.

"Before you pawn off the family silver to buy your dream defender," murmured Sandra, pulling me into a dark crevice behind the stage, "let's do a concussion protocol."

I smiled and checked the area - no-one had followed us. I spoke just as quietly. "It’s the year 3000. Steelsilk is the most valuable resource in the universe."

"I really wish I could see that play again."

I jabbed my thumb behind me. "You sort of just did."

Her face lit up. "Yeah! First question. Why Fierce?"

"Because he's my special pumpkin."

"There are ten tall centre backs in this league just like him."

"There aren't." Sandra wanted more. As usual, I tried to explain PA without mentioning curses. "He's got a higher ceiling than most players of his type. Not as high as Zach but that's a partnership that can stay for a couple of seasons. Fierce has high leadership, which we need with all these kids."

"And he's the only player who ever got the better of you. It's personal."

"Maybe it is," I said, thinking back to our first epic tussle. Fierce had blocked me at every turn and he was a class act off the pitch, too. "Could we get someone similar for cheaper? Yes. But Sandra, listen. This guy..." The strain must have made me a tiny bit emotional. "He plays football like it should be played. Every tackle's vital. Every header's important. Every duel is a chance to live your best life. The guy's just... He plays with purity. Whatever it is I don't see about a player, the intangibles, he's got it all. If we're upgrading with a premium player, it's him."

Sandra nodded. She liked when I got dreamy but this was a time for cold, hard analysis. "Why are you thinking centre back? Why not midfield?"

I checked if she was joking by lowering my head and looking up into her eyes. "Because you told me to!"

"I did," she agreed. "But you've been known to have your own thoughts."

"Here's where I'm at. Ryan Jack is back and this rain has come at a good time for him. He got a few minutes but there are literally no matches for him to go and get himself injured again. Every week that passes now I get more confident he's okay. He's not as sharp as before but he's visibly improving and in a few weeks he'll be very good again. But it's not just how good he is, it's what he is. He gives us some craft in the centre. Put Wisey or Andrew next to him and that's a fine midfield. We haven't come up against many teams with anything better, right?"

"Not really. One or two."

"Okay and think of the rain. The pitches are fucked all over the country. Down south isn't too bad, is it? But for the next few weeks we'll be playing on potato fields. Check this out. Christian Fierce, six foot five. Glenn and Carl, big and strong. We play Cole at left back."

"I see where this is going. Height."

"I'm going further than you would think! Youngster gets a break and we use Magnus at DM. Everyone's strong and tall. Josh Throw-Ins at left mid. Aff plays on the right."

"Wow."

"Yeah. We get huge. We Wrexham it. Pub team it. Long throws, direct, headers, get up 'em! Last twenty I come on and we go bonkers on free kicks and corners."

"The striker you're getting. He's not huge, is he?"

"Not huge but very strong. He can win a header and hold the ball up and all the old-fashioned stuff. We will grind and make it impossible to score against us. Clean sheets, make sure we're getting a point at least from every match. Then when the pitches dry up and the new grass comes, we pivot. Zach, Ryan, Youngster - if he isn't in Africa - Pascal, Wibbers, Sharky. Fantasy football. We can make those guys go even harder at training for the next few weeks knowing they won't play. Training's been good so far this season but the rains really have done a number on us." In the last six weeks, rates of improvement had slowed considerably. We got a boost from playing a Championship team, but the lack of matches and the fact we had to train on the old-fashioned, low-quality plastic pitches was really a problem.

"Let me just throw this out there," said Sandra. "In the interest of completion. Zach can do the physical stuff. Should we buy a goalkeeper?"

"Ben's good enough," I said. "For this season." Cavvers had improved to CA 62 and would soon hit his PA limit of 67. He was absolutely fine for a National League goalie, but in the summer I would have to get a big upgrade. "Sticky's getting back into shape but his problem is he's too good at coaching and he's improving Ben too fast to get in the team himself." Since the summer, Ben had improved by 17 CA points, Sticky 18. Sticky was returning to his past levels, but Ben was getting this good for the first time. "We've got to keep Sticky," I said, shaking my head. "He's unreal."

"If we're playing Wrexham-ball - I mean, direct ball - Sticky might be a better option."

"Let's think about it. But we don't need an immediate upgrade."

"No, okay. Agreed." Sandra pushed her hair back. "So the defence gets pre-industrial for a few weeks. Carl's great. We've got three left backs. I think I'm happy with all that."

"You know," I said, as I checked my squad screens. Carl was leading the race to be the first to go platinum this season, just ahead of Pascal, Aff, Youngster, and Henri. "I sometimes forget how wild our squad is."

"What do you mean? Having three left backs and no cover on the right?"

"Magnus can cover Carl. So can I. And we've got Steve. No, I mean the way we've got so much room for improvement. Other squads have got, like, half their first team already at their ceiling. They've got kids with room to improve who never get minutes so they're stuck. They've got guys like Zach rotting on the bench. We don't have any players regressing and we've only got a few at the limit." Most of the men's squad had experienced double-digit CA growth in the first half of the season. The plan was working. The plan was mint. I turned and scowled at the fans - some had left, some were leaving, but many were hanging around hoping to hear more about our transfers.

"Max," said Sandra, with a hint of a warning. She saw me going to the dark place.

"Right. I'm happy with our improvement. We're getting there." There was still miles to go, however. Our best eleven now had an average CA of 63, but that included Youngster, who I was going to be very careful with in the coming months, and included Magnus as the starting centre back, which was not his destiny. It excluded me. But the raw number, 63, placed us eighteenth in my estimate of the National League's average abilities. Some of the rankings would depend on how teams fared in the transfer window, but the league was as strong as the National League North had been weak. I reckoned adding Fierce would shoot us up to fifteenth and a month later we would smash into the top ten. My tactics and cameos were going to have to do a lot of heavy lifting. On the other hand… "The top teams are going to keep taking points off each other. Grimsby are ten percent weaker. I wonder if they'll lose anyone else? They're using older players way too much... Couple of injuries and they're fucked."

"Midfield," she said, trying to get me back on topic.

I was on topic, though. "All our players, pretty much, will keep improving until the end of the season. There's only one part of the team where we've got two players who are stuck."

"Central defence."

"Christian improves the first eleven massively, and he's got room to grow. And when we added Ryan Jack there was such a buzz around the place. We had two or three weeks of everyone being wowed by the new guy and trying to impress him. Remember when I said about being a long-term planner? Forget that. I'm a win-now manager. Fierce or bust."

"Sold," said Sandra.

"I wish it was that easy," I said. "So I don't have concussion?"

"No, you're quite rational. You could have done with some of that when you got on stage." She pulled at my hoodie toggles. "Not your finest moment, Max. Please talk to me when you're that far off the rails. Please?"

I let my head bounce - could have been an affirmative gesture - and went back onto the stage. Sandra went to MD and spoke to him. Twenty seconds later, he took out his phone and dialled.

***

I was treated to a slight moment of panic - Emma was gone. At least twenty percent of the fans were hardcore Anti-Maxxers, and while she had probably just gone to the bathroom, I wished she had hung around for another few minutes.

Ruth touched me on the arm. "John's with her."

"Oh, fuck. Relief. Wait, in the bathroom?"

"She popped to the shop." Ruth assessed me. "You need to get some sleep."

"I need a lot of things."

"Sleep's one of them."

"Where's Henri? I need to thank him."

"Thank him by getting some sleep."

"That makes no sense."

"Says the boy who tried to dissolve me."

I took a few seconds to check how I felt. Emotionally drained, perhaps, but not massively in need of rest. I'd had a break. Physically I was good. "What I need is a moment of closure. A little ritual. Glass of prosecco to celebrate. Tell my brain that this arc is over."

Ruth looked at the giant screen, now blank. "You've been on the sauce pretty hard, looked like."

I had noticed the same thing. Lots of Sangrias by the pool and empty bottles out on the balcony. "Yep. Last drop until the season's done. I should get some food, too. What time does the kitchen close?"

"You're not staying here tonight?"

"Course I am. I paid for two nights. The plan was to put my best suit on and go out for a nice victory dinner or a defeated all-you-can-eat buffet."

"MD wants you."

"Kay. Talk soon."

I texted Henri.

Me: Remember last season I got a loan striker and made you do all his running and he got the goals and the glory?

Henri: Yes. I do remember.

Me: This year... it's the opposite.

Henri: Heart heart heart.

***

"Max," said MD, with his hand over his phone. Why did old people never use the mute function? "They want three hundred thousand."

I nodded. "Is Bob Horseman on the call?" I expected MD's equivalent to have quickly set up a conf call once he realised MD was serious.

"Yes, but he isn't talking. I'm dealing with the guy at the top."

"Bob's the guy at the top," I said. I held my hand out in the universal gesture for 'giz'. That's Manchester-speak for 'give me'.

"Max," whispered MD. He meant, Max, you can't do a negotiation. You're still in meltdown!

"Giz," I said. MD crunched up his face, but handed the phone over. "Bob, it's Max Best."

Nothing happened. A rando said, "Bob, you're on mute."

"Oh! Hi, Max."

"Bob. Here's the deal. I humiliated myself at the Forum and the fans turned on me and the only way I could save my job was to promise them a big-name signing. Around these parts, that means Christian Fierce, but you and I both know I've got binders full of centre backs. For a hundred grand I could go to League Two and get someone very tasty. But Christian's my first choice and in a minute I'm going to give you our final offer. It's our final offer because if we go five hundred pounds above that number I have to call Mrs. Black and tell her she can't get her crown fixed and I have to call Mr. Law and tell him his son's teeth are going to have to fill themselves. I've got kids here with holes in their head, Bob."

"Holes in their mouth, you mean."

"Their mouths are in their heads, Bob. This isn't a tactic or a gambit. I want a big signing announced now, tonight, and I want Christian doing his medical tomorrow."

"We need him. He's our captain."

"You don't need him. You're not going up, you're not going down. There's loads of the transfer window left. I know you can spend the money properly and strengthen yourselves. Start planning for next season."

"Go on, then. What's the number?"

"One hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds," I said. "MD just fainted. This is the absolute limit. With Christian's wages for two years, that's me wiped out. No joke."

"I see. Hang on." He put me on mute. He came back. "So I'm not going to hear about you signing anyone else?"

"I've got a guy coming in on loan. That's a done deal; mate's rates with TJ at Crawley. And we're close to nabbing some kids - a phrase I am perfectly comfortable with. Other than that, it's one signing. That's a Maxy promise."

I was back on mute. MD, who had not fainted, was going through the calculations in his head. "If you sign him on a three-year deal, Max..."

"We're in the red zone. I know." I glanced down at my phone and got an idea. "But think if we get to the playoff final. That would cover the third year of his wages, wouldn't it?"

MD was no mug. He got the plan. "I don't like it, Max. Sandra told me you've talked about loads of other options. Younger guys, too. Ones with more resale value. Kiddies could buy two Fierces with that money you're offering. It's... it's in the direction of reckless, is all I'm saying."

"Let's just wait and see what they say."

We waited. Whether anyone even heard our performance I couldn't tell you. After a minute, Horseman said, "Max, the price is in the right ballpark, and we do have our eye on a young prospect. But if we throw him straight into the National League he'll get eaten alive. We would buy him and loan him back to his current club to continue his development."

"That sounds fun. I want to do that one day."

"You're welcome to do it with Christian."

"Ah, wait a minute. It doesn't sound fun after all. So let's brainstorm guys you can get in for the rest of the season."

"Glenn Ryder."

I blurted out "Impossible" before I'd even processed what he was saying. Glenn was the weak link in the team but he would be the guy lifting my trophies at the end of the season. True story. "Wait a second. Er, are you recording this?"

"No?"

"I do not consent to this conversation being recorded or broadcast and I reserve my rights. Listen, Steve Alton is as good as Glenn. He's not as showy but he's just as good. I need Glenn for his leadership. You know it's all babies around here."

"Starting with Max," suggested MD, which several people on the other end of the phone found funny.

"Oi, rude," I said. "But if we get Christian, Steve's going to have limited minutes. He'll do a great job for you."

"Fantastic," said Bob. "Throw him in and you've got a deal."

I'd been played! "What do you mean, throw him in? He's fucking mint. I've been training him for years. I'm not just giving him away."

"He means on loan," said MD. He leaned into the phone. His phone. "What percentage of his wages are you offering to pay?"

"Zero percent," said Bob.

I think he was enjoying this. Giving me a low-level rinsing. Not enough to make me angry but enough to tease me forever. I found myself smiling at his cheek. "MD, what's that going to cost us in wages?"

"Ten thousand pounds."

"So I'm paying 185 for Fierce?"

"Effectively."

"Jesus Christ," I said. "Didn't they hear me say about the poor children? Why won't they think of the children?"

Bob was smiling. "Can we get an option to buy?"

They wanted to loan Steve and if he did well, buy him for a fixed price. "You want the option to buy a defender worth fifty grand? Okay, let's discuss how much you're willing to pay for my defender who is worth fifty grand."

"Thirty," said Bob.

I laughed. "That's crazy. You're basically charging me two-oh-five for Christian Fierce." I shook my head, but I looked around the hall to see if Steve was there. I assumed the whole squad had gone to have a few beers somewhere and discuss the craziness. Steve had served the club well but he couldn't come to League Two with us. His PA limit of 53 meant even the National League was a struggle but he could have a good couple of years at Kidderminster. "Fuck it," I said. "I'll pop by in the morning and try to talk him into it. At least you guys will look after him. He's a top bloke. Great guy. Needs regular football."

"Max, I think we have a deal. If you can agree wages with Christian."

"We will." I was going to offer him a fifty percent pay rise and the chance to join the most exciting project since the Human Genome.

"You can mention it on your socials," said Bob. "Deal agreed in principle."

"We'll talk to Christian first and announce it after the medical."This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

"I thought you wanted it fast to prevent a riot or something. Don't you want to let your fans know?"

I glanced to my right, where a few stragglers remained in the hall. "Fine," I said. "I'll tell these fucks and they can pass it on. We'll do the formal announcement when there's something to announce. Is that okay for you?"

"Yes."

"Bosh."

MD got a panicky look about him. "Not bosh! We need to talk payment terms and dates. The small print. Fine tuning the deal."

"Bob, I'm putting MD back on the line."

"Me too," he laughed.

It was smiles all round. Secretary Joe. Vimsy. Even MD was excited. I turned to the fans in the aisle and gave them a Maxy Two-thumbs. They cheered, tapped away at their phones, and fucked off home.

I called TJ to tell him I wanted his striker but batted away his questions about the Forum. "I'll tell you soon," I said, before clicking off. I yawned. Maybe I was tired after all, but there was one last thing to do before retreating to my room.

***

Brooke was talking to Beth. "Is this on the record?" I said, barging in.

"It could be," said Beth. "What do you want to say?"

"One, thanks for your help. Two, don't buy the Mail. Three, say goodbye to Brooke. I need a private chat."

I urged Brooke away from Beth, away from everyone else. Wherever we went, there were people. We went into the corridor. People. The bar, people. The car park, people.

"We could go to my room," said Brooke, thinking practically but perhaps overlooking one or two implications. I grinned. She looked away - anyone else would have collapsed into a ball of cringe. It answered my question about why she was able to burst into the hall like I had. She was staying at the hotel and had been watching the stream on her phone, same as me.

"This way," I said. "There's a little nook near the meeting rooms. There's never anyone there. Almost never."

We got to the space and Brooke sat in the exact same seat her dad had chosen on the day I had come to this hotel to cancel Pascal's contract. The same exact seat. How does that happen? I waited for twenty seconds but the corridor was absolutely deserted. "Brooke in the nook," I said, but instantly wished I hadn't. I grabbed a chair and moved it close to hers so I could speak at almost zero volume. "Are you recording this conversation?"

"No."

"I do not consent."

"Understood."

I leaned forward, elbows on my thighs, rubbing my hands. "That was intense, wasn't it?"

"Sure was."

"I didn't realise how much it had got under my skin until I saw it on screen. And how much it had got under yours."

"Nothing my balancing gel can't handle."

"Right," I said, not knowing if she was describing a real thing. "What would you say if your boss ordered you to take a vacation?"

"I'd say have you met Sebastian Weaver, my lawyer? He's here to rinse you for your inappropriate workplace behaviour."

"Funny, he's my lawyer, too, and he'd say inviting your boss to your hotel room was the same exact level of badness."

She smiled, but rubbed her eyebrow three times quickly. Worrying about overstepping the mark, maybe. "I'll take a vacation if you talk to a therapist."

I sighed. "I'll talk to a therapist if you hire one."

"Didn't you just spend all our money?"

"Next season."

"What about the next six months?"

"I have a goal. A target. No time to think about anything except the next game. We have to fulfil all our fixtures, squeeze them in so we're ready for the thrilling last day of the season. If I have to keep pushing forward, everything's all right."

"Everything isn't all right."

I formed my hands into the prayer sign and pushed my fingertips against my lips. "I know. That's what we need to talk about."

"Oh."

"First, though. Christian Fierce. I want the city plastered with photos of him looking menacing and it's just the word Fierce."

"What happened to always having three players in our marketing?"

"That starts next season. For now - Fierce."

"And when do I take my vacation? Before or after I set up a photoshoot and a citywide poster campaign?"

"After. Obvs."

She smiled. Her gaze drifted around the nook until she was looking back the way we had come. "You did it."

I squirmed around. "That's what I wanted to say. I mean, I messed up. I didn't realise how much you were suffering. I wanted to get these fucking idiots in the mood to hear the changes I want to make. But I messed up. I should have crashed this takeover and waited for the next one to go full Max. Not the one with your dad. I'm sorry about that."

Brooke looked into my eyes. "I don't think you messed up. It was chaotic and it wasn't how you imagined it but it worked. Ryan told me what's wrong with Sharky. There's a lot of wingers like him, Ryan said. They get the ball, run, and don't know what to do. But if they don't know what they are going to do, neither do the defenders. I think if you'd gone at daddy conventionally he'd have won. I told you he would come at you in twenty different ways and he did. Some you don't even know about. But you played dead and you swept the rug from under him at the last second. You couldn't have done it different and won."

I thought about it. Her words made me feel better, but only a little. I was pretty sure I could have mashed him up in a popularity contest. With a ball at my feet I could make the mob dance to my tune. On the other hand, there hadn't been many matches in the run-up to the Forum. "Okay let's say you're right. I still fucked up when it came to the fans. MD bailed me out. I might not be the Machiavellian genius I'd like to be. So... I need help."

"Therapist incoming."

I smiled. "I need political help. Are you staying?"

"You're worried I'm going to hop on the nearest superyacht?"

"I am worried, yes."

"Do you want me to stay?"

"I need you. It's like Donnie Wormwood said on the screen - what good's money if you don't know how to spend it? I can earn the money for the stadium and the training ground and put together a killer team for whatever division I'm in. But what else? Who's going to spend the rest in a way that lifts this city up? When this flywheel gets going there will be millions sloshing around. Tens of millions. I need you to build structures. Work on my latest brainchild for six months to get it to the point all we need to do is chuck cash at it once a year. I don't need a promise. I just need to know you want to be here."

"I want to be here."

Another surge of relief. One of the biggest of the nights. I didn't try to hide it. "Too many fans are stupid and unreliable. We can't let them undo what we're doing. Did you ever do any gardening?"

"What do you think?"

"I've done some. Ruth and Henri and the others keep warning me about slugs. They eat everything you plant. It is annoying but slugs are people, too. I don't mind it all that much. It's like the marten in my roof. What's it supposed to do? But I've got a spot lined up for a feature plant. Something awesome, right? A centrepiece. And I'm going to defend it like anything. Barriers, copper tape, all the things. And poison pills. It'll be like a minefield around that plant. Just slugs exploding everywhere and I'll have no remorse. There's a whole planet of other stuff you can eat. Leave my feature rose alone."

"This rose. Is it blue and white?"

"It might be. I want poison pills added to everything we do. Every player, every sponsor, everything to do with the stadium and the bank accounts. Anyone who tries to buy this club is going to see a trail of slug pellets everywhere they look."

"The people who buy sports teams don't realise they are slugs."

I rocked my head back and laughed. "That's the funniest thing you've ever said."

"I wasn't joking."

I laughed some more. "Seriously, though. I want poison, I want traps. I want spike pits, flamethrowers, giant balls that crush you. I want one guy to go into our kitchen and think 'gosh it's very quiet in here' and he opens a cupboard and a fucking velociraptor leaps out and eats his face."

Now she laughed. "I'll ask Zach where I can source a raptor."

I tilted my head. "Uh-huh."

"What?" she said, and I wondered if I was imagining a slight darkening of the cheeks.

I leaned back. "Okay but I need bigger things, too. Like, I need to get the fans to vote away some of their powers."

"Like what?"

"Like the stadium. They don't get to own it."

"Who owns it, then?"

"Er, they own it until they sell the club and then they don't own it anymore. Then it owns itself. The women can use it. The Cheshire FA can use it. Grassroots football clubs can use it. Whatever."

"That sounds like a hard sell."

"We need a moat between a potential buyer and the stadium and we need the fans to agree."

"It won't be as hard as you think, unless you ask too much." Brooke crossed one leg over the other. "You want the fans to say yes to three years where they can't sell? No problem. You link it to a big splash in the transfer window."

"Explain that."

"It's a year from now. We're coming up to the Fans Forum. We tell them we've got a new sponsorship deal but it's a company that cares about Corporate Social Responsibility. They'll give us a million pounds and you're keen to spend it on players. But the firm will only go ahead if the club remains fan-owned. So we ask for a three-year commitment. We get three years with no takeovers, the fans get a new player."

"Fucking genius!"

"No, Max. The genius part is that we write a three-year rolling agreement. At the start of every season it's always three years ahead. Someone would have to set up a new vote to stop it being pushed back."

"Yes, that's amazing. That's what I need. I need this." I got up and walked around. My head hurt from the explosion of new ideas. I rushed back. "Can we do that with everything I'm worried about?"

"What are you worried about?"

I opened my mouth to unleash a torrent of words, but she was tired. It could wait. "We'll work it out. We'll work it out together."

Brooke nodded and hid a yawn behind her hand. "Okay but Max, you told me this winter was the last time the club would be in danger. You stopped the bomb from detonating. Why are you still so worried?"

"This might be the last time the fans would be so desperate to get new money in, although seeing how hard they salivated I'm not so sure. If I keep putting the poison pill clauses into new contracts, it might be enough to defend against asset strippers. But Brooke, there's another kind of bad owner than one who wants to take money out."

"What's that?"

"One who wants to put money in. Every billionaire and dictator around the world wants to own a Premier League team but there are only twenty and most aren't for sale. Plus it'll set you back a couple of bill even for Crystal Palace. Like, Crystal Palace? Couple of billion? I need to think about that one! But what if you bought a Championship team, stuck a hundred million in, and they got promoted? Okay but there are twenty guys trying that. What about League One? Okay but there are twenty guys trying that. Now here comes Chester storming up the leagues and their fans are thick as pigshit." I paused. "Are you recording this?"

"No," she said, amused.

"The closer we get to the Premier League, the more we're a target, right? What happens is, only three teams go to the Prem every year and it's normally the same ones who came down. The rest of these idiot owners realise it's never going to happen for them and they've wasted their money. They get bored. They stop writing cheques for half a million a week. Suddenly you realise that your local, regional football club is spending three hundred pounds on wages for every hundred it earns and will be doing so for the next three years. Do you get me? Those clubs are mincemeat unless you can find another sucker to hold the bag. Or, and this sometimes happens: the guy putting twenty million a year into a club... dies. And that's that. You can't believe how many clubs are one heart attack away from dying themselves. All owners are bad owners. That's what we need to think."

"Don't you own two football clubs?"

I smirked. "I won't die, though. That's the difference. Come on, let's go back." I helped her up. We walked down the corridor, side by side. "I feel sorry for you."

"Why?"

"You wanted to join a little company. Cute little sports franchise. Do some good in the world." I shook my head. "Next thing you know, you're doing corporate shenanigans and power grabs to take power from the people to give it to the people. Strange kind of Robin Hood stuff. Steal from the poor to give to the poor so that I can rinse Real Madrid and Chelsea for years to come."

She scoffed through a smile. "You're out of control, you know that?"

We turned the corner and quietened - there were people ahead through some fire doors. "Hang on," I said. I poked my head into the hall but everyone was gone. No Emma. No backpack. Emma was probably up in the room. I joined Brooke by the lifts. "Which floor are you on?"

"Third," she said, pressing the button.

"Huh. That's where I'm going."

"Is it?" she said, somehow rolling her eyes without moving them.

"I don't know. Is it?"

I was only teasing; the tiredness had made us silly. We looked at ourselves in the mirror. It showed a strange world where a poor boy from Manchester and a rich girl from Texas were allied against the girl's father. The door pinged. Third floor. "Come on, then." She turned left. I followed along the corridor, enjoying the view. She beeped her door open and I waited just outside. She didn't actually think...? I heard weird noises from inside. Zips. What was she doing? For the first time I started to wonder what exactly...

Brooke reappeared, fully dressed, and handed me two huge wads of cash. The surprise almost rendered me speechless. "Gosh, thanks," I managed. "I knew you were loaded."

"I'm comfortable. This is for your BoshCard advert. I thought you might have some fun with it."

"Oh!" I said, bringing the wad up for a closer inspection. It sort of looked like money if you didn't pay too much attention, but it was clearly fake. "TV money. I've heard of this."

"Right. It's quite important you don't lose any. We could get into trouble."

"We could get into trouble," I repeated, looking into her eyes.

"Yes. We could get into all sorts of trouble." That was the last of the silly giggles. Changing the vibe totally, she tapped the cash. "For example, the production company refusing to lend us props in future. Have fun, don't lose it, bring it to the shoot."

I nodded. Brooke had got me an improved offer from BoshCard - I would get enough extra cash to upgrade four long-distance flights to first class. "The players got a pay rise. You get a pay rise.” I did an awesome impression of her voice. “I spent a lot of money on horses, balancing gel, and honky tonks. The rest I squandered." She looked at me even more blankly than ever. I explained. "It's a George Best quote. The other good one is when this guy found Miss World in his bedroom - "

Brooke didn't want to hear the anecdote that her father had loved. "When do I get my raise?"

"Next season."

"I'm so glad we think in seasons. I'd hate to get it, for example, right away."

"You don't always get what you want," I said.

"That's right, Max. You don't." She closed the door.

Bosh. Great line. But it didn't feel right that she couldn't go out in case her dad was there. Didn't feel right she would close the door and be alone with her thoughts while everyone else from Chester was out having parties. I knocked and she opened it just a crack. "Do you want to hang out? Me, you, Ems. Henri and Luisa will be nearby. We can see who's around."

She opened the door wider. "I think I'm set, thanks."

I nodded. "We're just down the hall if you change your mind." I stepped away. "You're one of us, you know."

Brooke nodded - I think - and watched me walk off. I heard the door close and found myself staring at the lift. "Er," I said, and checked my room card. Yeah, three-four-three. I kept walking. Buy three-four-three or save for Relationism? What about upgrading Playdar in time for the Brazil trip? My stomach growled. "Soon, boy, soon."

***

Fifteen minutes later there was a respectful knock on the door. I opened it and an older gentleman said, "Mr. Best?"

"Yes," I said.

"Your tuna melt and your champagne." The guy was wearing a hotel uniform plus a small, round, Chester FC pin that looked almost as old as him. It was awesome - I wanted one.

"Great. Er..." I looked down at my hand. I was holding a razor. Caught mid-shave. How was I supposed to carry a tray when I was already carrying something?

The guy saw I wasn't able to make good decisions. "I can set it down in the room, if you'd like."

"Yeah, top. Top."

I stepped back into the bathroom so he could get past me. He eased the two laptops aside and placed the tray on the table. I came up beside him and watched as he scanned the room.

The first laptop was mine - the entire screen was taken up by a Mail Online headline. It read: BEST WINS STAR WARS. Emma's laptop had different social media tabs open. One was a gif of a guy with my face superimposed on his - he was throwing cash around. The text read BUY ME THE LEAGUE.

The hotel worker's gaze drifted to the floor. It was covered in fake money that I had thrown up to amuse Emma.

His eyes went up to the bed - how had it taken so long? Half my world was there in a bathrobe, fast asleep near the bottom of the bed, blonde hair sexily spread out. She was clutching a miniature bottle of prosecco and judging by the empties on the table, she had polished off its brothers and a mini white wine to boot. The surface of the bed was strewn with empty Snickers and Mars bar wrappers.

The hotel guy shook his head. "Mr. Best," he said. "Where did it all go wrong?"

***

End of Book Numbers

XP balance: 5,979

National League Table (Men)

P

W

D

L

F

A

GD

Pts

Grimsby

Barnet

Chester