7.3 - Return of the King [T3] (Patreon)

3.

Wednesday, October 4

Bumpers Bank was busier than one of Man City's lawyers; it was more bustling than the leading lady in a Regency drama. (This joke is so clever it barely works, but I'm keeping it.)

The Fans Forum was being held in the Get Fed and Wed Shed. Facing the stage, with its seemingly haphazard array of lights, wires, and pipes, were hundreds of Chester members, neatly lined in rows. These fans were the lucky ones, the ones who had been picked in the 'ticket lottery'.

Downstairs, scores of fans without tickets (who had arrived on the off chance they would be allowed in) were milling around the canteen and bar, brushing shoulders with dozens of amateur footballers who were waiting to play on our rental pitches.

From a second-floor window I saw six pros coming from the gym.

I peeked through the curtain into the main room and spotted three journalists. They had been placed all the way at the back, as far away from the stage as poss.

I texted the event co-ordinator that I was about to start.

The board is set; the pieces are moving.

***

There was a buzz, a happy murmur, which dimmed then sparked into fiery applause as I appeared on the main stage.

I held up a hand. My upper body filled the big screens. My hoodie spoke of a passion for social justice; my haircut spoke of fast cars and glitzy ballrooms; my sombre, unsmiling expression spoke of bad tidings.

On the stage to my left sat Brooke Star (our financial wizard, freshly tanned from her jaunt back home to watch Zach play for his country), Secretary Joe (the paperwork bro), MD (my boss), and Sandra Lane (also my boss, when I was wearing my 'player' hat).

"Thanks," I said, acknowledging the crowd's applause in a flat tone. "Hi. Um, yeah."

The evening's fizz was turning flat. In football, the higher the hope, the bigger the disappointment. So it must ever be.

For Chester fans, the day had been strange.

First I had appeared in South Wales, playing golf with a billionaire who owned a rival football team. What was a Chester fan supposed to make of that? Did this b-bro want to offer me a job? The presence of an employee from the Premier League hinted that this was no innocent round of golf... 

Then came the flurry of statements from Premier League clubs restating their enthusiasm for the Refereeing Standards Project. So from a Chester fan's point of view, that had to be good news, right? I was fighting the good fight. Right?

But I had not released a statement, nor had Chester FC itself, save to assure fans and the media that 'Any and all communication will take place at tonight's Fans Forum. No tickets are available, no further communication will be forthcoming.'

That had gone down like a lead balloon, but then my name had been read out as part of the starting eleven for Chester FC against Sandbach United, a tier ten side whose stadium consisted of a pair of 50-person stands. It would have been fun to play at their ground, just for the novelty, but luckily for the scheduling the match had been played at the Deva.

I had played left wing, and had mostly strolled around, helping our youthful team get ahead and stay ahead. 2,000-odd fans got to see me, but more importantly it was their first proper look at two of our summer signings: the million-pound defender Des Walker, nabbed from Celtic, and the four-million pound striker Errol Obikwu, prised from Sheffield United.

"Yeah," I said again, and the air in the huge room grew chillier. I fidgeted with the dangling toggles of my hoodie. "I hoped to have some good news for you tonight."

I scrunched up my face and looked at MD. His head dropped slightly. Brooke rubbed his back.

A ribbon of fans were leaning against the wall at the sides of the room. There must have been twenty in all, which meant there were twenty Chester insiders in attendance, displacing the real fans. Secretary Joe would have turned away ticketless fans, otherwise there would have been chaos, but he couldn't say no to our players or coaches.

Just as I thought - there were players everywhere! Wibbers and Sarah Greene. Youngster and Meghan. I spotted Haley Goodhew and Macca Serra, who were turning into great friends. I nearly smiled, but it wasn't the right time. Sackcloth and ashes was the order of the day.

I pointed to the ribbons. "Guys, soz, but you can't stand there. It's a fire hazard. We need the left and the centre and the right all nice and clear. You know how everything's going these days. The powers-that-be are not happy with Chester FC. Would it surprise you if there was a Liverpool fan in here right now texting the police? Trying to get the whole training ground shut down? Nah, I can't have that. They can't beat us on the pitch, so... Soz but can you stand at the back? We've got the big screens so you'll be able to see and hear. Not that there's much to say," I added, glumly.

The guys weren't happy, but they did what I asked.

They slunk away from the aisles. My petty adherence to the rules, plus the bitter way I spoke about Liverpool, really sunk in. I had successfully brought the mood down even further. I caught one woman turn to her friend and mouth, 'What the hell is going on?!'

I said, "Um... I'm lost for words, almost. It has been a really strange time. I wanted a glittering career. I wanted to pave the streets of Chester with gold. The winter frosts are coming; our fires have died." I sought some familiar faces in the massive crowd, and found a few, especially in the front row, which comprised coaches, senior players, and Boggy, the voice of Chester FC. "Died and turned to ash and shadow. I was forging Chester FC into a sword that I could use to smite my enemies, the enemies of football, but that sword shattered. Shattered into minus three pieces." I swallowed. "I know that most of you were hoping that tonight I would announce..."

I stopped, but it wasn't only from the melancholy of the moment, but because I was hearing strange noises.

Was that... drums? The beats were coming quickly, like a military march.

Dum-dumdumdum-dum-DUM-dummdumm.

Dum-dumdumdum-dum-DUM-dummdumm.

Silence descended like bleak fog.

"Yeah, so as I was saying..."

FWAAAAHHHH!!!!

A horn!

What!

Every door in the venue burst open, and out into the Fans Forum rushed all sorts of creatures, claiming the left, right, and centre aisles as their domain. Human drummers in orderly sets; beaming hobbits with big, hairy feet; stern warriors, willowy elves, heroic knights (using halved coconuts for horses). Three massive trees shuffled along, one per aisle.

I stared in open-mouthed astonishment as the drums sped up, punctuated by an orc with a cymbal, for some reason.

DUM-dumdumdum-DUM-DUM-dummdumm-CRASH!

DUM-dumdumdum-DUM-DUM-dummdumm-CRASH!

Four sexy elves pirouetted onto the stage and danced around me. One pulled me to the left. One tugged me to the right. Two behind me stripped off my shit hoodie to reveal a clean blue-and-white Chester FC kit.

I joined in the dance routine, pointing left, gripping right, sliding back, stomping forward.

In the front row, Peter Bauer's eyes were popping out, while Pascal was standing on the half-turn, vainly trying to watch the entire show at once.

FWAAAAHHHH!!!!

All the newcomers stopped moving, except for a couple of the elven dancers, who stepped back to allow me to prowl at the front of the stage. I had the microphone gripped tight, had to struggle to loosen my jaw enough to speak.

As images flooded the screens - of me on the touchline for Wales, of me exploring Helsinki - I growled, "All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost."

The images changed to me in Chester's hospitals, holding hands with sick fans; me watching the stadium rise. I said, "The old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not reached by the frost."

Me leaving the pitch at Anfield, then sweeping my hand across the grass of the new pitches at Bumpers Bank before looking up at the new floodlights that were beaming down on the pitch. "From the ashes a fire shall be woken, a light from the shadows shall spring."

A sword in three pieces, me quitting live on TV. By now I was in full prowl, full Max, full majesty. I yelled, "Renewed shall be the blade that was broken! The crownless again shall be king!"

While the screens showed pictures of power and glory, a sexy elf placed a tiara on my head. Another took the microphone while a third offered me a plastic Minecraft sword.

I lifted it aloft; the choir hummed, the drummers drummed.

The microphone was held in front of my mouth. I yelled, "I hereby apply for the position of Sandra Lane's co-manager!"

***

While the actors and drummers shuffled out, and while the Chester fans and employees laughed and talked to each other, Boggy came up onto the stage and settled onto a chair next to me.

"Max," he said, which caused the audience to settle. Boggy looked like he always did, with his shirt and jumper combo, messy hair, his permanent air of pessimism. The Voice of Chester was only ever truly happy in the ten seconds after his team scored a goal, and there had been precious few of those this season, this evening excepted. "I'm going to go off-script, if you don't mind. Question one, what was that?"

"It's presumptuous I know, but I'm doing a Return of the King theme."

"Oh, I see. Elves and soldiers and so on. But the trees?"

"They're ents. Walking trees, basically. Sometimes they do riddles, I think. Er, that's why I had to clear the aisles, by the way, in case people are still grumpy about that. The ents can't see much from inside their costume."

"And the sword?"

"It's from the Minecraft game. We're going to take questions from the audience later, right? Best question gets the sword."

"What about the tiara?"

I put my hand on my head, protectively. "I need that." About half the fans laughed. I said, "Listen, I'm only the king if the people in this room want me to be king, but the Wrexham fans will laugh at us if you don't give me the job, so I feel good about my chances. Although, yeah, if it doesn't happen, this is going to be the clip that follows me around for the rest of my career."

Boggy laughed. "There's so much to get into." He shuffled his notes. "Your statement, audience questions, then you're proposing a public vote about whether we want you to return to your post."

I nodded. "We did this once before, didn't we, and I was quite immature about it. I was insisting on getting a two-thirds majority, if I remember right. Well, I'm much more of a grown-up these days so this time I want 102% of the vote. Vote twice. Cheat. Let's go full North Korea on this one. Everyone, please look under your chairs. You should find two stick things. One's red, one's green. For the colour blind, the red ones have a cross on them, the green have a tick.

"Every fifteen minutes, Secretary Joe is going to ask you to vote on whether I should be allowed back. To vote yes, hold up the green ticks." Almost everyone did just that. I laughed. "No! You have to start out 5% green, 95% red so I can win you over through the course of the next hour." A few of the reds turned to green.

Boggy said, "That looks close to 102%, Max. A social media poll conducted by Deva Station suggested 94% support for your return. Personally, I think a lot of the votes against were from Wrexham fans. Holding a proper vote would be a waste of paper. Secretary Joe, what do you think?"

SecJoe gave Boggy a thumbs up. I tilted my head back. "But now all the tension is gone from the sceeeeeene!"

Boggy said, "Tension? We've had quite enough of that."

Someone stood and yelled, "Max Best's blue-and-white army!" Soon almost the entire audience was chanting it.

Instead of dumbly letting the acclaim of the masses smash into me, I persuaded Sandra to stand by my side, giving her a shake when the chant dissolved into applause.

The big screens turned black, save for a misty fog effect. Something appeared, facing away from us, and as the view zoomed forward, the shape got bigger. Through the mist there was the silhouette of a magnificent haircut, the ghost of a cheeky grin, and perhaps some of the shadows formed the words BEST 77.

Three words slammed into the foreground: GUESS WHOSE BACK!

"Wow," I said, because the graphic was a surprise to me. "But there's a typo. Ah, no, wait, I get it. Who made this? I love it." This triggered another burst of applause. I turned to MD. "So... can I have my job back?"

MD and SecJoe rushed forward with some papers. A contract on the same terms as I had before.

While I signed, Sandra took the mic from me and said, "Yes you can. Ladies and gentlemen, I'm very happy with my new assistant. I mean, co-manager. Things have been going far too smoothly around here and what we need is a healthy injection of chaos. Welcome to my team, Max."

This earned laughter, and enormous applause. With a wry smile, I let SecJoe rush out with the contract - probably going to send something to the FA - and I retook the mic. "I'm not a chaos agent, I'm lawful neutral. I took an online test and everything. Right, Boggy, let's get back on track."

Sandra retook her seat; so did I. Boggy waited, then said, "Welcome back, Max. Before we hear your statement, I'd like to ask about the Cheshire Cup. When the team sheets dropped and your name was there, I couldn't believe it. I wondered if it was a stunt but you played left wing for 90 minutes."

"Pascal's gonna freak out if I don't pick you up on that. I played left wing for 70 minutes and moved to left back to take care of Luke Evans when he came on at left wing."

"I stand corrected. Why have you returned for this match?"

"Why not? We need to win this competition. Pascal managing, Sticky starting, Magnus starting, me playing ninety, what better sign that the match is serious? I'm not a top coach but if I'm on the pitch I can give instant feedback and just generally make sure the young players are on track. Someone like Charlie Cullen isn't fazed by playing men's football - he played in the Champions League this season - but we have other guys who have much less experience. I don't mind throwing kids in at the deep end, because giving them six or seven minutes in the Prem can make them go whoa, what's this?

"But you also want them to have positive experiences where they're on the better team, where they play good football, where they win. That's what they will be doing for most of their careers at Chester - winning."

That got a crackle of applause, which was unexpected. Quite a few people held up the green sticks, which drew laughter.

Boggy said, "We won all right. 6-0, though I had the feeling you could have doubled that on your own had you been so inclined. Des Walker looked good, and Errol Obikwu was a real handful."

"Yeah, they're quality, I really like them. The attention will be on Errol because we paid a big fee for him and he scored a first half hattrick, but he won't always be in a team with Gandalf the Great playing left wing, dropping the ball onto the striker's shoelaces, curling it slap bang into the middle of his forehead. Of course Errol scoring bucketloads is good but at this point in his development I'm looking at his processes and what I saw was him making good runs, being positive, trying to execute the things he's been learning in training. Des Walker's the dream professional, hard-working and diligent.

"I'm actually getting really excited by this year's crop. Last year's under eighteens were amazing, but there's a chance this lot could be even better. We have to keep trying to give them first-team minutes where possible because by the time of the Youth Cup final we could go full Return of the King, by which I mean winning every Academy Award for which we're nominated. Eleven players, eleven Oscars. Boom! Let's go, Chester!" More applause. "In the alternate reality of my imagination, I'm up to about 40% approval by this point."

Boggy smiled. "Max, before you get us too hyped, you need to make your statement. The good people of the press are waiting."

"The good people of the press? Where are they? I only see a bunch of... Er, better not finish that sentence." This got laughter, even from Beth and the shabbily-dressed walking cliches next to her. "Okay, here's my statement about the refereeing conspiracy. Can you zoom in on my eyes so that you can see that I'm blinking in Morse Code? I'm blinking the phrase, 'If you don't think I'm speaking of my own free will, stop eating crayons'. Why are people laughing? Everyone in this room has nibbled on a crayon at least once in their lives.

"So," I said, with a big sigh. "Let's address the elephant in the room." I looked down, trying to get sombre again. I looked up suddenly. "Hey! Where's the elephant? They remembered the walking trees but forgot the most important thing. What the... Just so everyone knows, from May to September you can help wash an elephant at Chester Zoo, and apparently it's pretty magical. Great gift, over 18s only, conditions apply. Use the offer code LiverpoolFC to activate a 10% surcharge. Ah, that's not real. Don't tell Chester Zoo I said that. They'll say Liverpool fans are welcome, too.

"Okay, here we go. Since the Liverpool match I have been having a lot of conversations with a lot of people, I've had meetings at all levels, and I've gone deep into the issue. People who shouldn't have talked to me have spilled the beans, told me what's really up. I've seen the issue from all angles. I can conclusively state there is no conspiracy against Chester or anyone.

"There was one actual villain - the appalling Liza Mason - and lots of incredibly poor refereeing, but I'm satisfied that it doesn't go beyond that. I've used this mess to try to push the Premier League and PGMOL to raise standards, and I'm optimistic that we can move on and I hope we can concentrate on playing football. I still want to push the refs because there are some quick wins we can get, some simple ways to make the game better.

"One project that we will fund is a referee academy here at Bumpers Bank. We'll put on courses for kids and teenagers to give them a taste of what it's like being the man in the middle. The courses will be fun, so even if you don't have any intention of becoming a ref you would still like it. All our young players will take part so they know how hard it is to be a ref. God, there's so much we could do with it! I keep having visions of drills where you've got to stand in the right place from a corner so you can see which Arsenal player is doing two fouls simultaneously, or you're in the middle of a rondo and you have to keep an eye on the action without getting in the way and if you do, a holographic Pep Guardiola yells at you.

"Oh, and you'll get to use that vanishing spray refs use. Count your steps, spray the spray, and the computer will say how close you got to the full ten yards. Come on! Don't tell me you never wanted to use that spray. Oh! And when we've built our VR room we'll have a component where you're reffing at Wembley in the World Cup final and there's an incident and you've got to decide what to do. Seriously, it's going to be absolutely awesome. I wish I was eleven years old!

"Okay, I got really sidetracked there. Before I mark the Mason scandal as fully closed, there are a couple of things I want to say. Wolves should have won the Championship title, but Ipswich Town didn't do anything wrong. How do you reconcile those facts? I have no clue. Do I want to replay the Liverpool match? I'd rather never step foot in Anfield ever again. Final point, the victims. Everyone in this room has experienced a lot of stress. We will get over it, but there are two people whose careers have taken a major hit and it's totally undeserved.

"The first is Billy Brinsworth, the former head of PGMOL. Okay, he could have done some parts of his job better, but overall he was excellent, hard-working, and really cared. It's awful that one of his team has killed his career. We needed a clean break from the old era but I hope he can return to the game as a referee trainer because he's actually elite at that.

"The second is the linesman who gave the corner to Liverpool, the incident that sent my head to Mars. I think you can all imagine the blind fury I was experiencing in that moment, but there was a cold-hearted glee to it, too, like ha! I've got you now, you conspirators! It's all coming out in the open!

"But if it had been a player on either team, I'd have known that the guy was struggling. We don't know if it was a concussion or a high fever or what, and we don't need to know, but he's normally a solid part of a refereeing crew and it was his bad luck that I turned his illness into a worldwide drama. It's the only thing I really regret from the whole incident, to be honest. It didn't occur to me for a second that the guy needed medical help.

"My first thought should have been to get Physio Dean to do a concussion protocol on him. I want refs to look after the wellbeing of my players but that goes both ways, right? If a ref pulls a hamstring at the Deva, we'll give him the same treatment as a player, so it's worrying on a personal level that I missed a head injury or what would have been an obvious fever.

"Yeah, I should have done better with that. It's done now and I hope he doesn't hold too much ill-feeling towards me about it, and if he's ever the linesman in one of our games I'll shake his hand and wish him luck." I smiled slightly. "Then I'll ask him how many fingers I'm holding up. Just to check, you know. Haha, but seriously, Liza Mason doesn't get to wreck that guy's career. Okay, Bosh. That's all done and dusted."

FWAAAAHHHH!!!!

The doors flew open, and into the room marched a dozen dwarves, wearing plastic helmets and armour and fake beards. The dwarves were being played by a mixed batch of our under twelves.

I put my hands on my head. "Guys! You're late! You missed it."

They went, "Awww."

I shrugged. "Food's downstairs. Fit for a hobbit."

Jordan Holland, an 11-year-old Chesterborn DM with PA 129 yelled, "You have my axe!"

"No, Jordan, mate. The scene's over."

He pulled his beard off. "Max! You have my axe!"

I stood and pulled a plastic weapon from the back of my chair. "So I do. Here you go." He came to get it and scurried off. "This is going great," I said, sitting back. I looked to Brooke for approval, and she indicated that she was 102% enjoying the show.

Boggy waited for the dwarves to clear out, then got into journalism mode. "Max, if you don't mind me saying it, you seem very relaxed. Is that the effect golf has on you?"

"Golf," I snorted. "That was a four-hour walk. It's lovely down there, Boggy. Lush, verdant, fecund, all sorts of words that sound naughty but aren't. Everyone thinks Lord of the Rings was set in New Zealand but apparently the movies are based on a series of books and those books predate the discovery of the global south. I would bet Hobbiton was actually based on Wales."

"You seemed to be friendly with the owner of Wolves."

"He's a friendly guy! I have to say, I liked him. He's rich but he's not a dick. He's interested in other people, treats his staff well, treats normos well. I told him it was my job to crush Wolves, to grind them into dust, into powder, into molecules, into constituent atoms - he went, yes yes I get the message - but I assured him I would try my best to feel bad about it."

"So if you are reinstated as Chester manager, would we have to worry about you moving to Wolves? Do we need to tie you down on a long-term contract?"

"I'm a completely normal human being in every way - "

"You're still wearing a Disney princess tiara."

"In almost every way," I said, removing the crown. "Which means, like everyone in this room, I daydream about what other jobs I might do. There's a game scenario you can play on Soccer Supremo - they added it at my request - which is called the Stoke Hypothesis. Stoke are owned by Britain's richest family but they are hampered by spending rules, so the scenario is, what if you unlocked that spending power? You could go absolutely crazy and turn Stoke into a proper European powerhouse. You need to be clever but you have a huge advantage and that's fun.

"I could imagine asking the Supremo guys to put in a Wolves Wonderland scenario where you've got a genuine sleeping giant, vast resources, and a billionaire owner who will largely get out of your way. But would I play that scenario in real life?" I grinned. "Probably not. Would they let me dress our under twelves as dwarves just to get a laugh out of Brooke?

"Boggy, listen. At these forums I often compare me and Chester to a couple in a difficult relationship. In that analogy, I heard that you weren't getting a fair crack in your job because your line manager hates me, so I walked out hoping that would make things better. Very noble of me, but we've been together for six years and I didn't want to think about living with anyone else. I just wanted you back but in that break, I had a dalliance. I mean, nothing happened. Nothing happened... four times. High five! Boggy, high five me at once. Boggy!"

He kept his free hand on his lap. "How's this going to work? You'll be the manager of Chester and Wales? If there's a conflict, which will take priority?"

"I don't know why you worry about all these details, Boggy. We've got elite managers in both cases. Sandra here, Well In there. I'm reading this book about football managers and they always think that as soon as they step out the door, the entire club will fall apart. Well, that doesn't happen, does it? People get on with it. But I've also been setting things up so that when I leave, this place keeps getting better and better. 

"I have to say, I enjoyed being Wales manager. It's a harmonious dressing room, like Chester at our best. When I was growing up, the England players were always beefing with each other. The United lot didn't talk to the Arsenal mob and the Chelsea didn't talk to the Spurs and no-one talked to Liverpool, obvs, and you can't win like that. With Wales, there's none of that, or almost none. And I think because I'm an outsider the lads aren't wondering, hmm, what's his agenda? Because they know I don't have one. I'm just picking teams to win. If my starting eleven were all born in Swansea or Cardiff or the other one, I mean, okay, is that a problem? I would be the last person who noticed.

"I enjoyed it a lot and I think it's good for my development as a manager. Am I going to continue? Well, there's a World Cup taking place in Europe in two years, so that's quite appealing."

"You want to take Wales to the 2030 World Cup?"

"I want to win it."

This drew scattered applause. 

Boggy said, "I wish you were that confident about Chester."

I stood and prowled around. "I'm more confident about Chester than ever. I thought we might get 20 points this season. We'll get way more than that. But I'm starting to put together five-year plans, ten-year plans. I want to rebuild the Main Stand, starting five seconds after this meeting finishes." Brooke and MD sat up straighter. "That's right. If we go down this season, we'll come straight back up so no more thinking about it - we need the stadium complete.

"20,000 basic capacity with the potential to fill in the corners. The Main Stand will be big. The same height as the others, but expanding outwards to take in the new club museum, offices, facilities, a huge new Blues Bar, bigger Legends Lounge, the VR experience, all kinds of amazing things."

"How much will that cost?"

"As much as the other three sides combined."

Boggy gulped. "How will we fund that?"

"Easy," I said. "We'll sell me to the women's team, who will loan me back to the men's team. Call it a 40 million pound transfer fee, and we'll take the IOU to Macquarie, the Australian bank run by actual vampires, and they will redeem the payment up front for 90 snakes on the dollar. Boom. There's your cash."

"Max, er - "

"Boggy, I'm joking. Where will we get the money? Hmm, let's see..." I looked up and pretended to get an idea. "How about we stay in the Premier League?"

Spontaneous applause. While I basked in the sound, I noted that someone had installed a glow lamp inside Peter Bauer's face. Pascal gripped his arm, and together they laughed at something.

"We stay up. That's all our problems solved." I left a pause. "We have a chance. We have a slight chance. It's going to feel like safety is never in reach, like we're drifting away and running out of games, but I've calculated it and I think we will finish very, very close. We might need to win the final three games or something like that, but we will give ourselves a chance, and that's a Maxy Two-thumbs triple-lock take-it-to-the-bank promise."

People stood, entire rows at a time, applauded, cheered. When they settled, I continued, still pacing around.

"If we go down this season, money will get very tight and we'll have to retrench, but with Brooke and MD's help, I'll make it work. We'll keep driving this club forward. But I'll tell you one thing that'll help - our new sponsor. Michael Ning, the nice chap who owns Wolves, has a stake in a car company that you've probably heard about - CFC. People say it stands for 'Cheap Fucking Car' and I'm seeing more and more of them on the road. CFC would like to use my wonderful face to sell their product, and that's what we met today to discuss. Just a couple of businessmen talking business. I have no idea how our little chat turned into yet another worldwide story. So strange!

"I told Michael I'd need to check the cars out first, but while he was jumping around the last hole like a crazy person, I had a cheeky peek at some YouTube reviews. Pretty much everyone said that the cars do exactly what they say on the tin, and they're cheap as chips. So I said to my new golf buddy, why don't you sponsor Chester, too? We've got a new stand in the pipeline, it needs a name, CFC stands for Chester FC, seems like an obvs win-win sitch. It was all preliminary and Brooke needs to talk to him but that could be a decent wedge. At least it'll give us a baseline for negotiations with other companies.

"By the way, I proposed they rename their entry-level model the 'Shit Hoodie'. Michael said he'd think about it."

I walked along the stage, looking out across the heads. They were behind me, even though they were in front of me.

"You might be thinking, but Max, you've been on a break from football and you've achieved more than most people do when they're working flat out, but guys, you don't know the half of it. But as well as being crazily productive, I had a lot of time to think and reflect and to put our current situation into perspective and the only viable outlook is brash confidence. 

"Our boys are going for the Youth Cup. Our women have raced out of the blocks." Thunderous applause. The previous Sunday, the ladies had scraped a 1-0 win against Everton, but picking up results when you didn't play well was a laudable skill, and who could complain about having 10 points from a possible 12? "The men have six games until the next international break. You'll see us score a few goals and pick up a few points, but for me the season properly starts after that break. Write this down, guys: December. December will be the turning of the tide. December will be shocking for a lot of people. Those bookies who already paid out on us going down? Haha, so funny. Wait and see, you knobs. Am I confident? I'm insanely confident."

The fans shot to their feet again. "Max! Max! Max!"

"I'm insanely confident," I yelled, "and the manager of Wales agrees with me."

Boggy chuckled at that. "I have a few questions from the fans..."

"Yeah, soz everyone, but I've got myself hyped up." I strode around, clenching and unclenching my jaw. "Need to chat. Need to unload. I've had this time out, time away, and I've been productive. We're gonna do the main stand. We're gonna get good, fast. I'm working on a tactical idea but I don't want to stress myself chasing it. If I relax, it will come. It's one reason you shouldn't mind me working with Wales. New players, new coaches, new ideas, new opponents - innovation can come from anywhere.

"Hey, did you see that other clubs are stealing my ideas? First there was a huge wave of clubs putting solar panels all over the place. Now they're copying my property purchase routine. Newcastle bought more houses around St. James' Park. Some are listed, so they can't demolish them, but owning those houses means there won't be any objections from those neighbours if they do use the current site to rebuild. Either way, they get the property income and it counts towards the financial rules. I invented that!

"Hey, let me tell you about Finland. I saw some interesting things there. One, pyjamas made from eucalyptus wood! They're marketed as having a cooling effect and helping you sleep. Sounds bonkers but a lot of European athletes, cyclists, and whatnot swear by it. I tried a nightshirt and it was surprisingly good. Show me a footballer who can sleep well and I'll show you a footballer who will maximise his talent. All players need to be investing in their sleep stack, finding out what works for them, so I want to buy a few sets and get more feedback. It's the kind of thing where we could set up strategic partnerships but that's a side-product of aiming for better performance.

"Two, this strange machine I found in a Finnish family's kitchen. It's a German thing that's kind of like an advanced mixer, a food processor on steroids. Looks like an oversized kettle with an iPad stuck to the front. You use the interface to say what recipe you want to do and it takes you through the steps. Like, it has a graphic saying open the lid. You open the lid. Now it says, throw in a peeled onion. You don't even have to chop! It's really step by step, almost foolproof.

"I commandeered this family's kitchen, went shopping with them, came back and made butter chicken. I've never made it before but it came out great! You still have to do some preparation but for people who don't like cooking or don't know how to get started, this thing's amazing. Obviously, I want our players learning good food habits and I want to demystify cooking and this mixer thing does that big time.

"They're expensive but I want to buy, like, twenty, and create a food technology room in the academy. Apart from the obvious on-pitch benefits, it's also very slightly a scam to make sure our players are getting enough food at home. I'm thinking they'll go to the academy with their parents or guardians on Monday, and we'll provide loads of chicken and onions and whatever and they'll quote learn to cook unquote and at the end everyone eats and it's social and they can take home the excess and there will be dinners for days. The cost for the club will be a rounding error. It's a no-brainer. This kind of thing, though, you can only do it if you know it exists. Go into one random Finnish kitchen and bosh, a whole new scheme is born.

"Okay, I said a random kitchen, but that's not quite true. It wasn't really random. It was the kitchen of a player I want us to sign."

The main lights in the room dimmed, the stage lights flashed like on a police car, and on the big screens came the words TRANSFER NEWS ALERT.

The fans got even more excited than when the Lord of the Rings cosplayers had entered, which spoke of people with hugely twisted priorities. MD, Peter, and Pascal were not immune. They knew about Foquita and Willi Tillmann, two top-class players who would join on loan in January to help us fight against relegation. But any other signings I announced would be fresh information, never before shared, even with Chester insiders. All MD and Brooke knew was how much I wanted to spend, which was surprisingly little considering the quality I had acquired.

I lifted the microphone, opened my mouth, dropped it, brought it back. Pure teasing; the anticipation was killing people. "I was gonna do the final vote at this point," I said. "Was gonna really milk it. You want new signings? Prove it by voting. Heh. As it is, well, on January first, I'm going to fly in FOUR new signings."

A hundred mouths went 'Four!' There was scattered applause, which made no sense but that's how excited everyone was. 

"Yes," I said, slowly. "I'm going to fly in... four new players. I'll fly them in. They will fly... in. Right on cue. Exactly when needed, they will fly. In."

FWAAAAHHHH!!!!

The doors opened and in swept a dozen cosplayers. They were dressed as eagles and were flapping their wings while squawking. 'AH! AH! AH!' They ran up and down the aisles, then suddenly they all stopped. A guy had entered from the side dressed as a crow. He ambled along, saw everyone watching him. 'CAW?' he said.

The eagles went bananas and gave chase. The crow slipped, went, 'Oh, fuck!' and scarpered, yelling 'CAW! CAW! CAW!'

There was widespread amusement, but to my left, Brooke Star was having a full fit of giggles, and when she tried to stop they came back harder.

I gestured for Sandra to come over. "Guys," I said to the room. "The inexplicable arrival of the eagles means the theme is over. We're going to take a break. We've laid on a load of free drinks and snacks and when we run out of free stuff, you can buy more downstairs. It's only half time, though. When we resume, I'll tell you about the four and a half new players... No, four. Let's just say four for now. Quick bit of background about them, then we'll do rapid-fire Q+A."

I paused as an out-of-breath Secretary Joe burst through the stage door behind me like a Hobbit re-entering The Shire. He smiled and gave the entire world a thumbs up. I summoned the curse's news feed.

Chester FC have appointed former manager Max Best as their co-manager. Best will be expected to bravely battle against relegation. To achieve this aim, he will have a war chest of 1.4 million pounds.

The curse wasn't factoring in the extra six million I had been promised in January; there would be enough for all my plans with cash left over.

With a smile, I said, "The king is back." I took Sandra's hand and raised it aloft. "Long live the queen. See you in fifteen minutes, when I'll tell you all about our new signings."

***

Finland. The Past.

Old Nick had given me three dates, times, and locations on which I should trigger Playdar. I had wondered if the whole thing was an elaborate ploy to get me out of the UK, for example to bypass another attempt on my life, but his tip-offs turned out to be very, very real. How did he know where a certain player would be at a certain time? Maybe he didn't. Maybe there was only a 90% chance and I had got lucky. In true progression fantasy style, the targets appeared in ascending order of talent.

Finnish football runs from April to October, so there were plenty of matches for me to watch, plus I invited myself to all sorts of training sessions, most of which took place on pitches covered by big UFO tents. By next season, Chester's academy would have one of those, which would be most useful when we played against Southampton, for the dome would stop them from spying on us.

The first find was Mikko Jaskari, a 17-year-old winger (AM LR) with PA 160. Mikko was in the squad at KäPa, a small second-tier club in Helsinki, and his CA was only 31. Quite a way behind players of the same age at Chester and Saltney, but now that I knew the curse didn't have a time limit I could go all-out on long-term planning. PA 160 was Premier League level, so I asked Briggy to charm the player and his family, and went to negotiate with his club. They bit my hand off at my opening gambit of half a million pounds with no add-ons.

In my internal notepad, I sketched out Mikko's likely career path. He would stay in Finland until he was old enough to move countries, which meant he would transfer to Saltney Town next summer.

Saltney? Yeah, there was no benefit in him going straight to Chester. At Saltney, he would have time to develop, and there would be a good mix of easy league matches and high-level European action. When Mikko was at Championship standard, Chester would buy him for 2 or 3 million. He would cross the River Dee and have Bumpers as his base. In his first season as a Seal, he would get sub minutes and cup games. In the second, he would play more, and by the end of the season he would be close to his cap.

Keep him for another season as a useful squad player or sell him to a German side for ten million quid.

Job's a good 'un.

Thanks, Nick!

One exceedingly simple deal, one very happy boy, one delighted financial director. Saltney were getting another top development player, while Chester had Willi Tillmann and Foquita going straight into the first team. And there were two more players to scout!

***

The second find was my favourite.

Old Nick's note took us to a place called Lahti, north of Helsinki. Emma loved the vibe of the place and wanted to try every cafe. Briggy wanted to jump in every lake. 'Fate' brought us to a 3G pitch tucked into a residential zone, where a training session was ongoing.

The standard was decent, the facilities weren't bad, the coaching was fine, but I only had eyes for one player: Miina Timonen, a CA 33 goalkeeper.

She was taller than almost all the outfield players, stockier, but not as big as Haley Goodhew. One of my favourite things about Haley was that she was so physically imposing she made mincemeat out of crosses into the box. Haley basically wiped out an entire avenue of attack, and we rarely conceded goals from corners. Miina was 18, so she probably wasn't going to get any taller. She would never be a Haley-type goalie.

Did it matter?

No. She had different skills. She could pass from both feet, looked calm and unflappable, had a good Decisions score.

The most fascinating part of her profile was that she had Anticipation 20.

I watched as the coaches took shots, noting that Miina's feet seemed to be moving towards the path of the shot before the ball had even been struck. Later, when small-sided matches were being played, Miina moved out of her zone freely, intercepted long passes, became a short option for her teammates when they were under pressure.

She smiled a lot, listened respectfully to her coaches, and helped to move the cones when drills changed. From afar, she had a lot of Chesterness, she had the makings of an elite sweeper-keeper, and just in case I needed more reason to study her, she was PA 184. There should have been a queue of megaclubs scouting her, urgently trying to whisk her onto the nearest plane, but her profile was blank. No injuries, no wages, no interest.

Chester Women needed a backup keeper, ideally one who could take over from Haley in a few years. It was the one role in the squad I hadn't been able to fill on my normal scouting routine, but Old Nick had delivered, big time.

Miina was a top three goalie in her age group across the whole of Europe, and no-one knew about her!

As the session was ending, I went to the touchline, and ambled towards the goal Miina had occupied. It was the sort that had little wheels attached to the frame to make it easier to move away from the pitch. "Hold up a second," I called out. Activity stopped. A few of the glances were wary, so I stayed still and held my hands up. "My name is Elias Lönnrot and I'm a famous poet."

Miina smiled. "You're Max Best."

Unbidden, I spun in a slow circle. "I see my fame has preceded me. Wah hah haaahh! Yeah, so you know I'm the king of pennos. Think you can save a few?"

"What's the prize?"

"If you save one, I'll sign you as a goalie for the mighty Chester FC, soon to be champions of Europe."

Miina eyed her coach and her friends and I think she blushed. "And if I don't?"

I shrugged. "Then your punishment will be to move to Chester FC, soon to be champions of Europe."

"So winning is the same as losing."

"The Chinese say that love is the same as hate."

Miina's eyes flashed. "That's so true." Her gaze fell on Emma, moved to Briggy. "Who are they?"

"My wife, the Queen of Iceland, and Briggy, who wants to be your new agent."

"Should I let her?"

"Yes. She's friends with Don Pino."

"I don't know who that is."

"She's friends with me. But if I'm mean to you, she'll kick my arse."

Miina smiled, then slapped her gloves together. "How long have you been scouting me?"

"Long enough," I said, as I rolled a ball under my foot and pushed it onto the penalty spot. "Would you prefer right or left foot?" I grinned. "Or both?"

"Both?" she said, with a scoff.

"Both it is," I said.

"Wait," she said, but I was trying to work out how to kick the ball with both feet at the same time and still score.

I thought it through, looked from the right of the goal to the left, then nodded. "Babes, Briggy, can I get a beat, please?"

"Funky or soul?" said Emma.

"Funky."

She started to beatbox, and the effect was so amazingly shit that Miina was distracted for just long enough. I pushed my feet together, flung them forward like a seal flipping its tail, flopped onto my arse with the effort of firing the ball to the right of the goal. Miina didn't even dive.

Her friends and fellow goalies ran around, whooping, while her coach came to offer me a hand up. "That was insane," she said. "I've never seen that before."

"I've never done that before," I confessed. I glanced over my shoulder, where my target was being teased and taking it well. "I want to take your player to England and turn her into one of the best goalies in the world. What do you think about that?"

"I think you have made a good choice."

"Do you have any advice?"

"I have Finnish advice: keep cool, never freeze."

"Right. Top. Advice about persuading Miina to join Chester?"

Miina called out, "Let's go again. Best of three."

I smiled at the coach. "I see how it is."

"Yeah," she said, with a proud smile. "And be warned. With her, that trick won't work twice."

***

Briggy, Emma, and I sat at a kitchen table, sipping on coffee, while across from us sat Mr. and Mrs. Timonen, and Miina, who I felt was staring at me non-stop but who looked away every time I glanced in her direction.

I was trying to let Briggy do most of the talking. "The club have agreed a transfer fee."

"How much is it?" said Mr. Timonen, a middle-aged guy with blonde-ish hair and a beard. He was friendly and approachable but from one angle I had decided he looked like Santa Claus and now I couldn't unsee it. This conversation was utterly bewildering to him.

"One hundred and fifteen thousand Euro," said Briggy. "One hundred thousand pounds. Max likes round numbers."

"So does Miina," said Mrs. Timonen, who was far more lively than her husband. "There's nothing rounder than a big fat zero in the goals against column."

"Heyyyy!" I said, holding up my hand for a high five. Mrs. Timonen slapped my palm, pleased with herself. I picked up my coffee as a reminder to shut up and let nature take its course.

Mr. Timonen scratched his beard. "One minute we are living our normal lives. The next, I have to leave work because there is a Premier League player-manager loose in our kitchen. He has brought the Queen of Iceland and a superagent. They come with a transfer bid! One hundred thousand pounds. It is so much. How can it be so much? Miina has not made her debut for FC Lahti. How can you even have data about her?"

He was an IT guy, so I could have played up the DOVE angle but as a rule I tried not to lie, except to myself. "I got a tip."

Briggy said, "Max has spies everywhere, like Saruman. Broadly speaking, the plan goes like this. Miina has over two months to prepare, and joins Chester on January first. She begins training with top facilities, top coaches, top teammates. It's five months of intense training, a summer break, and the following season Max thinks she will be ready for Nando's Cup action. Chester have Haley Goodhew as a starter, which gives them plenty of time for Miina to develop into a top-quality keeper. It's really an outstanding opportunity and Miina is lucky to get this chance."

I decided to chime in.

"I can't honestly hand on heart say we're the best club in the world for training midfielders or strikers but we might be for goalies. We've got the best coaches and all the gear and if there's anything missing I'll buy it instantly. With the men we've got Slovakia's keeper and a future England player. We've taken Haley from England's number three to England's number two. Doesn't sound like a lot but it's seriously impressive and she's closing in on the top spot. Every week there's a new challenge, a new drill, a new test. All we need is the talent to go into the system. Miina is that talent. She was born for this."

The mum said, "Of course it's flattering to hear, but she wants to go to school to study science."

I turned to Emma. "We saw a school in England, somewhere, didn't we?"

She jabbed me in the ribs, which made all the women at the table smile. "Don't get sarcastic!" She eyed the mum. "Max loves it when players study. If there's a kid who's doing homework in our canteen he'll sit with them and talk about it, and he's building an academy at the training ground. It's a requirement of being in the Premier League but he's got the best youth system already so he's turning the so-called academy into a real school. He'll set up a lab if that's what Miina wants. Bunsen burners and test tubes and pipettes, but knowing Max she'll end up helping Jonny Planter learn which types of grass need which types of fertiliser, how to improve the gravy on the pies."

I frowned. "Soccer Science. This sounds like a spinoff YouTube channel that needs to exist. Week one, why do some football kits snag up on the shoulders? Week two, can great hair be taught? Week three, why do goalies put vaseline on their gloves? That's mad, isn't it? That can't be right."

Miina said, "It is right. Gloves are made of latex so in some conditions, vaseline will make the palms - what's the word? - tackier. You will get more grip, but the vaseline will degrade the glove. Overall, it is wasteful and I would only do it in extreme scenarios."

"Oh my God," I said. "It has been my dream to recruit a top goalkeeper but now I realise what I really want is a goalie slash mad scientist. Would you be willing to grow your hair all crazy, like Einstein? You can explain football science in short-form videos! The marketing team will lose their MINDS!"

Emma laughed. "Maaxxx," she said, trying to calm me down.

Mr. Timonen said, "I have concerns."

"Go ahead," said Briggy.

"For a start, Miina is only 18. She's much too young to move abroad. What does she know of the world? It's quite out of the question. Secondly, Max is clearly manic depressive and his recent behaviour is frankly unhinged. I don't like to think of my daughter moving to such an unstable environment as Chester."

I opened my mouth, but Briggy spoke first. "Is stability very important to you?"

"Of course."

"Max has been at Chester for six years. He has stepped down as manager but is still the director of football. On the way here he told me he could imagine staying in that post for forty years."

"Whoa," I said, palms raised. "I said up to forty. Twenty's more realistic, isn't it? Tapering down so I'm working a couple of days a month, just making sure the talent flows are there, maybe keeping myself on the squad list in case I feel like smashing some free kicks top bins. Also," I said to no-one in particular, "you shouldn't diagnose people through a TV screen but I will confess that I am Manc impressive."

Miina snorted, then covered her mouth.

Mr. Timonen looked at his daughter and said, "I don't know."

Truthfully, I couldn't understand what he was worried about. The previous day, I had done this exact conversation with Mikko Jaskari and his parents and they had all been bouncing with excitement. What's the difference between a 17-year-old winger and an 18-year-old goalkeeper?

"Look," I said, "here's the truth. If I hadn't come this week, at some point in the next couple of years, Miina would have been spotted by scouts from Germany, Spain, Italy, and there would have been an endless line of dudes trying to prise her away." I shrugged a little. "You can try to delay it but you're not doing your daughter any favours. Even for goalies, it's a short career and she needs to get into elite coaching right now. She'll finish her season and then we can start setting things up for the move. You can come over and vet the digs, check the medical staff, try a Nando's, whatever you want."

"Digs?" said Miina.

"Where you'll be staying at first until you get settled and know what's what. You can stay there for ages if you want. Meredith Ann is still there; she likes to be social. Haley was there for a while but she likes to have her own space. You can do whatever's right for you." I clicked my fingers. "You've always wanted to live in a lighthouse, I can tell. Ah! Because of the science. The lab's on the top floor, bedroom's at the bottom, so if any of your experiments go wrong, you... hang on, it should be the other way round, should it?"

Briggy smiled sweetly, "Max, why don't you go and research which lighthouses are available to live in?"

"Briggy doesn't like lighthouses. She thinks they look like the Tower of Sauron, what with the spinning light at the top." Emma tutted. I said, "What?"

"It's not the right time for one of your flights of fancy, babes. Miina's parents are worried about her."

"Why? She's 18 and she's gonna be rich and famous."

"This all happened very suddenly, didn't it, babes? It's not like Mikko, where he told everyone he ever met he would play in the Premier League and the Bundesliga. This has come as a surprise to everyone, even Miina."

I frowned. "No it hasn't, babes. She's got the elite mentality. She has been getting on that slow bus to training three times a week for years. She has been throwing herself around cold, muddy pitches. How many broken fingers has she had and started training a week earlier than the doctor said? She studies the chemistry of gloves, follows footy enough to know who I am even when I'm in disguise as a Dutch person.

"She might not have told anyone but it's obvious to me, at least, that she has been dreaming about this for ages. I don't want to treat the most amazing day of her life like it's a funeral. This," I said, grandly, "is fucking mint. This is exciting. This. Is. Destiny. Writ. LARGE!" I offered high five to Miina, who slapped my hand while she grinned from ear to ear.

Miina said, "Dad, I want to go."

Mr. Timonen looked down at his knuckles. He said... nothing.

"Mr. Timonen, this is a surprise, okay, so let me lay it out. Your daughter is going to be one of the best goalies in Europe. She's going to play in the WSL, the Champions League, the Euros, the World Cup. She's gonna be on posters, in adverts. Every little girl is gonna burst into tears every time Miina goes to Tesco or the local equiv. She's going to get letters from kids in Africa saying, Miina, you are my inspiration. One day I hope to be a keeper like you, either a goalkeeper or a lighthouse keeper."

Miina tipped her head back, laughing hard. Briggy tutted but had to chuckle. Emma said, "Babes, that's terrible. Cut that."

"No way, that was an amazing payoff to the lighthouse bit. I'm on fire right now! On fire like the beacons of Gondor." Mr. Timonen gave the reference a thin smile. I said, "Here's some good news. Your daughter will be the star January signing of a top-three WSL club. The Finnish national team are going to assume I know more than them, which would be a wise thing to assume, and Miina will be called up to the under 20s or whatever. That means she'll come home at every international break. We can send her home a few days early, probably, so actually you'll see her more than if she went to university in Helsinki."

Mrs. Timonen nudged her husband. "Better England than Helsinki, yes?" She looked from me to Briggy. "Will this be an unpaid position or how does it work?"

Briggy said, "The starting salary is clear. 52,000 Euro a year."

Mrs. Timonen blinked. "Fifty-two thousand? Why is it so much?"

I said, "That's more than most men earn in the Finnish leagues. It's actually crazy how generous I am."

Briggy said, "Another way to think is that 52,000 is the minimum amount needed to obtain a work permit." She smiled. "But that is only the starting salary. There is more to life than money, of course, but Chester are market leaders in pay and Max wants Miina to stay at Chester for a very long time. Financial security, stability, perfect working conditions, and I think I heard him promise her a laboratory."

"She'll have to share it," I said. "With the other boffins."

"What's a boffin?" said Miina.

"You'll find out when you come," I said, but she was already asking her phone. I looked around the table. Everyone was broadly happy except for the dad. I took my energy down and said, "It's going to be all right."

He looked me dead in the eyes. "You don't have children, do you?"

"No."

"You don't know what this feels like."

I wanted to say I couldn't imagine not knowing my 18-year-old child was PA 184, but I decided to be mature. "It's hard, I'm sure, but we'll try to make it a little bit easier." I rubbed my temples.

Emma said, "What are you doing?"

"Er, trying to think of a marketing campaign we could do. Minas Tirith is the capital of Gondor. I'm thinking... Miina's Tirith? How can we use that?"

Emma looked up and blew air from her cheeks. "Sorry, everyone. He gets like this when he has too much free time."

"Manc impressive," said Miina.

Mrs. Timonen eyed Emma. "How did your relationship begin?"

Fearing that Emma would misremember, I answered. "I threw her over my shoulder, beat my chest, took her to my cave." I sniffed. "Simples."

Emma's lips twisted, then she said, "He was a maddening combination of busy and oblivious and I had to guide him into my spider's web one step at a time." She sniffed. "Extremely challenging, but I made it look easy. I don't like to make a fuss about it."

Mrs. Timonen clapped and laughed. "That's how it was for us! I say to my single friends, don't make dating so complicated! Pick a man and adopt him." She gave me a long, level stare. "Is my daughter worth all this trouble? What if you get bored of her after a couple of years?"

I tried to imagine being bored of a PA 184 player with supernatural Anticipation. "If she joins in January, she will be the most talented goalkeeper at Chester. I suppose I might find three who are better but the world isn't such a big place and there aren't that many hours in the day. Bored? No, no, it won't be like that."

Emma said, "What's the worst case scenario?"

"Worst case? I mean, maybe I get three PA 200 goalies - absolute maximum - born five years apart and for some insane reason they're all desperate to stay at Chester even though only one can play at a time." I snorted. "Come on. But okay, in that case, Miina would have to take a step down and be a star player for Bayern Munich or Barcelona or one of those. Soz, I know it sounds utterly beastly." 

Mrs. Timonen lay her hand on her husband's. "We will go to Chester and look around, okay?"

"Bosh!" I said, mentally adding a world-class goalie to our squad list.

Miina was old enough to make her own decisions, but just to make sure, her parents would get a double blast of Chesterness from the entire city. I got up and stepped away from the table, properly taking in the kitchen.

"This is lovely. Love this. Last time I was in a Nordic kitchen there was a fucking great big fjord outside! This is mint, though. Clean lines, nice textures. Great big fridge! Hey, you really need to up your toaster game. I'll give you a better one when you come to England. Something to take the edge off losing - " I stopped dead in front of a weird machine I'd never seen before. It looked like an oversized kettle that had been attached to one of those weighing stations you get in a supermarket. "What on earth is this?"

***

As Briggy drove us away, I said, "Hey, can you pull over for a second."

She did, and turned towards me. "Sup?"

"Maybe..." I pulled at my lip and looked from her to Emma. "I just understood it, I think. Miina's dad has been the undisputed king in that house for so long, and now some distant figure has turned up and wants to take his daughter away. Timonen has realised he's not the king, not really. He's a duke or a baron or whatever." I shook my head. "He just got relegated, but he didn't even know there were other leagues."

Briggy thought about it. "That's an interesting way to frame an experience that I suppose is rather universal, though I think that a unique part of his distress will be that he now has five kilos of butter chicken in his fridge."

***

The third player was Jari Köngäs, a 25-year-old CAM who could also play striker. (On my spreadsheet he would be 26.)

He was a starter for IF Gnistan, a first division club I had never even heard of until I got to its training ground. The curse valued Jari at 1.3 million pounds, which meant if I walked up to their director of football and slapped down a two million pound bid - half of what I paid for Errol Obikwu - my hand would be bitten off. Gnistan weren't in Europe and their domestic season would soon be finished.

Jari's PA was 190, which would make him the most talented player at Chester if I signed him. 190 was the same as Foquita.

I could have a PA 190 player for two million pounds.

So what's the catch?

Sooo many catches... His Attributes, the way he played, his past. His CA was only 117.

"Babes," said Emma. "You okay?"

"Yeah," I said, after a few seconds. "This is a puzzle."

"In what way?" she said, but I had spaced out again.

We had a week until the Finland versus Wales match, so there was no need to dive in head first on this one. For once, I would take my time. "I'm gonna do some research and come back tomorrow."

I felt Emma and Briggy exchanging glances. Max Best needed a second look at a player?

***

My second appearance at the training centre was even more shocking to the locals than the first, which could have been written off as me being bored on holiday. Halfway through, one of the coaches came over and asked if I was looking for anything or anyone in particular. "Or perhaps you want to steal our tactical ideas, Mr. Best?"

"Tactical ideas?" I said, confused. "It looks like you're setting up to play 4-3-1-2 with Jari Köngäs as a false nine who links play and moves into the front line to make a classic 4-3-3. Or did I miss something?"

The coach blinked. "Are you scouting for TPS?"

"Oh, God, I hope not. What's TPS? Some kind of exam?"

He laughed, once. "We play them on Saturday. Do you have advice?"

"What you're doing seems pretty optimal. That number 17's injured, is he?"

"He is coming back from an injury."

"Yeah." The guy's Condition score was only 72%. "Don't give him more than 15 minutes this week. You'll want to get him back asap but don't rush it."

The coach seemed perplexed. "Is he who you are here to observe?"

I smiled and waved my hand around the big tent. "Who would you rate as most likely to do well in the Premier League?"

"Oh!" He rubbed his chin and cast his eye around. He named a couple of teenagers, ones who were tall and fast. He didn't even think twice about Jari Köngäs. If anyone his age had PL potential, they would have gone already.

"Kay," I said, wondering whether I should feel excited that I knew something no-one else did, or worried that it was so incredibly obvious Jari would flop in England and that I was trying to be too clever by half. "Do you mind me watching?"

"Of course not!"

"I might come again tomorrow..."

***

While Emma and Briggy went to do tourist things, I stayed in a hotel room and watched videos of Jari from his teenage years. He had been a maverick genius, doing outrageous feats of skill. He enjoyed dribbling past a player, letting him get back in a defensive position, then beating him again.

I sat back and closed my eyes. That wasn't the player I was seeing in the training tent. Today's Jari played with no flair whatsoever. He would play first-time passes, keep the ball moving, stay in his zone, stick to his assignment. He was allowed to break into the penalty area, which he did with the minimum of fuss or effort, taking up good positions, creating space with clever bits of movement. There was no suggestion he would suddenly break out a nutmeg or dump a guy on his arse with a quick-foot shuffle.

A normal analyst would simply have said, yeah, he got older, he's more mature. But I had the curse, and the curse told me that Jari had Flair 20.

Flair 20! But he played the most conservative, most efficient football you could imagine.

I got up from the table and laughed with frustration. I didn't understand this guy at all!

I went out onto the balcony and looked out over Helsinki, barely taking in the view. Sometimes you could learn things about a player by which club they played for.

A few years ago, Gnistan had been winning 2-0 in a cup semi-final. In the 90th minute, a streaker ran onto the pitch, which I'm sure was hilarious. The ref added on five minutes for the stoppage and in that five minutes the oppo scored twice, then won in extra time. Gnistan was that sort of club, so was Jari that sort of player?

As a teenager, he had been the bright young thing of Finnish football. The media called him King Köngäs, which is such an awesome name, but all the attention went to his head. He was a real tearaway, a bad boy, a wild child.

The general consensus was that he had pissed his talent up a wall. Too much drink, too many drugs, too many parties. He fell out with every coach he ever had. He was Emiliano but a hundred times worse. Oh, and he was slow and couldn't jump, making him useless for the Premier League, useless for modern football.

With a heavy sigh, I picked up my phone and started to text Emma.

Babes, I've decided to bin the whole thing off.

I deleted that and started again.

Babes, I'm gonna go again tomorrow.

***

With game day approaching, a full-sized training match was taking place. The coaches were shouting, there was frantic activity, but in the middle of it all, a six-foot tall attacking midfielder-cum-striker was strolling around, not doing very much. The ball came to him and he bounced it first time to a teammate. It was pinged at his head; he let it go. A rebound made the ball pop up between Köngäs and a much faster player, but Köngäs defied science to get there first. He dabbed the ball to the wing and his team set up an attack that was repelled.

A minute later, the ball was played into the penalty area, almost at random, and Köngäs appeared between two players and pushed the ball into the net. It was so simple, so easy, that no-one even applauded.

He's so efficient he almost looks shit... Top players make the sport look easy... Too easy, in this case... Why isn't he blowing up Bayern Munich's data?

I watched for a few more minutes. His teammates weren't on his wavelength. They didn't make the runs they should have made, so either Jari passed to no-one or he was forced to check his move and the delay caused him to lose the ball.

I had a very enjoyable daydream about putting Jari next to Pascal Bochum. Christ, that would be tasty...

Two million pounds was nothing. Why not take a punt? Because his CA was appalling. It would take years to get him up to speed. But next season would be the Championship and the Europa League - Jari could play a part. We needed more goals in the team. This guy was a natural finisher. Good Decisions, great Technique. So he had Flair points he didn't use, so what?

"Excuse me," said a woman to my right. "Are you deaf in the left ear?"

"No. What?"

"I've been trying to catch your attention from that side."

"Oh." I considered her. She was thin with black hair, a tattoo sleeve up one arm, dressed simply. There was a strength to her, a subtle magnetism. "Am I in the way?"

"No."

"Was I making weird noises?"

"Not that I heard. Do you often make weird noises?"

"I'm gonna have to say yes."

She tilted her head very slightly, like she was getting more interested in me. "I'm Heli," she said.

"Max."

"Yes, we know."

"We?"

She jutted her chin to the left. Along the touchline, as close as poss to the exit, were a batch of what I assumed to be wives and girlfriends. "We. Everyone. Everyone is going mad trying to work out who you are scouting."

"I might be stealing coaching ideas."

"No."

"I might be trying to stay warm."

"It's a warm day."

"I might be hiding from the FBI."

"Hiding from Liverpool fans, you mean." She smiled. "Tell me who you're scouting."

I had a hunch I knew who Heli's partner was. "Jari Köngäs."

She clicked her tongue and said, "I'm disappointed."

Okay, so I was wrong about her being Jari's partner. "Who would you like me to be looking at?"

She named a ball-playing centre back and I couldn’t help but wince. He was nowhere close. She said, "Basically, anyone but Jari."

"Oh, did you have a relationship with him?"

"We used to date."

"And you're not his biggest fan."

"I am certainly not his biggest fan."

I smiled. "This is probably unprofessional, but would you mind dishing the dirt? I heard he was a terror."

"When I met him, he was coming out of his terror days. He struggled with a lot of things. He lacked stability in all aspects of his life and he suffered. I did one good thing to help him, which was to bring him to Gnistan. It is not such a big club, the demands are not so high. He has found happiness and equilibrium. You will find that his wife won't allow him to leave."

"Huh, okay. I'll just give up, in that case."

She gave me a long, hard look that I bounced right back at her, although I had a playful little smile going on. "You think you can overcome any objection she has."

I shrugged. "He's an elite talent and he knows it. He can be happy playing for a club like this but he can't be content. This can't fill the yearning hole inside him. If I offer him a contract, he will have to take it. That's how these people are wired."

"Not Jari."

"Definitely Jari. Time's running out for him to fulfil his destiny. Oh, and he has a little boy. When that kid's 12, someone at school is gonna bully him going, 'Your dad could have played for Chester for Max Best, could have won the Champions League, but he was too chicken to go. That's why you're a loser, it's why you've got a shit haircut, it's why you wear shit trainers.' What's gonna happen is Jari's gonna be imagining the day he tells his son, okay listen, if you work hard and believe in yourself, you can achieve anything. And his son's gonna say, but you had the chance to win trophies and get back in the Finland team and you didn't work hard and you didn't believe in yourself. I hate you, dad!"

Heli was not enjoying this conversation. "That is not how it would go."

"I think that's exactly how it would go, and it's definitely how it will go in Jari's imagination."

"You could save him from that fate by not asking him to move."

"Yeah, well, I probably won't."

She relaxed, and I became convinced that she was Jari's wife. (I should have gone on Emma's Instagram to do some spying once I had seen Jari's PA.) I was getting to know her a little, and felt she was putting on a show of innocent interest. "Why won't you?"

"He's slow, doesn't win headers, plays with a machine-like lack of personality, is completely unsuited to the Premier League, won't reach his potential, won't even come close."

Heli's expression didn't change, which was interesting in itself. "So why have you scouted him four times this week?"

"Because I'm stupid." That made her laugh, and I decided that I liked her and we would get on just fine. "He's a difficult case but he's an amazing talent. He should be one of the best players in Europe. Why isn't he? Because he was a dick as a kid. But his wife, who sounds like she has the patience of a saint, has sorted him out, if I'm understanding you correctly. Hey, wait."

Things were starting to click.

"She's helping him, trying to get him off the drink, off the drugs. Stability, routine. Processes. Every day the same. Less spontaneity in his life, less on the pitch. He puts away the nutmegs and the skills, gets more predictable. His coaches love it because now he's doing what they tell him. And he finds that he doesn't mind it! Because he's doing it - Yes! He's doing it for his little prince! One day his wife says, babes I'm pregernunt, and he goes, shit, buggies are expensive, need to make sure I'm in the team to get my appearance bonus, no more no-look backheel nutmegs for me. Am I right?"

Heli was staring at nothing, unblinking, but she nodded very slightly.

I was getting hyped. Jari was Emiliano but better, and on the other side of his personal demons. PA 190! Goals from midfield, tactical flexibility, enormous footballing intelligence. "His talent's still there. Köngäs means king, right? He'll get back in the Finland team, become the biggest star in the country, make his son proud. Think of the marketing. The Return of the King! Absolutely perfect."

Heli eyed me sharply. "That's his favourite movie."

"What? Return of the King?"

She let out a small groan. "That's why it's his favourite. The king returns from exile to take up his crown. What a fool I am."

"Maybe he just likes the music."

She shook her head some more. "Maaannnnn."

I put on a slightly bombastic tone. "Trapping her husband in a tiny bird cage when he should be flying over Europe like a golden eagle, forcing him to do pure positional play when he wants to be a free-spirited trequartista, denying him the chance to quadruple his salary with one quick flick of his pen, denying his son the chance to meet the great Max Best! What a piece of work this wife of his must be."

Heli stuck her tongue in her cheek while she thought about battering me. "A famous football manager once said that Jari is too slow for the Premier League."

"Jari's the embodiment of the phrase, the first yard of pace is in your head. He knows where the ball's going and he's already moving to get it. But it's my job to make it work. I don't want the Prem to be all Arsenals and Brentfords with seven-foot tall dudes who can run a lot. It's awful to watch. Jari is the opposite. He's a footballer's footballer. If I can't make it work, that's on me, but I need Jari to grind for a couple of years to get up to the levels. Do you think he would, like, have a meltdown or whatever?"

"You don't have kids, do you?"

"Why does everyone keep asking me that?"

"Jari changed when Viggo was born. Wouldn't you change if you had a child?"

"I would if I wasn't already perfect."

Heli's head tilt returned with a vengeance. "Would you like to come to have lunch with us? You can meet Jari and Viggo."

I threw my hands up. "I passed the test! I didn't even know it was a test."

She smiled. "You knew."

"Oh!" I said. My brain was fizzing now, fizzing with ideas, making connections. "Jari hoped I was scouting him and sent you to ask. He was hoping I was, you were hoping I wasn't. But now you've met me and you realise I'm the best thing - second best - third best thing that's ever happened to him. Hey, wait. You said you used to date him."

"And then I married him."

"Huh. You said you're not his biggest fan."

"That would be Viggo."

"This is great. You're my kind of diabolical. Oh, shit!! I just had an incredible idea for the Fans Forum. I'll announce the signing of Jari and the others - if they give me my job back - with a Return of the King theme! But the twist is, it's about Jari, not me!"

"Max," she said, but I was eight clicks deep into an online shopping platform.

"Need to take a quick look to see... Yes! Ent costumes are available. More than 10 in stock. How many ents should I do? One per fire escape? What else? Gonna need some elves. Er, I'll look for those outfits when there are no kids around. I need a sword. Do you know a sword guy?"

"Max," said Heli. "Before you buy those costumes, you should know that Köngäs doesn't mean king. It's that kind of land where there is dry grass and some, uh, bushes. We have a lot of it."

"Shit," I said. "I just bought three tree outfits."

"Cancel the order."

I gave her a stern look. "That order was a promise I made, and I never break a promise. Er... you know what? Let's just pretend you never told me what the name really means. Deal?" I stretched out my hand.

She thought about it for a few seconds, then accepted my handshake. "You've got a deal."

...

OMG it's so hot. I'm not built for this. Oh, lordy. From now until winter, the chapters are gonna be haiku length.

Thanks for your support!

I'm aiming for a Tuesday chapter, because I want to get weird with the next one. Soz in advance.