nil, the Chester fans will never forgive me."

"I'll be in the dugout with you that day, Sandra. I'll do the post-match interviews if we lose. I'll take the heat."

She took in a deep breath and then it escaped her in a hurried, happy little noise. "New season! I love the start of a season, Max! So much hope and anticipation. Nerves, too. But good ones. What's gonna happen? Who knows? All things are possible. I wonder where the Pyramid Schemers podcast will put us in their predictions?"

"Bottom half of the table," I said. "Probably five places above where they really think we'll finish because we keep making them look stupid."

"Oh!" she said. "Say that to the lads. That's a good way to start the season."

I grinned and together we called everyone in. I was just getting started when Secretary Joe appeared alongside Brooke. "Is it urgent?" I said.

"Only if you want to register your new players before the deadline," said Brooke.

Zach called out, "Why are you helping him with his other clubs?"

"Because he left his phone in his locker," said Brooke, whose entire being was shaped like a sigh. "And people know I work next to the pitch."

I smiled. "Okay... Guess I'm not joining in training. Listen, lads, quick chat. Whatever happens this season, it'll be the highest ever finish in Chester's history. If we finish 24th in the league, that's technically one place higher than last season, right? Yeah, you like it when I'm hyper-accurate, don't you?

"Okay, all I need for you this pre-season is to get fit, do what the coaches tell you, and keep the faith. We're gonna have a bumpy start - what's new? - but it'll start to come together pretty quick. Help the new lads integrate. The guys who are away are gonna come back fucking match sharp, do you know what I mean? Don't think you're way ahead of them because they're not here. If you want to be ahead of them, you're gonna have to work twice as hard.

"Oh, and you're gonna see a lot more of the women's team, aren't you? Bear in mind that this is a workplace not a fucking nightclub. Yeah I'll be playing for Saltney but I'll still be here at Bumpers more than anyone so don't think that you can suddenly get away with shit. High standards, high results. No shortcuts. I'm watching. Get to work."

***

Brooke and Joe helped me finish my deals. It wasn't their job by any means, but it was good practice for a transfer deadline day drama, if that were to ever happen.

We got the paperwork done with hours to spare and I took them to get some food while we waited for the relevant club's social media posts to drop.

B_Magpies: We are delighted to announce the arrival of five canny new players who will help us with our European push! Howay the lads!

Saltney_Town: The Bordermen are thrilled that Davey Barnes has joined the Club! Davey will add a touch of class to our midfield, not to mention goals! And dimples!!!

Brooke made a big show of looking from her phone to me and back again. "I have some questions about your social media strategy."

I tutted. "The first one is Emma's dad getting carried away. He thinks because it's called Bruno's Magpies he can go full Geordie. And the second is just Bonnie thirsting over Davey and capitalising words out of sheer lust. In answer to your unspoken question, no, this isn't what I want for Chester."

"Shame," said Brooke. "This Davey. Cute, is he?"

"He's hot but safe," I said. "Which I suppose is a step up from Zach, who is safe but safe."

Brooke scoffed. "If only you knew." She brushed her hand across the table before saying, "We seem to be in good shape for the coming season."

"We need a backup goalie!" said Sec Joe.

"I know, bro. I'm working on it. We've got two options, both good. Old guy dropping from the Prem, raises our floor in the short term but costs a lot in wages and there's no resale value. Or another guy like Swanny who we train up and make a profit on but lose points in the meantime."

"The first one," said Joe.

"I haven't decided."

Brooke nodded. "That has reminded me of the other thing I wanted to mention. We're all set to meet the new Fan Advisory Board. Are you going to behave yourself?"

"Of course I am," I said. "The board and the meeting were my ideas."

Brooke and Joe looked at each other. The more attractive of the two said, "There is a lot of goodwill in the city but having half the team missing for the Wrexham match is causing consternation."

"Oh, boo hoo," I said.

Brooke eyed me. "Maybe we should set up a rehearsal so you can get comments like those out of your system."

Get thoughts off my chest in a safe space? That seemed a decent idea. "I am the state. I tolerate slugs in my garden, but not in my team. Don't ask me questions to which you wouldn't understand the answers. No, I don't want to hear your top transfer tips. No, I won't unleash the war chest. I don't give a shit that you derive your value as a human being from how much money the club spends in a transfer window; I want to craft players not buy them. Yes, Helge's a full-back not a striker, stop pecking my head about it. Um..." I pulled at my bottom lip. "I think I'm done. Oh, wait, one more. I'll rotate the goalies as much as I want and there's nothing you can do to stop me."

Sec Joe looked at Brooke. "A rehearsal seems like a really good idea."

***

Saturday, July 3

Friendly 1 of 6: Chester FC versus Bayern Zwei

The first match to be played at Saltney Town's new stadium was one unlikely to be repeated. Bayern Munich had sent their reserves over, minus the ones I had poached for my various European squads, and while the Deva was perfectly usable, there was a big ugly hole at one end. Why not use Chester's friendly as the test event for Saltney's new stadium? (What's that you say? Because Chester fans might think it's weird? I am the state!)

Chester's squad gathered at Bumpers and got on Sealbiscuit for the short ride down the road to Sandy Lane. We got off and MD took everyone on a tour around the stadium and the new facilities. The gyms, the pools, the saunas, the awesome new games rooms.

"So..." said Adam Summerhays, eyes wide, giving a table football handle a spin. "We can use all this?"

"Yes," said MD. "On weekends it'll be full of Welsh children, and Saltney will train here, of course. Chester players will be guests here the way Saltney players will be guests at Bumpers, but the idea is that we'll be able to co-exist. Max has a delightful, pithy slogan for it. Max?"

Everyone turned to look at me. "Share or get fucked."

Sandra spoke loud so everyone could hear. "The coaches from both clubs are going to co-ordinate. We'll have a shared calendar, certain times where facilities are booked for one club or the other. There will be some teething pains, I'm sure, but as Max says, if you want to throw a tantrum because someone's using the dart board, you're at the wrong club."

We walked through the indoor section and came out of a large side door. There were a bunch of pitches, including a special goalkeeper training area with all kinds of cool toys. We went along the edge and turned back towards the stadium.

Sandy Lane wasn't colossal - the capacity was only 3,000 - but it was UEFA category 2 which meant we could play two rounds of qualifiers and host a certain level of tournament. Bumping it from category 1 to 2 had come with some extra cost and meant that the main stand was a little higher than the others, but the final, finished design really looked like a football stadium.

Tickets to this friendly were free but had to be booked. Last I'd heard, more than a thousand people had grabbed seats. Since Saltney had almost no fans, it was conceivable that today's match would stand as the all-time attendance record.

***

While eight of our first-team players weren't available to Sandra, she still had a good squad to choose from. She picked a 4-1-4-1 with a lot of familiar names like Swanny, Zach, Christian, and Colin Beckton. The only real weak spots were a PA 150 right back and a left midfielder who had cost £800,000.

I mean, if that's Chester's new version of weakness, I'll take it.

Bayern were gracious and humble until the match kicked off, at which point they clicked into acting like they owned the place. They were so arrogant when they got the ball it actually started to wind me up, but I calmed down and left it to Sandra to deal with. This was just a pre-season friendly. Who cared?

While I was listed as the co-manager, I was very passive. My only goal was to make it look to the Chester fans like I hadn't abandoned them the way I had the year before, and of course to soak up that sweet, sweet XP.

A friendly would normally give 1 XP per minute, but I had a perk that would give me 1.5 of my normal income for up to six friendlies per season. It wasn't a huge boost, but all these little gains added up, and I didn't just have the Linfield match to think about. I needed to guide Chester's coaches, telling them what I wanted them to focus on this coming year. I was thinking about my data analytics company, too. Spectrum and Pradeep had hit it off, so all of a sudden I had two employees. What did I want them to do? I wasn't sure, except that I didn't want to take Pradeep's existing work and simply refine it. But if I wanted them to do something else, I had to get specific.

It was hard to think about that when the Linfield match was approaching so fast. The first leg in Belfast would happen on Tuesday night, three days from now.

Hang on... three days. How was it only three days? I counted on my fingers. Sunday, Monday, Tuesday. Maths checks out. In three days I could have a result so bad that my season would effectively be over. Instead of drenching us with 18 million quid, UEFA would chuck a few hundred grand at us. What the eff!

With half time approaching, we were winning two-one. If we kept our best players on for the second half, we could win! Get our season off to a flying start!

"Max?" said Sandra, as if reading my mind. She was pumped up from the adrenaline of the match. "What do you want...?"

I eyed her and smiled. She wanted the win! So competitive! The important thing was to get our players ready for the season. First teamers, squad dudes, and my Youth Cup kids, too. Yeah, it would be satisfying to beat Bayern Zwei, but even better to win actual trophies. I made a big circling motion with my index finger. "Rainman, Roddy, Hamish, Chas. Change 'em all."

She bit her bottom lip and counted to five. "Yes, boss."

I gave her some space to cool off, then said, "Hey, Sandra."

"Yeah?"

I waited till she looked at me. "You won the first half."

That didn't land as expected. "How would you feel if I said, hey, at least your haircut looks good from the back!"

"Um..."

"Exactly."

***

Monday, July 5

The new-look Saltney Town had our first proper training session together as a complete team, apart from one chap who was flying to Belfast straight from Germany.

In a break, I talked to Well In about our relative lack of cohesion and how it might affect us. "Huh," he said. "I mean, most of these are players you've worked with. You know what they can do, what they can't. If we keep the tactics simple, we should be all right, and we'll be able to grow into the tournament. Just, ah..."

"Just what?"

"Just as long as Linfield don't blow us away in the first leg, like."

***

After a light session that was a lot about interplay and connection, we flew out to Belfast on a normal plane. I had sort of promised everyone the private jet lifestyle, but I wasn't hiring a jet to take it to one of the most common routes in the UK!

We got to our hotel, met up with the loan signing from Germany, and went to a restaurant to do some team building. As the guys chatted to each other and realised how good this squad was shaping up to be, the excitement kept building, kept spiking, kept bursting out in brightly-coloured patches of unprovoked merriment.

The turning point of the night came when Gabriel, our Brazilian striker, got to his feet and banged his glass. "Gaffer!" he cried out, his face earnest, as it often was. There was a hush. "Gaffer! I am happy to be here. Happy to play Champions League with new team, new friends. But gaffer! I do not know what colour is our kit."

The laughter exploded out of us as a huge release. The absurdity of the situation laid bare in one simple question. Who are we, again?

When it was possible to be heard, I said, "We're in red and black. Red like Wales, black like a border on a map, because we are the Bordermen. We have no history, no records. Tomorrow," I said, jabbing my finger down, down, down, "tomorrow we write the first fucking chapter!"

"Yeeeeaaaaaah!" came the reply.

N'ireland didn't know what was about to hit it.

***

Tuesday, July 6

Champions League First Qualifying Round, First Leg: Linfield versus Saltney Town

Winfield played their home matches, appropriately enough, at Win-sor Park, which is also the home of the N'irish national team. Pretty sweet gig, getting the national stadium as your home base. It might have been more intimidating if I hadn't recently played in front of almost 80,000 at Wembley, and if the home team had sold more than 3,000 tickets. I mean, better to have 3,000 in a tight place like ours so that it seemed packed, right? And better if everything was aligned. Linfield played in blue but the stadium was all-green with white seats dotted around to make it seem less empty.

As soon as the stadium came into view, the rational side of my brain was telling me there was no danger here. 3,000 for an important European match in a place that held 18,000? Exactly how big was this club? Also, I told myself, if any of these players were good, they would get snapped up by a League One or Two club. There could be three good players at most. Surely.

Surely?

When we finally got onto the (gorgeous) pitch for our warm-ups, I saw the truth of it. Linfield were little better than TNS, formerly the best club in Wales, with an average CA of just under 70. There would be absolutely no need for me to waste one of my eight goals on this lot. In fact, given the state of the oppo's goalie, it would be better if I didn't even shoot, just in case he fumbled it in.

I followed Well In's instructions during the warm-up, then when we crossed the white line, switched back into manager mode.

"All right, shut the fuck up," I said, as the dressing room crackled with manic energy. The Champions League! We were about to play in the fucking Champions League! The thought undid some of the things I had just been thinking. Linfield had loads of experience in this competition. They belonged here. We didn't. "Linfield do 4-3-3 and we're gonna match them. They're never gonna expect us to be so attacking on their patch and since they saw our squad, they've probably been working under the assumption that I would play wide left and Wibbers will be wide right. Er, no."

I pulled my trusty tactics board a few inches to the side, which was a weird tic I sometimes noticed, sometimes didn't.

"Sticky's in goal. Steve, when they do get forward, there are loads of crosses. Catch and release, please. Fast.

"Back four starts with Danny."

I jiggled the left back magnet. Danny Prince had played for Blackburn Rovers since leaving Tranmere under a cloud. The two clubs couldn't agree a transfer fee, so a tribunal had been called and Tranmere's owner Mateo had asked me to be an expert witness for him. I had raved about Danny Prince, who with PA 162 should have spent a season at Blackburn and quickly moved up into the Premier League. As was standard at that club, Blackburn had botched his progression and he was stuck on CA 128. I had offered to 'unblock' him in exchange for him helping me get that enormous UEFA prize money.

"Centre backs are Henry Dunston and Magnus Evergreen. What's that, Linfield? You wanted a sniff at goal? Not today, soz."

I tapped the right back.

"Who's this handsome fellow? Why, it's Bayern Munich legend Cheb Alloula. This is his world, lads, and we're just living in it." Me giving Cheb his Bayern debut had helped him move up to CA 138, but it could have been a lot higher if the bigwigs in Munich really believed in him. Bayern had been extremely weird about loaning players to Saltney. They were happy to send three to College and one to the Magpies, but they resisted sending any to be on the same team as me. I suspected that Cheb had put his foot down; he was more willing to put the next stage of his career in my hands than in Bayern's. Smart move.

"Midfield is Davey, Omari, and me." Davey was the former Wrexham player with a tasty left foot. Omari was the former Chester player with the tasty right foot. The three of us could tackle, could play a forward pass, and we were all very good on set pieces.

With those two scrapping and me sitting deep and protecting the back four, I reckoned we would be hard to play through. Time would tell.

"I'll be looking out for their most dangerous player, O'Shea. If he gets the better of me, we're in for a rough night. Our forwards are Gabby, Wibbers, and Tom Westwood. Pretty simple. Lots of energy, Tom pressing the goalie into mistakes, Wibbers taking up unexpected positions and linking with the midfield."

I stepped back and checked out the board. Our average CA was 108.7. Almost 109 against not quite 70. This would be like watching Championship Chester against National League Oldham.

The Bench Boost and Triple Captain icons were there in my vision. Did I want to use Bench Boost today? Could I afford not to?

I had spent weeks telling anyone who would listen about the importance of winning the first round. Winning the first round was immense. But we were CA 109, almost, against 70. Using Bench Boost would be a complete waste, surely?

In theory, being the co-manager with Well In should have given me access to two Bench Boosts, since I had once again made him my 'ally' for the season. If we got through to the playoff round, we would need a Boost in both the home and the away leg. Having supercharged subs in both legs could help us beat even a fairly big club. It was absurd to even think about using it against Linfield. If they had been CA 100, then, yeah, maybe...

But even a much weaker team can surprise you. If we lost 4-0, everyone would be going home with our tails between our legs.

I mentally swiped the icons away, panicked, brought them back, then dismissed them again.

"Right," I said, trying to sound confident. "That's it. If we get the chance to run up the score, please do so. We've got quality players on the bench who need minutes, and if we can share these minutes around..."

My voice drifted off. The doubts were back. My attention was magnetically drawn to the tactics board.

Wibbers? He had choked in his last big match. Why should today be any different?

Davey Barnes? He'd been binned off by every club he had ever signed for.

Tom Westwood and Omari Naysmith? They had never played anywhere near this level, and for good reason!

My brilliant subs bench included Aff, Carl Carlile, and Sam Topps. Guys I had binned off from Chester at League Two level!

"Captain, lead them out," I muttered. That got big laughs. So big I joined in without knowing why. "What?"

Well In came over and put the captain's armband on my sleeve. "Captain," he said, with a smile that was shared by pretty much everyone in the room. "Lead them out."

***

1'

Linfield get us underway. They move the ball back to their goalkeeper, who kicks long.

Evergreen is beaten to the header.

Dunston heads away.

Best loses a duel with O'Shea.

Barnes competes for the ball.

It's on the left with Danny Prince. He switches play brilliantly.

Roberts has a chance to take the ball forward...

But it bounces off his shin!

A very scrappy start from Saltney Town.

Ugh. Were we really going to do this again?

The difference between this start and the cup final was that it was only the Chester players who were bombing. The ringers I had brought in had started well.

"You good, Max?" said Davey Barnes.

I had my hands on my head. "You can hit the treadmill as much as you want, it doesn't prepare you for this."

"The lads were saying you'd come back with a bit of timber."

I slapped my belly. "I had like four scones!"

He seemed puzzled. "I was joking."

I walked around checking the match stats and our Condition scores, before glancing over at Well In to see if he had any thoughts. He didn't seem worried by our shit start, so I opened the Live Scores tab. In Gibraltar, Henri Lyons was starting his first Champions League match for the mighty College against the champions of Armenia. It was 0-0. I couldn't help with that so I resolved not to keep checking.

3'

The match was frantic. Lots of aimless punts of the ball, lots of running and chasing but not much in the way of quality. We struggled. Passes went astray, tackles were mistimed. I couldn't get into the game. Linfield, as expected, knew how to play and more importantly, knew themselves inside out.

My match rating was 5. Ditto Wibbers.

O'Shea was a handful. Clever player with decent technique. I wished I had found a way to train more. I could have got a bunch of under 18s and put on some special evening sessions. Why hadn't I?

5'

Saltney with the ball.

Alloula under pressure. He looks towards his goalkeeper, but chooses to push the ball square to Naysmith.

Naysmith to Barnes. To Best. Barnes again.

Best finds a pocket of space in the middle of the park, waits, and lifts a pass to the left of midfield.

Danny Prince rushes onto it. He drives forward. Linfield adjust their defensive lines.

Prince checks and plays the ball back to Best.

Saltney are defending on the halfway line. Everyone is in Linfield's half.

Saltney pass the ball around, probing for an opportunity.

Alloula pops up on the right of the penalty area.

He hits a low cross...

It's hacked away by a defender just as Gabriel was lining up a shot!

Huge applause from the away fan.

This 4-3-3 shape was perfect for our starting eleven. We had good players in the middle of the pitch and having three strikers meant Linfield had to get more narrow than they would have liked. That created space on the flanks for our full backs to invade.

At Chester, we often had Cole Adams and Magnus Evergreen as the left and right back. Really good players, but not the most dynamic, not the sort of guys who will dribble past an opponent or kill him with speed or dump him on his arse with a piece of skill. Danny Prince and Cheb Alloula could do all of the above.

Linfield tried to take a short goal kick but found Tom Westwood and Wibbers sprinting at them. The ball was played back to the goalie, who blooped it up and away, anywhere will do. We got a throw-in.

"Heh," I said. I was starting to enjoy this. I was starting to feel the cobwebs coming off me. Starting to feel like we were already in control of this match. I went through my usual scans: match ratings, Condition, stats. All good.

Linfield putting their goalie under needless pressure reminded me of what Cheb had done a minute earlier. Instead of playing a risky pass back to Sticky, he had taken responsibility himself. That was something I had demanded from him when I had been his manager in Germany! I experienced a little shiver of pleasure. I felt the faint hum of some old song. A bit of propulsive bass.

"Davey!" I yelled. "Give me that fucking ball."

He leaned back, elegant, and fizzed it to my feet. I touched it to the right and passed to Cheb before sprinting in his direction. Cheb laid the ball back, first time, and turned, head down, sprinting away from the defender, who tried to grab Cheb's shirt. I rolled the ball to the left of the defender. Cheb chased it, looked up, and played the same low cross he had earlier.

The same defender who had cleared the first one cleared this one, but it was slightly more frantic. The ball was up in the air for ages. Magnus got his body in the way, let his oppo bang into him, and won a free kick.

He got up and took it quickly, passing it to me.

I leaned back and sprayed it to Wibbers, whose first touch was immaculate. His second put Tom clean through on goal. Tom lashed at the ball, sending it high into the stands.

On the goal kick, I pushed everyone close to the penalty area and the goalie decided to kick long. Dunston won the header, Omari collected the ball, held off a challenge, passed to Davey. He shaped to pass to me, like he had been doing so often, but it was a fake. He went left to Danny Prince, who ate up twenty yards in seconds and combined with Gabby.

Gabby returned the ball to Princey, who fired in a cross that was headed away by a defender. It went straight to Wibbers, who I could tell was itching to shoot. Instead, he waited for the ball to settle before feeding Cheb on the right.

Cheb threatened to play a short pass, flicked the ball away from his defender, and looked up for a crossing option. Something made him push the ball forward before playing the same low cross he had done twice before.

This time...

8'

Brilliant skill from Alloula!

He has the chance to cross. Westwood makes a near post run.

Alloula sends the ball to him.

Westwood steps over the ball. Did he mean that? It fooled the goalie.

The ball's loose. Two players are converging on it. Who will win that race?

GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

William B. Roberts applies the finish!

He got there at the same time as Gabriel. They nearly crashed into each other but it's all smiles now.

Saltney Town are ahead in their first ever Champions League match!

For once I ran ahead to join the party. The relief was intense. I made a point of congratulating Cheb on his role, but I was pleased with everyone. Yeah, we were rusty and not everything was working, but so what? We were winning.

"Lads," I said, getting them into a quick huddle. "Let's keep pushing until half-time, right? We can finish this today. Let's go."

I used my once-per-match perks to give us some boosts. More defensive solidity, better link-up play between Cheb and Gabby. I called out to Cheb, telling him to hit Gabby's head on the next few crosses.

14'

Beautiful pass from Barnes to Westwood.

The young striker takes a heavy touch, loses the ball, but wins it back.

He rolls it to Alloula.

First time cross!

GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

Gabriel with a thumping header! He met the ball at speed and powered it to the far post.

The goalkeeper didn't even move!

I saw Linfield's manager waving his arms around, trying to get a reaction from his players. His dudes were 2-0 down at home and had barely been in our half in the last ten minutes. They had to change something.

It looks like Linfield are adopting a more attacking mentality.

I narrowed my eyes. Not sure about that, to be honest. Points for being proactive, points for being death or glory, but sometimes you do need to turtle up, lick your wounds, and hope to scrape a lucky goal. If he had studied me, he would have known I would be itching to use all five of my subs as early as possible. Being 2-0 down with twenty minutes to go wouldn't be all that bad.

I switched Saltney to a defensive mindset, pushed us into a low, narrow formation, and used the Without Ball screens to nudge everyone a few yards back.

Then I clicked a button to change us to counter-attacks: yes.

I almost felt sorry for the 3,000 home fans.

Almost.

17'

O'Shea drives at Naysmith and gets past him. O'Shea looks for a passing option.

Best is applying pressure. O'Shea drops his shoulder and tries to nutmeg Best.

Best appears to be affronted by the effort. He has the ball and is gliding away.

Suddenly he fires a pass long and low. Linfield's keeper starts to come out to intercept it.

Westwood hares onto it and gets there just before the keeper, but his first touch is poor.

He has forced himself wide. The goalie is scrabbling to get back into the penalty area.

Westwood passes to Roberts.

Roberts tries to chip the keeper!

GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

He has done it! Roberts embraces Westwood.

Wait for it...

It looks like Linfield are adopting a more cautious approach.

Lol. They were reeling from our assault. They couldn't play through our middle, couldn't get past our full backs, and if they threw too many bodies forward, they knew we would slice them open.

There were some big fluffy clouds coming over the stadium.

I imagined them full of cash, waiting to rain down on me.

I ordered us into a more patient stance. We would play in Linfield's half, pass them to death, use this opportunity to get more familiar with each other. Basically a glorified training session.

Even playing with less intensity, we created chances galore. Wibbers, desperate to get a hat trick, took random long shots until I lost my patience and yelled at him that if he did it again I would bin him off. He told me to fuck off, which was his default reaction to anything that happened on a football pitch. But the next time he got the ball just outside the penalty area, he shaped to shoot, moved the ball onto his other foot, played the ball wide and moved into the penalty box.

Perfect forward play.

With five minutes to go in the half, we got a free kick in Max Best territory.

My eyes lit up and the goalie set his wall to defend against a right-footer. I sent Omari away but I allowed Davey Barnes to stand to the right of the ball as though he might hit it left-footed.

Four-nil and this tie would be over. I could sub myself off and get loads of XP in the second half. I could give minutes to subs, maybe even start the second leg with a weakened team.

Did I want to 'spend' one of my eight goals for the season on this?

I tapped my foot on a patch of grass, placed the ball carefully just ahead of that spot, took a large step back. And another. And three more. I was going to rush at the ball and fucking BLAST it. The manager hadn't done all the homework he might have done, but this goalie had. He looked suitably nervous.

The ref blew his whistle. I inhaled, started running, switched the free kicker taker, and hit the Free Hit button.

When I was getting close, Davey Barnes stepped forward and curled the ball left-footed, over the wall, into the back of the net, easy as you like. He zoomed off, celebrating wildly. A few days ago he had been on the scrapheap. Now he was scoring in the Champions League.

He burst into tears.

I grabbed him and laughed. "No way, mate! That's my move! Stop it or I'll sue you!"

He stayed put while the rest of the gang ruffled his hair and slapped him on the arse. "Well in, Davey boy! Yerrrrs, mate!"

Davey sorted his face out and got stoic. "I'm good, boss. I'm good."

***

The rest of the match went as if on rails. At half time I subbed myself and Wibbers off, putting on Vincent Addo and Toquinho and switching to 3-5-2. I made Davey Barnes the captain.

With an hour gone and Linfield still no threat, I put on two of the defenders I had signed with the money from Henri's syndicate. I had expected to sell them this summer but decided they could be useful and that anyway, we would get more money when they had hit their ceilings. They were around Linfield's level, so it wasn't a huge risk.

Finally, with quarter of an hour to go, I sent on Charlie Cullen, my dream box-to-box midfielder. 15 years old and playing in the Champions League. In a couple of years I would sell him to a Premier League team for ten million quid. That would be a big chunk of the money I needed. This was an investment in Charlie and an investment in my own future.

All the changes ate away at our dominance and the home team kept plugging away like the good professionals they were... but we had cooked them in that first half. They barely troubled Sticky, who spent the last ten minutes plucking crosses from the air and hurling the ball to free players.

I got 14 XP per minute in the second half and enjoyed discussing the match with my co-manager. Well In was ecstatic with what he'd seen. As the players left the pitch at full time, Davey's Morale was maxed out, as was Charlie Cullen's. Even Wibbers, who hated being subbed off, returned to maximum happiness when we got back into the dressing room and started the party.

I opened the Live Scores screen. College had won 1-0. Any win's a good win, but it would be a tough second leg out in Armenia. I smiled when I saw who had scored the goal. Till Rehder, the guy who I had taken from Bayern Zwei and thrown into the first team. Hell of a way to repay my faith! One more win, lads. One more.

***

MD had travelled to Belfast to see whether his massive investment in my mad scheme was going to pay off or blow up in his face. I was desperate for the Saltney project to work, but MD had invested ten million quid of his own funds. If it failed, he would have to work an extra, what, ten years?

His relief was palpable; his belief sky-high. He was already tipsy when I found him in the VIP section.

"Max!" he slurred. "Outshtanding! I'm over the moon. First match, first win. I'm over the moon." I slapped him on the back and smiled. He peered at me. "You're not happy. Why aren't you happy?"

"I am happy," I said. I looked through the big glass windows onto the pitch, where we had just shocked one of the oldest football clubs in the world. "I'm really happy, MD. It was a dream start. The perfect start. But it is just the start, isn't it? You know what they say."

"What do they shay?"

"It's all about the second win."

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