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Football glossary: "They think it's all over!" Part of Kenneth Wolstenholme's iconic commentary from the 1966 World Cup Final.

***

Friday, January 17

"I thought you said you wouldn't take this takeover lying down," said Emma.

I smiled and rolled over. We were in an overpriced hotel suite and she was in a bathrobe squishing her hair with a towel. Was it really possible she was getting more attractive? She couldn't. But she was. Maybe it was just the pace of life in Tenerife and a healthy dose of winter sun. "Some of us are lying down but we're looking up at the stars. Wait, what's that phrase?"

She noticed my laptop and her hands stopped fussing. "Did I miss the beginning?"

I rolled back to my starting position. I had my laptop turned on its side, balanced on a chair, broadcasting the Fans Forum. I was doing the same on Emma's laptop but from a different feed. "Yeah, Gerry, Chip, and James Pond have introduced themselves. The rest of the board are to the right of the stage. It's clever. It makes it seem like they approve just by being there. But it's also risky because Ruth is pulling all kinds of faces. She has grown to despise James Pond."

"Is it a big turnout?"

"Oh, it's packed. Standing room only. Six hundred seated, must be hundreds more pressed against the walls and jamming up the aisles. Big safety hazard. I could call the fire brigade and get the meeting shut down."

She hopped on the bed and admired me. I had an awesome tan and looked fit and fresh and had spent weeks smiling. "Why don't you do that?"

"Meh," I said, throwing my hand vaguely at the screen. "Too much hassle. How's the weather?"

"Disappointing."

"We could stay in the room," I said, rubbing the inside of her knee.

"Again?" We sizzled at each other and her lips twisted into a provocative grin. But she simply said, "Budge up" and threw herself to my side.

***

James Pond was on the left of the stage. He was standing behind a lectern on which he had a laptop, and there was a table in front of the lectern housing all kinds of sockets, wires, and adaptors. Pond was going through a presentation the takeover group had created, the slides of which were being shared onto a giant screen on the back wall. It looked slick and thorough but these days you could knock out presentations in seconds. Only the gullible would be fooled into thinking any care had gone into it.

Talking of gullible, James Pond was ending sections with dad jokes. Daddy Star and Chip were perched regally on two chairs close by and they were laughing along. There was a gap between their seats and the board's. None of the six board members were laughing. The new three - Dave, Violet, and Lily - looked terrified. If they got their decisions wrong the club could be in big trouble. It was a good sign they were nervous; it showed they recognised the stakes.

At the front of the stage were four roll-up banners, each promoting some aspect of the new ownership. The first showed a gleaming new stadium. The second displayed smiling players of all colours and creeds. The third showed a league table graphic with Chester overtaking Wrexham within five years. The fourth showed a map of Daddy Star's retail empire with the bold text: LONG-TERM INVESTOR. Again, it looked slick but I could have done the same with a hundred quid and an AI.

Pond was droning on, sometimes handing over to Chip.

"Star realises the less he talks the better," I said, as I played with Emma's slightly damp hair. "It's odd how much he's letting Chip talk, though."

"Shh. You talk too much. You're the Chip of this relationship."

I smiled and relaxed onto my back. I squeezed my right arm around her and pulled her into me. It was a strange kind of bliss given I was so close to losing everything. My grand plan to save football. My new training ground, my integration of two teams in two nations, my best ever chance to win the Youth Cup. Daddy Star was half an hour from taking possession of everything I had built. But I still had Emma.

The usurpers were getting to the meat already, which I found surprising, but I should have expected it. All the groundwork had been done on social media and in closed Facebook and Telegram groups. Most fans knew most of the proposals and all they needed now was to hear them come out of Gerry Star's mouth. Pond was saying, "We can expect considerable levels of financial support. Mr. Star, as we've seen, is a man of considerable means and he is very, very competitive. After the initial investment and once the takeover is formalised, we will immediately begin projects of all kinds. First, expect investment in the first team squad."

"Men's or women's?" shouted someone from the front of the hall.

"Men's," said Pond, glancing at Star. Pond had screwed up and he knew it. Chester had two first team squads and as far as possible we tried to treat them equally. Pond needed the board to send the takeover to the members of the Supporters Trust. The first vote was a formality, but one of the board members, Violet, was mostly interested in the women's team. Pond needed to be slightly more careful with his language if he wanted to be absolutely sure of her support. "It's a matter of utmost urgency to get, er... for the men to get promoted this season while the big beasts of the National League are taking points off one another. It might not be so easy next season. Expect heavy investment in all areas of the pitch. Much work has been undertaken to identify transfer targets. What's exciting is that a big investment in what's left of the transfer window will pay back almost immediately. We all know the rewards that come from being promoted to League Two, to the EFL."

"How many players?" cried someone from the front.

Pond clearly wanted to ignore the person, but found he couldn't. "I apologise but the exact names and number of the targets must remain confidential to ensure the club can negotiate the best deals. Suffice to say I have seen some of the names and it's a time to get excited. The next two weeks or so could be seismic for this club."

Emma tilted her head in a way I'd seen many times, though normally not when she was in the little spoon position. "The front is rowdy. Who's there?"

"Almost the entire men's and women's squads," I said, pointing to her laptop. Its screen was split into four camera feeds. One showed Glenn Ryder, Henri, Luisa, and various members of the men's team. This camera moved from time to time. The second focused on the women's team but never deviated from having Angel in the centre of the frame.

"Oh! They're Bolshy."

"They don't want this. Some of them are really upset."

Pond clicked through to his next slide. "The goal is instant promotion, of course, and that will come at a cost. A cost well worth paying. That task will be made easier because there is still, astonishingly, a considerable amount of the Raffi Brown monies left. That alone could make all the difference. With Mr. Star's help, we could have a superb team very quickly. But that's short-term. We know Mr. Star is a long-term investor and most of you are waiting to hear about the stadium." He paused.

"Christ," I said. "Here it comes. Watch them turn." While two quarters of Emma's laptop showed scenes from the players, the other two scanned the audience looking for interesting characters and reactions.

Pond clicked and looked at the big screen behind him. When he turned back, he didn't look like a middle-aged accountant. He looked like a seven-year old boy who was about to see his first ever match. "Our stadium, our destiny. They call this... Deva 2029."

A time lapse video played. We saw the Deva stadium, greyed out to make it look uglier and older. Large white text slid in from the right of the image. 1. Acquire freehold. 2. Consultation. 3. Planning permission. 4. The build.

Funky social media music burped out while we got a closer view of the Deva. Diggers and cranes got to work demolishing it. As similar but bigger vehicles returned and a new stadium arose, the colour was dialled all the way up. We were left to admire a concrete and steel marvel with gorgeous blue and white seats and a large wolf statue roaring forever on top of the roof of the main stand.

I checked the player feed to see if Pascal was there, but he was out of shot. I wanted to see his reaction because I'd seen the second half of the animation before. It was a time lapse from the construction of a stadium in Germany. I couldn't remember which club owned it, but clearly Chip had paid someone a hundred bucks to digitally paint out the name of the team and add some white seats and the wolf. Now that I thought about it, I had once seen a video of the Deva being constructed. To simulate the demolition, Chip had probably just played that in reverse! The video we'd just watched looked like it had cost multiple thousands but it was probably done with two emails and a couple of hundred bucks. I was starting to get excited - I was right! My instincts were right!

A burst of applause from the audience killed my good mood big time. Emma reversed into me, demanding that I snuggle harder. I did. It helped.

Data came across the screen: 15,000 capacity. 133 seats for disabled fans. 20 hospitality rooms. Self-cleaning toilets.

A faded Wrexham badge plonked down and one last piece of text landed on top, cracking the red dragons. BIGGER THAN WREXHAM!!!

This got a huge cheer. I forced myself to look at the audience feed. One guy was clearly saying to his mate - I told you. He gets the club.

The animation finished and while the room was abuzz, Pond adjusted his glasses and pretended to read from his screen. "One of the most common questions has been, will Mr. Star attend games?"

Star nodded and turned his mic on. He was clearly feeling very powerful and charismatic. "I'll sure come watch us beat Wrexham!" Another cheer. The Chester mob were lapping this up, now. I was pleased to note that Angel and the players around her were sitting in stony silence. Star didn't care - he almost certainly couldn’t have put a name to more than three faces. "I like to take a hands-on approach to my investments. As a long-term investor you wanna get to know the business from the inside out. You want to know the names of the ushers and the stewards and the ticket sellers. You want folks to see you and feel they can trust you so you find out what's going good - and what's going bad. I didn't get to where I am by hiring yes men." I dried some of Emma's hair by letting out one big ha! Pond was a yes-man of Biblical proportions. "The biggest insights into my companies come from my customers and my shop-floor workers. Having a relationship with them is real important to me. So yeah, I wanna come so I hear it straight from the horse's mouth." I tensed. Was that a phrase aimed at Brooke? Some kind of threat? She wasn't in the room. As far as I knew, she wasn't watching and never would. "But I don't wanna oversell it, either. You'll appreciate I've got a real big job on my hands back home. Texas big!" This got some underserved laughs. "I'll wanna come for the big matches. I think you'd call me a glory hunter." More laughs. Wasn’t that one of my lines? "My son will be here far more than me."

Chip took his cue to turn his mic on. "That's right," he said. "I love this sport and I've gotta be honest, I love this club and this team. They're real good. Real exciting. I'd pay to watch them and - ha! I suppose that's what we're doing." Some good-natured chuckles from the audience. "Where I come in is with a modern data-led approach. I know some of the legacy fans don't like to hear that but data is what turned your Tesco from the last-placed retailer to taking one pound in every four in the UK. That's an unbelievable stat. Think about it for a quick minute. One out of every four pounds spent was from one company and there was one reason - they used data better and faster than anyone else. It took ten years for the other retailers to catch up! There's a lot of data in football - too much, you might say. Well, I'm not going to bore you with my findings but there are so many players who are undervalued and underappreciated. Our plan is to bring them here and ride that data all the way to League One!"

"Where we'll beat Wrexham," said Gerry, to more cheers and laughs.

"All I wanna say," said Chip, "is that we want to invest in this club but we want to invest wisely. There's always gonna be comparisons between what we're doing and what Wrexham did. I think they paid top dollar for a couple of fellas who turned out preddy good but some of what they did was all kinds of wasteful. I could show you charts - "

"Please don't," said his dad, to more laughs.

"Right," chuckled Chip. It was an interesting dynamic. Gerry was the voice of the gammons. Chip was standing in for the hipsters. "So just trust me on this - if we spend the same amount of cash we're gonna see a much bigger return." Fantastic use of the word if in that sentence!

James Pond nodded. "Chip's models certainly are cutting-edge. More questions. Will volunteers get paid? In the back office, yes. Match day staff, that's planned for when we reach League One. Until then, we do need to be mindful of cost. Another question. What will the first hundred days look like? Chip?"

"We want to hit the ground running. Install the new head coach, bring in our transfer targets, give the squad everything it needs to succeed. That's the first two weeks. It's all about making sure every stone is unturned in the rush for promotion. That's double A priority. Then it's rushing ahead in all directions. The stadium. The training ground. We want to get things done in record time. I think overall the first hundred days will look sedate, but that's only because the first, say, forty days will be so action-packed. We've got plans, files, documents. We feel we're ready to go from day one, minute one. We've been preparing for this for a long time. This is serious."

"I'm a long-term investor but the first weeks will look like backstage on Broadway five minutes before opening night," said Daddy Star, and this drew an appreciative chuckle. "We know what to do. We've rehearsed it. The costumes look good, we know our lines. There are dozens of people running around like headless chickens but then the curtain comes up..."

"And we beat Wrexham!" said Chip, nailing the landing like a pro.

"That's tedious," said Emma.

"Yeah. They're copying the Ryan Reynolds pitch to Wrexham. Rob and Ryan promised to beat Chester four times. It was cringe but it showed they weren't just doing a prank and they had actually done the bare minimum research."

"How's it going, do you think?"

"I think they're winning," I said. The takeover resolution would need 75% to pass.

"How long until there's a vote?"

I made some mouth clicking noises. "Fifteen, twenty minutes?"

Saying that put a huge clock in my imagination like in the abysmal Three Body Problem show on Netflix. A floating fifteen minute timer and if no-one stopped it, the Chester board would vote to put the takeover to the fans and then the fans would vote to sell their soul to Daddy Star. Brooke wouldn't bother to quit; she would simply vanish. I would have to go through the formalities of quitting so that my player registration would be released. Ideally, I'd do it in a quiet room, just me and Secretary Joe, but more likely there would be a crowd of Stars and Ponds and whoever else wanted to see me brought down a peg or two.

"I don't think you can stop it from your hotel room," Emma said. She got up off the bed and lifted a hairdryer from her suitcase. There was one in the room but Ems never travelled without her favourite.

I lay back and closed my eyes. "Maybe I don't want to stop it. Maybe the fuckers deserve what they get."

"Are you talking about your players?"

"Of course not."

"So don't even start with that. If you're back doing self-pity, I'm going to do my hair." She strode out of sight, but came back. "Why don't you go for a walk? You can watch that man buy your football club from your phone." She vanished and popped right back up again. "If you take your backpack you can get something for the room."

"What like?"

She looked around, so deep in thought it was almost painful. "A Snickers. And... a bottle of champagne."

"What will we be celebrating?"

"That's just for me. I'll be celebrating how fast I ate my Snickers."

I smiled and slung my backpack around my shoulders. I loaded the feed onto my phone. It was only the view of the stage and not the other feeds, but that was fine.

"You're not going out like that?"

"What?" I said, admiring myself. I was rocking a stylish light-grey hot-boy-in-Tenerife hoodie - even Gemma would have approved - awesome shorts, and the most comfortable flip-flops ever sold in a tourist trap.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

Emma calculated, then nodded. "Actually, I approve. I don't want you getting into flirty conversations with joggers."

I scoffed. "Any joggers I meet will go wild for this. This is jogger catnip. Look at my calves for fuck's sake. I'm literally sex on legs." Emma's lips twisted again, an invitation, and not for the first time I wondered if I had my life priorities straight. She gave me one last look and disappeared into the bathroom. The hairdryer turned on and got twice as loud almost immediately. "Be right back," I mumbled.

I popped my AirPods in, closed my fingers around the door handle and realised that by the time I got back, I would probably be unemployed. I scratched my forehead, wrote three words on a Post-It note, and left it on Emma's bedside table. I hesitated one last time and, with a nod, closed my laptop and slid it into my backpack. Just in case.

***

I walked, not very fast, down the corridor. I was listening to more than watching the presentation, which was already into the question and answer session. The first questions were about Gerry and Chip themselves.

My thoughts drifted away. The endless rain in England had driven me half-crazy. The curse had offered me a perk called Wet Wet Wet. How had the text gone? Something like: You feel it in your fingers, you feel it in your toes. This perk tells you which way the weather blows. Six thousand XP to get a guaranteed-accurate five-day weather forecast. The perk came with the prospect of further upgrades. I mean, amazing but six thousand? At a time most matches in the north had been called off?

Grimsby had lost one fixture to the weather, Barnet none. Five of ours had been postponed, including the one rescheduled because of our FA Cup exploits. The weather had given us four games in hand that we could play at the end of the season when we would be stronger - whoo! - but kicked us out of the playoff spots just in time for Daddy Star's pitch. Boo!

Weather forecasts. Grimsby. Who cared? I was about ten minutes away from never having to think about the National League ever again.

I heard Brooke's name and I whipped the phone to my eyes.

Daddy Star was smiling. "She's my Brookie cookie and she's real talented. She can do whatever she wants. If she wants to stay here and work with her brother, I could sit still for that. And she knows there's always a job for her back at No Fussin' HQ."

"So you're not doing this to spite her?" I didn't have the audience screens and couldn't recognise the voice.

"Spite? That's my daughter. My firstborn. I want her to be happy, like any father would."

Pond quickly moved on to a different questioner, who was clearly all-in on the takeover and already salivating at the thought of transfers. "Can you confirm that your first signing will be Tom Hickman?" For some reason, this got a knowing chuckle from the audience. Star smiled and gestured to Chip.

"Hickman is a player who comes up on our data but no way is Grimsby going to sell him to us. Not this season, anyway! Don't worry, though. We have binders full of Hickmans!"

Again I felt that sense of rising bile. That fear. What if the Stars meant what they were saying? If they really had a good data model, maybe they thought they would actually be good at running a football club. Maybe this wasn't about Brooke at all. I thought back to our meeting. They hadn't mentioned Brooke once. The rising dread faded and I was left alone in a hotel corridor.

Not quite alone. Two attractive young women turned the corner in front of me on their way back to their room. They checked me out.

"Hola," I said.

They giggled. "Hola," the first one replied.

"Como estas?"

"Muy bien, guapo," said the second one. She nudged her friend and I turned sideways so they could go past. They looked down as they passed me, giggled some more, then with a final look back, fell into each other.

George Best quit football in his twenties. Maybe I could, too.

I smiled and walked on.

***

I stepped outside. It was colder than I'd expected. The flip flops did precious little to warm my precious feet.

I went back indoors and found a little nook to sit in. The topic of the meeting had finally moved onto the good stuff. The elephant not in the room. Me.

Pond was talking. "I think we can all agree that Best saved us from relegation and got us promoted. He did. But we're in a big boy league now and it's full of experienced managers. We need stability and experience but what we have is wild flights of fancy, tweaking the nose of the Football Association, distractions of all kinds. There's no paperwork. Our players train here, there, and everywhere and while I have no doubt it's all kinds of fun, from an insurance point of view it puts the club at constant risk of litigation." He pinched his nose and looked down. "It has been a great ride, I can say that with hand on heart. I'm a Chester fan and some of the moments we've had have been nothing short of magical. But I'm sorry, it's time to grow up. It's time to professionalise. If we want to catch Wrexham it's time to bring on board a long-term investor. We got lucky that Best came along when he did, but I truly believe that we're even more lucky today. To think that one of the best businessmen in the world is here, hoping and praying to invest millions of pounds into our football club. I believe this takeover removes the need for luck. Who needs luck when you have a serious, professional, long-term investor?"

Pond had pitched it perfectly. Acknowledging my work but saying it was time to move on. He was convincing and while he wasn't exactly dripping with charisma, he was being absolutely authentic. It was easy to admire him from afar, in a random part of a hotel in my flip flops and shorts.

The applause was louder than ever. More than half the hall was clapping. Pond turned to Daddy Star. 'Look what I did! I did good, didn't I?' They had done it. They had absolutely smashed the presentation. Chester fans wanted them. The votes would be a formality.

Kenneth Wolstenholme was the BBC's commentator for the 1966 World Cup final. He delivered the highest moment in commentary to match the highest moment in English football history. As Geoff Hurst raced towards the German goal in the dying seconds of the match, as delirious England fans rushed onto the pitch thinking the referee had blown for full time, Wolstenholme said the immortal words:

'They think it's all over!'

The Stars and James Pond thought this was all over.

I sighed, stood, and flip-flopped my way to a large double door.

I pushed it and watched on my phone as James Pond heard the commotion and looked up, aghast. His fear intensified as I smoothly went down the central aisle, jauntily popping out my earbuds and putting away my phone.

Some people are on the pitch indeed...

***

Extract from Bethany Alban's notebook, expanded from the original shorthand.

Max just came in. About fucking time. Quite a lot of relief around me, but quite a few tuts and grumbles. Clearly, Max was planning a dramatic entrance. Then why's he dressed for the beach? Also hindering his dramatic, triumphant walk down the aisle - the fact that it's full of people.

Fans blocking him. Thematic! He hasn't fully thought this through - prophetic? There's so little space he's clambering over some, squeezing through others. He's gone ten metres and twice lost a flip-flop. Despite the tan and the summery clothes he looks rough. Strained. Cameron already has his notebook out. Love his instincts. I whisper, "You get crowd colour. I'll do the stage." He agrees. Divide and conquer.

On stage, there's more whispers - between James Pond and Daddy Star. Three of the other six board members are talking behind their hands. The one on the left is Sumo, the streamer. Fell out with Max when the takeover broke. Seemed contrived at the time, but they kept the pretence going. Must get an interview with him.

People around me are chatting a mile a minute. They've just realised there's going to be a showdown! Phones out, cameras on. Some of these ingrates want a sugar daddy but even more than that they want to be the one who gets the angle on the fight that goes viral.

Not like Max to give us all our dream story. Our dream video. Or is it? He looks haggard. How much fight is in him?

I can't wait so I ask Cameron - Cam says Max looks fit and healthy and unbothered. Hmm.

So it's a showdown. Holy crap. Spectrum hinted Max had a plan to stop Star. Why let it get to this point? Not like Max to take the passive route.

I'm worried. This is either genius or madness. Max isn't getting an entirely positive reception. I reckon a third are for him, a third against, a third could be persuaded. He fistbumps MD and slips through the ranks of his players. They are united behind him. Why aren't the fans? I haven't seen Dani. Judging by how hard she's typing, it's Kisi who's tasked with sending the updates. I glare at James Pond. Of course he's the one guy at Chester who wouldn't even think of organising some way for Dani to follow what is happening.

Get them, Max!

Wow, creepy. Glenn Ryder just shouted the same thing I wrote. They're all at it. 'Fuck him up! Come on! Remember what Voltaire said! God is with you.'

Max goes up the right. Why? Left is closer to the lectern. Ah - he wants to make eyes at the board. Dave, Violet, Lily. They don't feel important, unless it comes to a vote. From what I've seen and heard, any sort of a vote and Max is toast. He hasn't handled this well. He hasn't handled this at all. There's let it happen and there's let it happen. Worst case for everyone is Star gets 74% approval and we have to do all this again.

Max smiles at Ruth and she curses him for waiting till the last minute. Ha! So there is a plan. I... don't feel better. The military guy gives a curt nod. Sumo - no eye contact. Hmm. Could be two reasons for that.

Max passes the baddies. Daddy Star? No reaction. He can't conceive of a way he could lose this except by reacting badly to Max's provocations. He'll stay calm, is my guess.

Chip: "You're in Tenerife!" Max: no reply.

Max slings his backpack off, places it on the table. Slips out a soft document case. Hands it to Daddy Star. What's this? Suing him? Would be just like Max if he was serving divorce papers right now.

Max perches his arse on the table and picks up a microphone. James Pond and Chip are talking into theirs, but no sound is coming out. Max got the engineers onside! Heart's beating fast. That's my boy!

"Beth? Are you here?" Wait what? He's talking to me? Why? I stand and wave. "Is that Cameron?" I nod. Cameron waves. "Thanks for the help on Christmas, mate. I owe you one."

You owe me more than one you crazy bastard.

I battle to keep up. My shorthand was never that fast. The people around us are one third smiles, one third scowls, one third gormless. I stare at one scowler until he looks away. I'm riled up! Everyone is. This is proper brother versus brother stuff. Civil war. Dying moments of the reborn Chester FC and plenty of people can't wait to pull the plug.

I realise I've lost the heart of the story but Cam is all over it.

"Star's taken those documents out of the case. Look, there's a camera guy on stage putting it on the big screen. That Pond guy's trying to turn it off."

"What are the documents?"

"No clue."

The guy in front of me turns around. He smiles too much to be comfortable, but he seems friendly. I think I've seen him around. "They're contracts."

"Thanks, Mister...?"

"Clive."

Clive seems happy to stop there - must find out more about him. The contracts each have a brightly-coloured page marker indicating a page near the back. The cameraman takes a step closer as Star reads what is written there. Jaw tight, fighting to preserve the illusion he's a decent human being. Mask slips as he throws the contract to the floor. He checks the next one and tosses it aside, too.

Chip bends to pick up a discarded one and reads it. A second camera swoops towards him. "You can't do this!" he says, clearly audible over the murmur of the crowd. "You can't do this!"

Star throws all the contracts off him and stands up, hands on hips.

"What's going on?" hisses James Pond, as the Chipcam turns on a sixpence and gets into his unwilling face. "What have you done, Best? Whatever it is, it won't make any difference! This deal is all but done! You can't scare off a long-term investor with a cheap trick!"

Daddy Star hears this and considered Pond's words. He looks from Pond to the camera to the players who are gathered in front of him. Their postures are like football fans waiting for someone to take a penalty. More like the score is four-nil and Star has a penalty to make it four-one. Result not in doubt.

Max is relaxed. Calm. Unnaturally so; he must be fighting extra hard to keep so still. Ask him about it. Ask the players who know him best. Strange sense he's stressed off his tits.

The entire takeover comes down to this!

Star puts his hat on, doffs it at Max, and exits, stage right. Twenty-plus male players and twenty-plus female players celebrate with wild abandon. Limbs. The neat row of chairs buckle.

That was it! The takeover thwarted.

What happened?

Eight hundred Chester fans call out my question: 'what happened?' A few celebrate with the players - that's what they do every Saturday and it happens on autopilot. Their mates pull them back. Tell them to quit it. One guy spills over a chair - grabbing the guy in front of him, he fell back. Situation calms just enough but many in that section are red in the face.

Cam shows me the live feed of the stream - the chat is scrolling past at lightning pace. He makes it stop - half the questions are 'where did he go?'

The players are dancing around singing, "Maaaxxx! Max will tear you apart again!" followed by "Chester! Chester!"

Very few of the fans are joining in.

Uh-oh.

The documentary director - Sophie? check this - twenty, black hair, glasses, never smiles - switches the big screen to Pondcam. The entire hall watches as James Pond, on one knee, skims the contracts. He is pissed. "Best! You'll pay for this! This is an outrage! You don't have the right to do this!"

The male players give him a volley of abuse. Pond backs off.

A fan with a very loud voice stands on his chair and yells, "What the fuck is going on?" Big cheer and applause.

"I don't know," says Max. "Let's ask the long-term investor. Oh, where did he go?" Mocking laughter from the players and staff. No, Max! Read the room! He's lost the plot. He's not in control. He has won, but - "Zach, is there a culture clash here? Maybe in Texas long-term investor means a guy who leaves a five-year project after twenty minutes?"

"No, boss!" calls Zach.

"Come on, Best!" yells the fan. "Talk to us!"

Max smiles. It's not attractive. "My friend Beth there works for the Daily Mail. She's been hoping for this showdown between me and Daddy Star. The two of us sparring while the fate of the club hangs in the balance. I reckon she's got the headline already. Star Wars. Good, isn't it? Star player versus Star. Can the dim-witted council estate Manc save his club from the ruthless, unstoppable American billionaire? Chester is on the brink of disaster and only Max knows it. Chester is one minute from oblivion when Max walks in to save the day! What a story!" Max pauses while he tries to get rid of a smirk, but he only manages to turn it into a sneer. It's not aimed at me. "Sorry to disappoint you, Beth. I decided to be sophisticated on this one. It's too important. I made promises to my staff. There's no showdown. No duels, no fireworks. Just me doing what I always do. Winning." Whoops and cheers from my players. Big, admiring smile from Ruth.

"Best!" yells the fan. "Explain it!" Hundreds of others cry out their agreement. How can he not know he's alienating them?

"I'll explain everything," he says. "But first we need to finish the takeover. Let's get the long-term investor in here and - oh! Where's he gone?"

Pond's microphone came back on. "You're not funny! When they find out what you did - "

"Oh, they'll find out," Max says, angry and combustible. "They'll find out everything I did... and everything you did. They'll learn about the new contracts and what that means about Daddy Star and more importantly, what that means about you."

"But," Pond says, not into the microphone. His eyes dart left and right with the sudden realisation that he is in deep, deep shit.

Sumo stands and goes to him. He snatches the microphone from Pond's hand. Sumo takes four steps away and says, "I call for the immediate resignation from the board of James Pond."

The players launch into a round of boos and hisses, not for the idea but for the name. Max waves at them to shush. The military guy has Daddy Star's mic. "I second the motion," he says, before passing it along.

"I third the motion," says Ruth.

She passes the microphone to Violet.

Angel shouts, "Come on, Violet!" This triggers similar exultations from all the female players, plus Jill, and Livia, and there, to the side, Jackie Reaper.

"I don't know," says Violet. Useless waste of space!

Ruth takes the mic back. "Pond. Are you going to do the decent thing for once in your life?"

Pond recoils. It seems like he will try to defend himself but the absolute fury from the women's team in particular makes him decide against giving an impromptu speech. He strides away. John Smith appears out of nowhere, blocking his path.

Ruth says, "Leaving isn't resigning. Resign."

Secretary Joe is there with a form on a clipboard. He holds it up along with a pen.

"Resign! Resign! Resign!" The players of Chester FC, long destabilised by takeovers and rumours of takeovers, are letting it all out big style. Behind them, fans are yelling. Some are gesticulating.

"Mate," Max says, to Pond. "You don't want to be here when I tell these guys the truth. Trust me. You don't want to be here. I'm doing you a favour by letting you go. In the name of God, go."

The word 'truth' calms the room a good twenty percent. Truth? What truth? The very word hints at lies and deception.

Pond, surrounded by enemies, grabs the pen, signs his resignation, and strides away. Smith lets him pass, and Pond is nearly off the stage when Max speaks next.

"James Pond." The beaten man turns to look at Max. "You're just not very popular."

That seems like a personal line, so it doesn't get much of a response from the players and falls absolutely flat with the fans, who until a few minutes ago thought Pond was the face of the takeover and thus more popular even than Max.

Max: "I've been thinking about how to announce that, despite the slick sales pitch, I've foiled the takeover and saved this football club. Again." He goes to his laptop and brings up familiar footage from the end of the 1966 World Cup final. "Black and white and gleaming all over. The Germans, three-two down, had streamed forward in a desperate attempt to get an equaliser." Max goes from explaining to putting some Boggy-like enthusiasm into his voice. "Some people are on the pitch," he says, as on the giant screen, Bobby Moore plays a long pass into Germany's half. "They think it's all over..." Max cries. As Geoff Hurst thrashes the ball into the net at the perfect time to match Wolstenholme's commentary, so Max mimes kicking Daddy Star and James Pond up the arse. "It is now!"

The players erupt and there's mayhem again.

Zach and Glenn Ryder chestbumping each other.

John Smith swirling Ruth around.

Sumo and Barnesy doing a Nobby Stiles dance around the stage at the Crowne Plaza Hotel.

Angel riding Sticky's back.

Half the documentary crew in amongst the players, their supposed neutrality very much forgotten.

Charlotte in tears, being consoled by Femi and Jackie.

Cole Adams in tears, being consoled by Carl Carlile.

It's all joy as far as the eye can see - so long as one only looks at the front of the hall. Not all that far further back, the grumpy faces start. The folded arms. Those people came here to get a huge cash injection and their sugar daddy just walked out. The manner of Max's victory - the cloak and daggers, coming at it sideways, winning with a trick and a technicality - has rubbed a lot of people up the wrong way. He thought he would just do one of his themes and it would all click.

Max does this with his players - gives them a theme for the week. This was 'they think it's all over' and they've responded. They aren't in the dark. Presumably they know what's going on - they've signed the contracts that have won the day. But half the fans don't want it to be over. Max has blundered massively. He has won, but at what cost? I suppose I should be glad I was here to see it.

There's some commotion and it's because Brooke Star has entered. Max told me she was in Belize. Ho hum. She looks shaken - she's stumbling worse than Max, although more people are willing to get out of her way.

"MD," says Max. "Bring her up here where she belongs."

Some prick yells out, "Is she gonna invest twenty million?"

If looks could kill. Max is fuming. "She'll invest her time, expertise, and class, which is a hell of a lot more than her dad." Prick makes a rude gesture. Max is starting to get just how badly he's messed this up. Half the audience is a few false words from boiling point. And Max - oh, shit. He's not going to back down.

"Cam," I say. "You'd better clear out. Could get nasty."

"No chance," he says. Budges closer to me. Undoes his cuffs in case there's a scrap.

Max has smoke coming out of his nostrils. Some of his more alert players are calming the others down in case things kick off. It's going to kick off. Shit shit shit no Max no.

"What are you doing?" he growls into the mic. We all snap our heads and see a few people are shuffling down their row.

"We're leaving," calls a guy. "It's over. You said." The guy looks like a Max supporter to me, but Max is in one of his me-against-the-world moods.

"No, mate," Max says, cricking his neck. He points to the side of the stage where Daddy Star, Chip, and James Pond fled. "That? That was just the warm-up act. That was some stand-up comedy before the main event. This isn't over. You wanted to make big changes to this football club. You're gonna make big changes to this football club. You came here to vote. You're gonna vote. You want a long-term investor? You can have a long-term investor."

He walks up and down the stage, his flip-flops slapping into the wood almost comically. But his face is hard and there are no smiles left in the hall. His super-joyous players start to slip back into their chairs. Seems they knew about the first bit. This is unexpected. MD knows. He goes past Max and sits in Daddy Star's chair. Brooke takes Chip's.

Max is angry and he's acting belligerent but he's frantic. He's out of control.

"Ladies and gentlemen, you've just seen me beat that guy all ends up and you want to know how I did it, like it's a mystery. There's no mystery to it. I'll tell you how, okay? But the only mystery here is why you would even let him in the door. Your question is, what happened? But the real question is, how do we stop this happening ever again?" He grimaces. "How do we stop a thousand of you gathering to welcome a wolf in sheep's clothing, to applaud his lies and laugh and ignore reality. We need to talk about the future of Chester Football Club."

"Oh, shit," says Cameron. "This is what he was saying when he had pneumonia. I thought he was babbling."

Max shakes his head. "There's only two ways to run a football club. There's my way. And that's the only way."

"He's going to make an outrageous demand," hisses Cam. "He's going to blow himself up. Your best story is about to make a mistake he'll never recover from. You've got to stop him, Bethany!"

There's no time. It would take me a full minute to clamber down the aisle, and Max is just getting started on his rant. "You've got to choose, Chester. Two choices. All..." He clomps a few steps. "Or nothing."