.

I was so in my head, so internal, replaying Pascal's moves, wondering what made him go there and why that made me go there, that it took me ages to get back to the sidelines. It took me almost as long to realise that my girlfriend had her arms around a tiny German starlet. The scene was too bizarre to trigger what might be considered a standard Aggression 20 response. Instead, I sat cross-legged in front of them and waited for clarity.

While still hugging Pascal, Emma turned to me and raised her eyebrows the merest fraction. The meaning was crystal clear.

***

Italia 90, the World Cup that changed football forever, happened ten years before I was born. But certain images are seared into the minds of every English football fan. One of them, in particular, resonated at this moment.

Paul 'Gazza' Gascoigne had been England's talisman, a player of rare imagination and vivacity in a country dominated by tedious long-ball tactics, by hooligans, by crumbling stadiums. English football was 92 teams managed by Ian Evanses. The dark ages. Gazza had somehow dragged England into the World Cup semi-final, so even people who hated football tuned in to watch. The obstacle? Germany. Gazza tore them a new one, England played their best game in decades, but those pesky foreigners kept fighting back. Why? Just let us win! Mate!

In extra time, Gazza has a rare bad touch, lunges to recover the ball, commits a foul, and gets a yellow card. It's his second in the World Cup. The rules of the tournament mean, even if England win, he'll miss the final. The best player will miss the final. Thanks, FIFA.

Gazza, a grown man, a transcendent talent with the boundless energy and exuberant spirit of a child, bursts into tears, and the reaction is titanic. Every housewife in the country wants to mother him. Every dad wants to give him a hug. Every boy wants to be him. The nation - and this is no exaggeration - falls back in love with football. The Premier League is created soon after, football crushes all other sports, and every mediocre player who becomes a millionaire owes his fortune to one man and one moment.

But back in the Stadio delle Alpi, Gary Lineker, another giant of the game, goes to check on his mate, and sees Gazza's head has gone. He turns to the manager and waves his hand - this is muy muy no bueno. Lineker points to his eye - keep an eye on this. Gazza is in no frame of mind to take a penalty in the shoot-out, and England lose.

Is it the German factor that brings the image of Gazza to mind that day, as I sit in front of Pascal? Partly, perhaps. But mostly it's because a talented player is crying, and my girlfriend is looking at me, playing the Lineker role. Keep an eye on this!

***

I waited until Pascal noticed me. He tried to get a grip. He wiped his eyes and made that aaah noise you make when you want to stop laughing or crying. "Aaah," he said.

It was time for me to tidy up my mess. "Why do you say Schleswig-Holstein?" I said.

Pascal blinked. "Pardon me?"

"I did history and I'm sure my books said Holstein-Schleswig. I'm sure of it. But now it's the other way round. What the fuck? It's like if everyone suddenly started saying Ireland Northern and there's only one man who remembers the old way." If this sounds demented, I'd read that saying weird and random things can sort of break someone's thought patterns and help them reset. And you know what? Sometimes it works.

"I have only ever known the region as Schleswig-Holstein," said Pascal.

"I suppose you guys would know best," I said, reluctantly. "So, mate, I can't help but notice you're sort of squished into my girlfriend."

"Oh," he said, snot-laughing. "Yes. I apologise." He prised himself away from Emma, a move that involved no noise of any sort, but my brain supplied a big velcro tear sound effect.

"Let me know when you're ready to talk," I said.

"I'm ready," he said, wiping his eyes again.

"Top. All right. I wouldn't normally ask this, but Emma thinks I'm a bit fast and loose, a bit careless with people and I'm worried she's thinking I made you cry or whatever. So... if you could maybe talk about what that's all about, that would be tremendously helpful."

Pascal made to stand up, but decided it was uncalled-for levels of dramatic and instantly threw himself back down. Which looked pretty painful. He turned to her. "No, Miss Emma. No! I swear it. It's not Mr. Best. Sorry. It's not Cliff Daps. It's..." He sucked his lips in and out. "Actually, it is Mr. Best. He is to blame." He smiled while sucking breaths in and out. Pretty weird. He never laughed like that again, as far as I could tell. "I came to England to further my career. I thought it was my best shot. You understand? But my style doesn't fit. I really thought it would, but... My style needs... companionship." He closed his eyes and I was sure the tears would return. Instead, there appeared a smile. "But now, I have it! I have it." He was silent for some time.

I looked away and tried to hide a grin. Who else in the football industry had to deal with this shit? Fuck me.

Emma's tone was perfect. "Joe. Pascal. Are you okay?"

Pascal seemed not to understand the question, but then his smile returned. "Yes! Very much so. Mr. Best..." The tears were back. He looked up in an attempt to get ahead of his emotions. The gesture made things worse. "It was like a dream." His throat was throbbing - it looked very painful. "Oh oh oh it is magic, you know." The throat started rocking sideways. Throats aren't supposed to do that, right? "Never believe it's Darlo."

My smile widened. "Bro. Pascal. Mate." I took my phone out to check the time. "We've got half-time to decide your future. How about you bottle your emotions for a minute? You've been in England long enough to learn how. Stiff upper lip. Offer to put the kettle on."

Snot-grin. "Hurrr," he said, wiping his nose with his sleeve. "Who wants a cuppa?"

I'd decided to skip a lot of my questions. His show of emotion said more than a dozen carefully-considered responses. "Time to talk turkey. Pascal. You've got talent. I like you. You're a foot shorter than I need you to be. You're weaker than the tea Chester's admins drink. Even though we can get you on minimum wage, the club is skint. There are millions of reasons to shake your hand and say goodbye. But the first question I ask when I look at players is: would I want to be on the same team as this guy? And I think, yeah. I can go places with Pascal Bochum. Using you in the National League North would be insane. I can't wait to try it. I want to train you up and sell you for two million Euros to Fortuna Dusseldorf."

"Max!" said Emma.

"What?"

"Don't talk to him like that."

I looked at Pascal, and we both looked at Emma. "What?"

"It's not nice."

I nodded towards Pascal, indicating that he should explain. "Emma, it's okay. That would be fantastic. A sign that I was a valuable player. That I had value. It is called the football industry because it is an industry. We know that. Max isn't being disrespectful. The transfer fee is recompense for all the training. On a personal level, it would be fantastic. Maybe Mainz instead of Fortuna would be more fantastic."

"Oh." She seemed confused.

I scratched my scalp. "Er... anyway. This transfer window, Chester need a left-back and a striker. I might wait till the summer to sign you properly. The current manager wouldn't use you. The next might not, either. Turning you into a two-million Euro player is going to be a long, hard road. I was telling Emma it could be five years. You're smart. You know your abilities. Does that sound about right?"

He looked away. "I hoped less. But... yes. Five years." He shrank. "Perhaps longer."

"Yeah," I said. I leaned back and looked around at all the other players. So many smiles. So many jokes. Strange surroundings for a heavy conversation. "I won't be having this chat with guys who will be in and out in a couple of years. We'll need to give you a long contract. So let me put it like this. Whenever it happens, I'll try my best to get you what you want if you do what I want."

"What is it you want?"

"Fearless football."

He opened his mouth to reply, but thought better of it. This kid was a lot smarter than me. "What is your definition of fearless football?"

I smiled. "Fucking incredible question, mate. Here's an example. We were three-nil down and we've clawed it back to three-three, last minute of the game. There's a two-on-two break and the opposition are incredible on counter-attacks. Do you go for the corner and see out the clock? Take the draw and the point?"

"Mathematically speaking, yes. Of course. One point is better than zero."

"Of course, he says." I stood and paced around. "Why does everyone forget it's three points for a win?" I went internal, but snapped out almost immediately. "I want every kid in Cheshire to want to play for Chester. I want every kid who goes to a match for the first time to fall in love. Fall in love with Chester FC, with the match-going experience, with the sport. Football's a low-scoring game. Goals define how you feel. I want goals. We were three-nil down? Irrelevant. It's the last minute? Irrelevant. Every time we have the ball we're trying to score. When we're defending, we're getting ready to score. The other team has a corner. How do we score? There's loads of ways; I should know. The other team has a penalty. How do we score from their penalty?"

I grinned. An image had popped out of nowhere.

"You know what I want? I want four players on the halfway line. Goalie saves the pen, boots it downfield, we've got four attackers there. First time we make that work, every team we play's going to have a team talk. It's going to go like this: Hey lads, if we get a penalty, Chester will try to score from it. Imagine being told that before a game! It's got to mess with your head. Penalty taker can't shoot down the middle because the goalie might grab it and boot it to danger. So what does he do? Hit it high so the goalie can't catch it. You need Max Best technique to hit pens high."

I laughed.

"Mate, attacking football isn't just for the fans. It's how you stack the odds in your favour. Make people react to you. I want attacks. I want goals. I don't want stats or excuses. Goals is what I want. Attacks is what I want. You want to play the percentages and do the right things at all times? Yeah, I get it. It's smart. I'm not smart. I'm demented. I'm loopy. Twice a season I want our fans to go home fucking depressed because the other team scored a last-second equaliser or winner because we were going nuts trying to win. I want that. I want drama. I want emotion. I want to take ludicrous risks." I paused. I'd gone a bit over the top. "Fearless football. It's not for everyone. If it's not for you, we'll talk about Plan B. Maybe I can help you in a more conventional way."

Pascal closed his eyes and thought for a moment. He opened them, smiled, and said, "I can do fearless football."

"That was a fast decision."

"First of all, I will do anything if I can play with you. And second, if your ideas don't work out..." He smiled, showing lots of big, white teeth. "It is you who will be fired, not me." He grinned.

***

I went home, had a shower, and was torn between wearing my customary hoodie or my call centre suit. I went with the latter. For Emma.

We drove off. "Why didn't you stay for the second half? It's only half an hour to Newcastle. You could have made it easily."

"I got what I wanted. And Newcastle isn't our next stop. We have to go somewhere else er... first."

"Oh? Are you surprising me?"

"Yes."

Emma sighed. "So you're not taking me to St James' Park. That's why the secrecy. So why even mention it? Never mind. Tell me about Pascal. What were you hoping to achieve with all that? Why no pressing? Why didn't you score? I feel like it was a message for him."

I overtook a lorry and pulled into the slow lane. Making excellent time, heading south. "Those aren't the right sort of matches for pressing. Those pick-up games are supposed to be fun. If you're 40 and shit at football, you know what isn't fun? Having a teenage German whip the ball off your toes before you've even counted your feet."

"It's fun for Joe."

"We can stop calling him Joe now. Maybe it is fun for him, but it's not fun for me if someone's ruining the game. Same reason I didn't score. Hitting the post four times is funny. They'll talk about it in the pub. It'll be a neat little anecdote. It might be one guy's first game in twenty years, and he's seen me do that and he'll tell people and everyone will love the story and he'll think, shit, I forgot how much I love this game. After school, most men make most of their friends from football." I sighed. I realised I was rambling, but I was simply following my neural pathways. It wasn't my fault if it was boring. "I went from being average to being incredible overnight. Incredible for this level, anyway. We'll get promoted next year, and the year after. That's two and a half years where I'll be the best player. So what if I score? Or do a nutmeg? It's no challenge. I miss being average, though I don't see how I could have got where I am as a nobody. This pick-up football, I'd have loved it five years ago. I'd have been like Kian, skipping lessons to fit one more game in. Hitting the post four times in a row is much harder than scoring two or three. I'm quite pleased with myself."

"Oh," said Emma. "We're talking about you, now."

"What?"

"I was asking about Pascal."

I thought about sulking, but she had a point. "Yeah, I was worried he was a bit too serious. I mean, that's good in principle. But I think it would get annoying after a couple of years, do you know what I mean? Anyway, he's all right. I think we'll get on. I hope he goes to the pub with the lads after the match." We'd fallen slightly behind the expected arrival time. Traffic up ahead? I sped up. "What did it look like to you? When me and him were combining?"

She blew a tiny raspberry. "Hard to describe. There wasn't much to it. You passed to each other. Is that good? Umm... it looked pretty basic. I didn't expect tears!"

"Oh, I get that. When he said it was magic. It's how I felt the first time I played with Raffi Brown. And when I hit crosses to Henri. You feel like there's someone who understands you. For me it was a nice surprise. A bonus. Pascal's been actively searching for that feeling for years." I added 5 mph as I overtook a caravan. "It's interesting it didn't look dramatic. On the pitch, it is. You can feel the opposition being disrupted. Kind of a rising panic. It's fun."

Emma shifted. I knew her well enough to be alert. "Can we talk about promotion and relegation?"

"Sure."

"Remind me what promotion is."

"It's where we leave tier 6 and go to tier 5. And then next season, tier 4. When you go up a league, you play better teams in front of bigger crowds. Tier 4 is the start of what we call 'the league'. In the league you start getting proper TV money."

"And the opposite is relegation? You could go down to tier 7 and play against Ziggy?"

"His team are doing well. They might be in tier 6 next season. I plan to bring him to Chester, though. But no, there's no chance Chester will be relegated. The team's too good. You'll notice that Chester fans, MD, all the rest, they all still use the word relegation. If they start to really, really worry, they'll switch to euphemisms. And you'll hear them say things like 'the team's too good to go down'. It's a bit of a thingy. Opposite of curse. Ward? Something you say to ward off evil."

"But what would happen if it did happen?"

"Huh. Well... the minute relegation was mathematically certain, I'd be sacked. MD would be sacked. Ian Evans would definitely be sacked. Virtually no contracts would be renewed and the team would go semi-pro. Attendances next season would halve. Depending on the financial situation, they might scrap the Knights and all the youth teams. If I set up a women's team like I want, that'll be scrapped and all the investment lost."

"Fuck me."

"Yeah. Fairly cataclysmic." I glanced at her. "You're... unexpectedly stressed about it."

"Why aren't you?"

"Because I won't let it happen." I drove on another half a mile before checking. She seemed even less reassured. "Babes. What's up? Why are you asking about relegation? I never mention it."

"I was talking to... someone... and he said that Chester were heading towards relegation and putting a 22-year-old hot-head in charge was like stepping on the accelerator."

"Brakes. He said brakes."

"No."

"Then tell him he's a dick and I'll win the Premier League before Newcastle."

"I don't know what team he supports," she lied.

"By the time he was 22," I said, "Alexander the Great had already won 4 Champions Leagues. Age is something for old men to obsess over. It won't be smooth sailing, but Chester's got me at the helm. Not even the devil could sink it."

I followed the roads towards Northamptonshire. Suddenly there seemed to be a lot more traffic.

***

Barely ten minutes before kickoff, I finally rolled into the reserved parking space at St. James Park. It felt small, but the capacity was 3,500. The outside was clad with corrugated iron, making it look like a closed shop in a rough area. Not very charming, if I'm being brutally honest.

"Voila!" I said.

Emma looked around. "What?"

"St. James Park," I said. "As promised."

Emma leaned forward and looked at the sign. "What's this shit?"

"This is St. James Park. Home of Brackley Town. You said you wanted me to take you here. I remember you made a saucy joke about it."

Emma's face narrowed as she started to get pissed. "You've driven me three hours... for a weird joke? You found a place with the same name as the stadium in Newcastle?"

I swallowed. This wasn't going well. So much for long-term callbacks. My solution was to be very positive. Very upbeat. "Newcastle are playing in the FA Cup today. Against Sheffield Wednesday. Can you believe it?"

The distraction was interesting enough for her to stop blankly staring ahead. "Really? Don't you play for Sheffield Wednesday? If you really want to piss my dad off, you could knock his team out of the cup."

"I don't want to piss your dad off," I lied. "Chester are playing these guys. Brackley Town. We've got a fancy box with drinks and stuff. VIP treatment, as you deserve. Then I've got you a special special moment planned. That's why I wore my best suit and everything."

"I do like it when you wear something other than the hoodie," she said. She unclipped her seatbelt and looked at all the metal sheeting that was protecting the stadium. "Who said romance is dead?"

***

Once we got into the VIP section, all was forgiven. It wasn't the unlimited free white wine, but the fact that I hadn't brought her all this way simply to make a bad joke. No, I was there doing my job. That meant catching up with MD and networking with my fellow C-suite executives.

"MD," I said, dragging him away from his Brackley equivalent for a second. He was always happy to spend more time with Emma. "What's the latest with the whole Sheffield Wednesday thing?"

He had been all smiles until then. "Not good. There's going to be a hearing on the 14th of Feb."

"Valentine's Day," said Emma. Weird when people do that.

"Hearing? To hear what?"

"Some guys from the Football Association will meet, look at the evidence, listen to the facts, and come to a decision. You'll be able to attend, though I'm tempted to say you shouldn't. It's going to be a formality. You standing up and giving an impassioned speech about justice and labour laws and how you'll smite them with the force of a hundred hurricanes... We don't need that."

"My dad will help," said Emma.

MD gawped at her. "Does he work for the FA?"

"He's a lawyer. He runs a big practice in Newcastle. He can help with the paperwork."

"We don't need a big company," I said. "Anybody's dad can handle this. It's a minor admin error."

"A proper lawyer does sound expensive," said MD. "Max has already sent 30 emails demanding we buy better tea bags and thicker toilet roll. I don't think we can afford big-firm legal fees as well."

"It'll be free," said Emma. "Max might have to drop a tiny apology for his behaviour at Christmas dinner, but it's really no big deal."

"Oh, tremendous! That's wonderful news. Why didn't you tell me, Max?"

Because I never want to be in the same room as Emma's dad ever again. "I think I did mention it. It was towards the bottom of one of the tea bag emails, I think. If we buy in bulk, I think we can stretch to Yorkshire Gold. I really do." I thought about my playing career. "All right," I said, scratching my chin. "Straightforward case, you said, no need for my theatrics, no need for a lawyer with no sense of right or wrong. Cool. Mid-Feb. Five weeks. That's... fine. Emma got me worried about Scenario B. But mid-Feb... there'll still be ten games left. That's 30 points. No probs. That'll blast us away from danger."

"Scenario B?" said Emma.

"It's a joke from an old Sunderland documentary," said MD. Impressive knowledge! "It's a way of talking about the R Word without using the R word. You say Scenario B if you're really starting to worry about the dreaded drop." He laughed. "Max, I'm not worried. Are you worried?"

"About Scenario B? No. We're too good to go down." We clinked our glasses together at my joke. "So, I should be available around the middle of February," I said. "That's actually incredible if you think about it. You stop someone working for six weeks because you're too lazy to schedule a Zoom call? The meeting has to be in FA headquarters so they can get a six-course meal after. Laughable people. Empty blazers. But fine. It actually fits my plans. I can keep scouting. By the way, I found a player. Lad from Darlington wants to join. Let's talk about it on Monday?"

"Sure," said MD, brightening. "Good, is he?"

"No. But he will be."

"Oh. I'm sure that's... Look, would you spend some time with Ruth? I'm sure she'd enjoy the match with some younger people to talk to."

"Ruth's here?" I said. I must have said it in a strange way, because Emma's eyes snapped towards mine.

"Ruth's here?" she said, making MD wrongly assume I'd told Emma all about the sexy woman whose vote I'd won. "Let's go meet Ruth."

***

The Venue, as the hospitality space was called, was very pleasant. Wide spaces, hard laminate flooring, clean white walls, a spacious bar staffed by two friendly dudes, a big TV showing the latest FA Cup action for people who wanted to watch a slightly higher standard of match.

Ruth - dressed warm and stylish - had been networking - or flirting - with two guys who looked, to me, quite attractive. One looked hench. But Ruth dropped them both as soon as she laid eyes on me.

It seemed to me she glided across the room without her feet touching the floor, then suddenly she was there introducing herself to Emma.

Emma went bonkers. It might have been my fault. Since we met, we'd been doing tiny role plays and finding ways to make boring situations more fun. You remember the time she pretended to be my stalker, or the way she played along when I said she was in line to the throne of San Marino or whatever. This time, she took The Attention Game and tweaked it so that she'd be competing with Ruth for my attention. Normally, I'd have found this hot. Beyond hot, really.

For a few minutes I was into it. Did my best James Bond impression, made strong eye contact, said cheeky things. Ruth was into it, big time, and Emma was having fun trying to compete with her more experienced foe.

But I wasn't there to start a harem. The match had kicked off and I didn't like what I was seeing. When I had to give my attention to the women, I kept tracking the player ratings and the match commentary. Over the course of five minutes, which should have been among the most sexually exciting of my life, I edged closer and closer towards the pitch. When I was a couple of feet away from the high glass doors that kept us protected from the elements, Ruth stepped in front of me, daring me to look at her and not the football. She was gorgeous; a real minx.

The only thing that got hard, though, was my face. I glared at her. My jaw set. "Excuse me," I said, "I'm working."

Her reaction was subtle, but tumultuous. Slowly, she turned, announced she needed another drink, and fucked off. Me choosing a shit game of football over her? I expected that would be the last we saw of Ruth.

I think Emma tried to talk to me, but I was staring down at the grass, a tiny pain somewhere in my stomach getting more intense by the second.

Brackley Town were good. Good enough to make me recalibrate my mental map of the division.

There were three very good teams in the league - King's Lynn, Darlington, and AFC Fylde were clearly the best, putting out teams with an average CA of 50. That was an estimate, by the way, because I hadn't seen two of those teams. But it fit mathematically based on the league table.

Then there were eight or nine with CAs between 40 and 50, who should have been competing for the next four positions in the league. With Henri in the team, I had blithely included Chester in that list, and now I added Brackley, too. They were a solid 45 CA team, playing a fairly normal 4-4-2. More attack-minded than average, and they were on a good run, climbing up the league table.

But I looked again at the pitch, and fumbled my phone's calculator app out. Sure enough, the Chester starting eleven had an average CA of 39.6. That was... shit.

The pain in my stomach got sharper.

Chester were a sub-40 CA team. How had that happened? I hadn't been paying very close attention to them in the months since I'd failed my trial there. I was sure the standard had been higher. They'd given Oldham a run for their money. Oldham were, what, CA 60? And that was before Chester got Henri. I was sure that adding him would turn them into a serious team.

So what the fuck?

MD bounded over to me. I snapped out of it and saw that Emma was gone. She was over at the bar with Ruth, and they were having what looked like a serious chat. MD was in fine form, and didn't realise how out of place his energy was. "Max! How's your day going? Mine's great. Ruth's always a sight for sore eyes. And Emma? Wow. Ah! Life's good, sometimes." He lapsed into a reverie before chuckling. "You've had quite a start to your job. Going round, getting stuck in. I've had coaches in the office complaining about you, physios. No players. I suppose you haven't started on them, yet." He laughed. "You're a disruptor, Max. Classic disruptor. I love it."

"You're not worried I'm being too disruptive?"

"Nah. Can't break an omelette without - ah, messed it up. Ha! Just keep me in the loop like you have been doing. I wouldn't mind if you slowed down, but then again, if people don't want to change we'll have to change the people. I notice you, er, glaring at the pitch. Something wrong?"

"Yeah," I said, and was about to go into a rant when the ladies returned.

MD said, "Max was just about to tell me what's happening tactically."

"No, my hobby horse at the moment is injuries. Trick Williams is injured." His stamina was red, two points lower than normal. One lost point was fairly common - by the end of the match, five or six players would have a lost point in stamina. They'd have huge bruises, swollen ankles, sore hips, maybe a few stitches. But they'd recover the stamina point the next morning, and be considered by the curse ready to play. I wasn't a huge fan of that, but it's a tough sport, an uncaring business. I could stomach it. What I didn't like were two point drops. That signalled something potentially significant. "Playing with an injury is demented. He'll make it worse. Make it more expensive. He thinks he's being masculine. He's being a dick."

"Are you sure?" said MD. He shielded his eyes to better see the pitch. "He... he looks fine."

"He's not. MD, I need..." I glanced at the women. "I want to do something that might lead to two people leaving the club."

"Who?"

"Trick and Dean."

"Dean!" said Ruth. "He's a horrible little man. Yes, sack him. Sack Dean. I will make sure the Board are on your side on this."

"The Board," said Emma.

MD looked at Ruth, and that was the moment I realised he had a massive crush on her. He turned to me and shrugged. "Can you... be more tactful than usual?"

"What do you mean?"

He tutted and looked up with a smile. "Don't be rash. If you want to sack someone, you need to give them enough rope to hang themselves. So they can't take us to court for wrongful dismissal."

I thought about it. "I don't know. I only have one speed. I'll try to learn another one." While everyone watched, I phoned Physio Dean. "Little shit isn't answering. What did he do to you?"

Ruth crossed her arms, let her wine glass dangle alarmingly. "He acts like he owns the place."

Emma said, "So does Max."

"There's a difference. In quality."

I held up a finger. My second target had picked up. "Livia. It's Max Best. Please say oh hi Max nice and loud so that Dean knows it's me. Did he hear that? Great. Please ask him if he's noticed Trick picked up a knock, or if Trick mentioned anything before the match. No? Nothing. Okay, Can you please give Dean the phone?" I licked my lips. MD had asked for tact. "Dean. Thanks for agreeing to take my call."

"We're in the middle of a match, Max."

"I know. I'm here."

"You're in Brackley?"

"Dean, please listen very carefully. Take your physio bag and walk around to the far side of the pitch."

"Why?"

"If this was a war, the patient would be dead already. The bag. Go to your left. If you do a little scampering run it will seem less strange."

From a distance, I saw him press mute on the phone and have a little bicker with Livia. Him bringing her into it was a mistake. Finally, he threw his hands up, grabbed the bag, and walked quite slowly around the edge of the pitch.

"What a prick," said Emma. "If you're calling there must be someone hurt. He should run."

"MD, I'd like a physio who isn't repellent to women, please. Do you know where to find one?"

MD smiled, but shook his head. "He's not a bad guy. Give him a chance." From the corner of his mouth he added, "Or at least make him quit so we don't have to pay him off."

Dean's voice came through the phone. "Yes? I'm where you said to go."

"At the next stoppage, tell Trick to sit down so you can check him out."

"Trick? He's fine."

"This guy!" I snapped, bringing the phone away from my mouth. With it back in place, I said, tactfully, "Next time the fucking ball goes out of play, stop the fucking game!"

The ref whistled for a throw-in, and Dean waved his arms around. Everyone ignored him and the match continued. Which showed how powerful Dean was outside his own domain, but also showed how little people in football cared about footballers. The ref should have been over there in a flash wondering what was going on.

"Dean," I said. "Shout to Ryder. Tell him what I said."

"I'll try."

Ruth rolled her eyes.

The match finally stopped, and Dean rushed onto the pitch to check on Trick. Even from this distance I could see Trick insisting he was fine. Dean picked up the phone and said, "He's okay. Nothing wrong. I'm going back."

"Listen to me, Dean. Listen very carefully. Look at Ian Evans and roll your arms to signal a sub. Then help Trick to walk - very slowly - to the dressing rooms. You have until half time to tell me what's wrong with him. Do you understand? If I don't hear from you, Livia will be our medical team for the second half and I'll be sending your contract to a law firm in Newcastle to find out how I can bin you off as fast as poss. Would you like me to repeat any of that?"

"Ian will go ballistic when he realises there's nothing wrong with him!"

"Bye, Dean. Give Livia her phone back on your way."

I stood and fumed for a while, watching as a visibly annoyed Trick Williams trudged off the pitch. Ian Evans was, indeed, going mental. I could almost lip read. "He says he's fine. He says he's fine." Dean was insistent, and Evans had no choice but to replace Trick. He had lost a substitution for no benefit. In his mind, the team was weaker, now.

I was grinding my teeth again, imagining the fight I'd have with Evans about this scenario. Snippets of conversation filtered into my brain, and then I was back in The Venue. My companions were staring at me. "What?"

Emma was giving me a concerned look. "We asked what you'll do if Dean doesn't find anything."

"Sack him."

"But how do you know the guy's hurt?" said Ruth.

"Do you ever look at your horses and know something's wrong, even though you're far away?"

"Yes."

I wanted to make some wise-arse comment, show off. But the pain in my stomach was back. Emma knew me like Ruth knew an injured horse. "Max?"

"I'm, er... I'm feeling a bit... Emma, has Gemma said anything about Henri?"

"What?" That had been the last thing she'd expected. "Er... no. I think they're seeing less of each other."

"Is it his choice?"

"Max! You've never shown any interest in it before. Now you're pale and asking for the hot goss. Are you okay?"

I pointed. "Look at him." All eyes followed my finger.

"What are we looking at?" said MD.

"Henri. He looks... shit."

"Max! You love Henri. He's your mate. Your client."

"I know. He's top. But..." I tried to explain that my mate had lost 8 points of CA without getting myself sent to an asylum. "He's lost a yard of pace. He's... he's not there. On the pitch. This isn't the guy I saw at the Deva stadium that time. This isn't the guy who came to my trial. I'm wondering if he's depressed."

"Huh," said MD. "I've seen him around. All the staff are happy he's joined. He seems... fine?"

"Whatever it is, it's hurting his performance. I need him happy and reaching his potential. Otherwise..."

"What?"

"Nothing. Maybe he just needs his first goal." But I was biting my nails, and MD didn't need to dig deeper. He knew I was thinking of Scenario B.

***

The rest of the half was torture. Agony. Made even worse because Emma was asking me if I was all right every few minutes, and Ruth had taken a step back and was appraising me.

That morning, Pascal and I had played perhaps twenty passes to each other, creating four chances across four elaborate passages of play. In St James Park, Chester found it almost impossible to put three passes together. There'd be a throw-in that someone would boof up the pitch. There would be some head tennis, then another throw-in. Repeat. It was excruciating. The fans fell into a stupor - they wanted to cheer but there was nothing to respond to.

The match ratings made my pain worse. The four central defenders on the pitch had 8 out of 10  . Winning all their headers, keeping things tight. Aff was on six. Reward for his defensive diligence. Henri was on five out of ten. He was shuffling and sliding like a good pro, but he wasn't winning his headers. His only contribution to the first half was to get a yellow card for booting a defender. He was lucky it wasn't red.

Ian Evans was having the time of his life. He was loving this contest. If it stayed like this, he'd be delighted. He'd call it 'a good point'.

"MD," I said, sweating slightly. "You know this league way better than me. What would happen if we drew every match for the rest of the season? Would we be safe?"

"No," he said. "Very unlikely. Brackley are a good team, though, right? Near the top of the table. A draw's good, today."

I shook my head. "If we have to win some matches why aren't we trying to win matches?" I rubbed my thumbs in the space above my eyelids but below my eyebrows. "Is he...?"

"Is who what?"

"Nothing."

"Say it."

"No. I said I wouldn't get involved in the first team."

"You just did! You dragged a player off the pitch."

"That's different. That's duty of care. That doesn't count."

"Spit it out, Max," said Ruth.

I was wondering if Ian Evans was consciously trying to get Chester relegated... Revenge for being given a boss fifty years younger than him. Revenge for the humiliation MD had heaped upon him. I licked my lips - they were dry. "Emma, babes. Can you get me something to drink?"

"Yeah." She rushed off to the bar.

I looked from Ruth to MD and back. "Is he trying to get sacked? The Max Best project makes him look bad. He thinks people are laughing at him. If we sack him, he's vindicated. They're crazy over there! I'm well out of it. See what I mean?"

MD considered it. "I doubt it. He's saved a lot of clubs from situations like these. He won't want to end his career on a low note. Do you think the tactics are bad? The players aren't trying?"

"No," I said. "The tactics are the same as always. And I can't fault their effort. Look, it was just a passing thought. I've got Scenario B on the mind, now. I'm seeing demons in every shadow." The pain in my stomach turned into a single, excruciating jab. I was forced to sit down on a leather sofa. As soon as I stopped looking at the match, I felt better.

Emma brought me a drink - fresh apple juice, good choice - and I sipped at it.

MD took a seat in front of me. "You're unwell. Are you pushing yourself too hard? You were right the first morning. You were pacing yourself. That was good. Go back to that."

"It's not that, MD. I love the work." I looked around. I didn't really want to talk openly in front of a relative stranger in Ruth. But I had to let it out. I pushed the apple juice in the direction of the pitch. "That out there? That's fucking garbage. Today I played a match with this kid I told you about and we played more passes in a few minutes than that entire midfield has done in half an hour. I want passion. I want Gazza moments. I want our matches given the tag swoonworthy." The sweat was dribbling through my hair, now, but I was calming down. Talking was good. "I'm stressed because as DoF, I'm responsible for that. Fans will listen to what I said on Seals Live and look at what's on the pitch and think, oh, so he was full of shit. I know I said I wouldn't interfere in the first team and I'm fine with that. I'll stick to it. It's just... harder than I expected. And it'll get worse before it gets better. And my mate is sad and I don't know what to do about it anyway and it's weird because he's my landlord and I'm his boss. And the, ah, reality of how close we are to Scenario B is really starting to eat away at me. Fuck."

"But it's like you said, Max. You'll come in the team, win us 15 quickfire points, no problem."

I nodded. That was true. So why was I breaking out into stress sweats? Why was I incubating a literal ulcer? Maybe my body was trying to tell me something my mind was too chickenshit to admit to.

"MD," I croaked. "This... this FA panel. Do you have the names of the judges or whatever they're called?"

"Yes, yes, I do." He fiddled with his phone and came next to me. He showed me each name and I did an image search for each. The first four were generic gammony randos. The fifth, though.

The fifth was one of Old Nick's imps.

How the fuck had he arranged that?

The stress came rushing back, harder than ever. I knew where this was going - Nick was trying to stop me playing the entire rest of the season. If I couldn't swoop in to save Chester, and Henri's inexplicable decline continued... We wouldn't be too good to go down. We'd be too shit to stay up.

There was no choice but to fight Nick in court.

I turned the phone and showed it to Emma. She recognised the imp from the day I'd ranted at Sheffield Wednesday. "Oh, shit," she said.

"Ruth, do you know any floating legal megabrains who'll work for free?"

"I do not."

I exhaled and looked at the ceiling. My lips twitched. I looked at Emma. "What was it again? Your dad will help us out... if he apologises to me?"

"Something like that."

I rubbed my head and face. I was starting to feel sick again. I'd rather be the laughing stock of the entire football world than offer a fake apology to Emma's dad. My phone beeped. I read the message and held it up for the others to see.

Physio Dean: Quad strain. Out 3 weeks subject to scan.

MD's mind was blown. "Holy fuck, you've done it again Max. Jesus Christ."

Ruth said, "That... was impressive." She gave me another of those long, uninhibited looks, then checked her watch. "I have a proposal. Would you care to join me for an early dinner?"

Emma accepted before I even had time to think. Getting out of the stadium would probably be good for my mental health, and the meal would probably be high-quality. The only question was, what did Ruth want to propose?

I thought I knew. It seemed obvious what she wanted. But as it turned out, I couldn't have been more wrong.