2.13 - Nerves of Seal (Part Two)

Become a Patron to read ahead!

[Please note there's a part one to this! If you didn't get that email, hit the Patreon app and read it there.]

...

Monday, April 5 - Five Days To Go

Squad Morale: 5.9

Brooke: Ticket sales are going well both on our side and in Portsmouth. I think the total will get close to 80,000.

Me: Wow. This will be the biggest event of your life!

Brooke: Yes it will if we exclude every single college football game I have ever attended. And I won't mention college volleyball in Nebraska because it will hurt your feelings.

Me: I looked it up. 92,003 fans watching volleyball! That's bananas. Do they play with a beach ball so you can see the action from row Z? Anyway, make sure your team know that the players appreciate all their hard work. You have had a spectacular season.

Emma was being very patient with me. In an attempt to unlock a perk before the cup final, I was planning to abandon her every evening until Friday, which I would spend alone in a hotel room in London.

I had initially calculated that if I went at the week really hard and stopped putting XP towards the Secret Sandra training boosts, I would be able to unlock the 4-2-2-2 formation on Thursday night. It wasn't a formation I was really familiar with, but it looked like one that would work against 4-2-3-1, which Portsmouth would be using at Wembley, and it was one that seemed to fit my current squad. Would I switch to it for the first time in the middle of a cup final? Yeah, maybe. It was also the last one before I would be able to move towards some kind of complete tactical control, so it was a good medium-term investment, too.

It was priced at 5,000 XP, though, which meant I needed to attend high-level matches pretty much every night. To my dismay, the only half-decent match being played on the Monday was in the National League North. York City, one of the rare teams I had a zero percent record against, were at home to Spennymoor.

Dylan was my bodyguard for the evening, which was overkill on Briggy's behalf. I had assured her that York had some of the friendliest people in the country. ‘So does Chester’, she had replied. ‘And one of those guys tried to murder you.’

Dylan was in good spirits, but all he wanted to talk about was the cup final. So annoying! I batted his questions away for half an hour, saying I was working and needed to concentrate, but then the drabness of the match got on top of me and I became more chatty.

"I like York," I said. "It's a lovely town."

"City," he said.

"What is it with you Wrexhammers being so obsessed over the fucking nomenclature? Town and city are synonyms."

"There are many towns in Wales but only seven cities. Wrexham is the newest. We're very proud of that, we are."

"Weird. This isn't a very good match, is it?"

"If you don't mind me asking, Max, why are you here? You're not scouting a player. These guys are barely better than the mighty 3 R Welsh."

"There's always something you can learn. If you want to be the best manager in the world you need to be open to anything. I'm up now but who's to say I won't be back down here in a couple of years? If I lose my, you know, edge, this might be my actual level."

Dylan considered the action, which consisted of lots of headers in succession followed by a throw-in. "Are you learning how not to play football?"

I smiled. "That's a valid lesson, isn't it? By the way, I lost twice in the league to York City. That hasn't happened to me very often. If there's anywhere I should pay attention, it's here."

"So noble," he said. "Such bullshit."

I cackled. "Yeah. The irony is that there is someone here I'm very interested in."

"Oh? Something to do with the cup final?"

"No."

"The town is gearing up for its big day out."

"The town? Wrexham?"

He tutted. "Wrexham's a city! I told you! Chester. Signs everywhere. Cars with little flags. Little boys carrying silver trophies. The excited babble of a cafe: Are you down? Of course I'm down. The main thrust of conversation seems to be how people are going down."

I perked up. Now that was a final-related topic that interested me. "It's so bonkers, right, the logistics of moving 20,000 people down south in one go. It's not like your army where some dude just organises it. It's a thousand families and groups of mates each with their own plans. Car, train, coach. The train company agreed to put on some extras, and we've been booking every coach in the region."

"You're letting fans travel for free, I heard."

"As much as possible."

"Must be costing you a pretty penny."

"It's not that bad. The tricky thing is the, er, practicalities. Some of the coaches are happy to go all the way to Wembley but only one way because the drivers aren't allowed to drive so many hours and wait and blah blah blah. We've got a shit ton of coaches taking people to Crewe so people can get the train from there. I wanted to get into the weeds on it all because it was a lot of fun trying to work out the routes and optimise it and right now money's no object, really, but Brooke wouldn't let me. She said I had to focus on winning the match. I think I've sort of exaggerated how hard that part of my job is, you know?"

Dylan gave me a strange look. "You'd rather play with your toy trains and your coaches than score at Wembley?"

I scoffed. "Why can't I do both? Anyway, Glendale Logistics have taken over. They're absolutely loving it. They've got contacts with all sorts of transport companies, right? They can call around and say, hey, have you got such-and-such a vehicle working this Saturday? Emma has been working with them so at least one of us is having fun."

"Aren't you having fun?"

I rubbed the top of my head. I was having lots of fun, but almost none of it was the kind of fun Dylan thought I should be having. Time to end this conversation. "Yep. Big fun. Mega fun."

He nudged me. "You'll be able to do another one of those 'we need a bigger trophy cabinet' adverts. That last one really made me laugh, it did, even though I'm pretty sure I hated you at the time. Cocky little twat, I said to myself."

"And to others."

He laughed hard. "Guilty. You got me there. It was very funny, though. You get a lot of grudging respect from the Wrexham fans, you know. And we got to the Vans Trophy final and didn't win, so that'll be another thing you've got over us. No doubt you'll do a parade of your trophies when we come to the Deva next year. Why's the trophy parade in November, people will ask. Because Max wants to rub our noses in it."

I got my phone out and sent Brooke a voice note. "Just had a great idea. We'll display all our trophies when we play Wrexham."

Dylan groaned. "No! You wouldn't!"

I laughed. "Mate, I haven't given the actual trophy a second's thought."

Dylan started to reply but closed his mouth. He didn't want to give me more great ideas.

***

The first half was thin gruel, but it was 2 XP per minute and Dylan was good company. I had spent far more dispiriting evenings on my quest to become the best manager in the world. We went down to the concourse together. I told Dylan to get whatever he wanted, and for myself ordered two slices of stuffed crust pizza. I stared hard at the beers. I would have fucking loved one but I had a match coming up.

Normally that would have ended the thought process, but I kept staring at the beer. Dylan was driving. One beer. We had been promoted, right? We had done it. Good season? Tick. I was allowed one little pint, surely? I could just imagine tipping the cold, bubbly liquid down my throat. Down, down, down, a hit of cold before the spread of the warmth.

"Sir?" said the girl behind the counter.

I woke up. "Diet coke with that, please."

The guy behind me in the queue said, "Good luck on Saturday, lad."

"What's Saturday?" I said.

The guy seemed delighted. "What's Saturday? Your cup final!"

"Oh, right," I said, giving him a tiny smile.

"Don't tell me you're nervous. Not you."

"Not really. I was daydreaming about taking the trophy home and putting it down on my mum's living room table."

Dylan shot me a look.

The guy said, "Oh, aye? She'd love that, wun't she? I didn't have you pegged as a family man. Would have expected you to bring the trophy straight to some fancy London nightclub. Fill it up with champagne and all that sort of carry-on."

Dylan was amazed. "Max? He's not like that. He's a good lad!"

I put my hand on his arm to calm him. To the rando, I said, "I never beat York City, you know."

"I know! And you never will, heh heh." He got his phone out and pointed it at me.

"Are you going to tell everyone I'm here? Can you wait till full time?"

"Oh? Of course, yes. Sorry."

"It's cool but I'm here to work, you know. Just want to be left alone, kind of thing, without being murdered in the car park."

"Totally! Totally."

I was about to go and find a nice crevice to eat my pizza when I remembered this was non-league footy and we were allowed to eat and drink in the stands. Back in my seat, I pulled my baseball cap lower and my jacket lapels higher. Something had upset me in some way and it took me a few minutes to chomp my way back to contentment, and there was much contentment to be found planning my glistening future.

Okay, so if I couldn't afford a formation this week, at least I could unlock an Attribute. Attributes 11 would only cost 4,000 XP and while it might not directly help in the cup final, it couldn't hurt. As far as I could tell, there were nine attributes that remained hidden from me. I really needed to unlock them, asap.

Or did I? I had done pretty well without them. Maybe at this point in my career I needed to focus on scouting and tactical perks and I would be able to leave getting the rest of the Attributes until I was a top-ten manager who had to choose from a pool of broadly similar players. Me regularly managing in elite competitions seemed quite far in the future... until it didn't. What had MD said? The first round of the Champions League qualifiers were going to take place TWO MONTHS from now. In planning terms, that was basically tomorrow.

Dylan finished his meal, announced that he was still hungry, and went to get a top-up. When he came back, he asked what I was thinking about.

"The UEFA qualifiers," I said.

"Oh," he said, through a mouthful of cardboard that had been quite artfully shaped into a burger.

"It's like a train set for football managers," I said. "You watched me do this last summer with College 1975, right? There are four qualifying rounds and if you win them, you get into an eight-team league. If you get into the league stage of the Champions League, the club gets an instant 18 million pounds. If you get knocked down into the second tier, the Europa League, it's 7 million. The one I did last year was 3 million. Okay so it's big prizes and this time I’ve got three lottery tickets. If I can get a little team into that league stage that's really satisfying and funny."

Dylan got a broad grin. "It was funny what you did last time. Those clubs never saw you coming!"

"I'm a consultant for Saltney Town. Those are your next Welsh champions, boyo."

His face hardened a fraction. "We had the talk about you saying boyo, remember?"

"Did we? Don't recall that. I’m an honorary Welsh, these days. Do we describe ourselves as ‘a Welsh?’ So it’s Saltney Town plus two clubs in Gibraltar who have hired me."

"I thought it was three."

"Two who will be in Europe."

"Ah!"

"So I need to work out which players to send to which clubs. Saltney need a goalkeeper, right, and Chester have four to choose from. But I can only loan 3 players from Chester to a particular club, and I can only loan six players total."

Dylan's eyebrows rose. "That's going to be a problem for you."

"No, it isn't," I said, punching him while beaming. "Players under 21 don't count. If I'm clever, which I am, I can send out 9 guys. Three per team. But remember what we did with Magnus Evergreen?"

"Put him in a straightjacket and time how long he took to get out?"

"That was a private video, mate. No, we let his Chester contract expire so that he was a free agent. Then he signed for College, played for them, that contract expired in January and we signed him back. It’s not a loan, is it?"

"Sneaky."

"It's all above board, Dylan. The catch for the player is, what happens if you get injured? You need to trust that someone's going to look after you."

"You and the chap from Tranmere would look after him."

"Yep. So guess whose contract is up this summer? Sticky’s."

"Oh," said Dylan, impressed. "And he'd go to Saltney Town?"

"I need to have a proper chat with him about it, but I think so. Who doesn't want to play in the Champions League? If he does the Magnus scam, and Magnus does the Magnus scam, that's two players who don't count against the loans limit. You get what I'm saying, right? I'm plotting these things across three clubs in two continents. Wales is a continent, right?"

Dylan ignored that last question. "You should ask Pascal Bochum," he said, thoughtfully. "He was brilliant last time out. Do you think his club would let him join you?"

"I doubt it but I'll definitely ask. Christ, if I had him this Saturday we would destroy Portsmouth."

Dylan didn't speak for a few seconds. I glanced at him and decided he was trying to think of how to phrase something. "I noticed," he said, slowly, "that you told the York fan you had been thinking about what to do with the Vans Trophy."

"Just talking shit, wasn't I?"

"Only you told me you hadn't thought about it but that image came to your mind very quickly."

"I'm creative, Dylan. I'm buzzing with ideas. Fizzing with ideas. If I had a pound for every idea I've had this season I'd have 4.9 million pounds."

His eyes bulged. "Is that how much you've got in the bank?"

"It was just a random number!"

"No, it wasn't!"

I nudged him. "I don't have 4.9 million in the bank, mate, okay? You know I don't because if I did, I would use it all to build a football stadium in Manchester."

He saw the truth in that. "Where did the number come from?"

"Er..." I wondered if I should tell him. It might have been confidential or whatever. "It's possible," I said, slowly, "that it's a figure broadly adjacent to the amount of money I will have to spend on Chester FC's behalf."

"Oh! For transfers."

"Um, no. I've done all my transfers, I think. If there's a Pascal replacement who becomes available I might have a cheeky little nibble. Or if there's a good guy who gets released from a Premier League club, I could try to swoop in. What's Jack Grealish up to these days? But I'm more or less happy with the squad. We're short of creativity right now but if I can get Peter Bauer and Dan Badford into the team, that suddenly looks a lot different, doesn't it?"

Dylan wasn't convinced, but didn't say so. "But... 4.9 million pounds, Max. You could buy every player on this pitch. You could buy the stadium!"

"Let's not get carried away," I said, with a laugh. "I know what I'll do with some of it. You know the new medical block?"

"At Bumpers? Yeah. It'll be finished soon, won't it?"

"There's this room on the ground floor with a view of the main training pitch. I thought it would be empty for a year, but in fact I have the funds to kit it out already. It's going to have two of those counter-current pools. You walk in them and there's a jet of water that pushes you back. It's great for recovery from injury. I should know."

"I heard about this. The Tranmere chap let you use his pool when you were in Tenerife."

"Exactly. They're great. Each pool is 60 grand. Two of those, tiling, furniture, bosh. There's 150 grand gone, but players recover from injury faster and our Facilities score goes up."

"Money score goes down."

I laughed. Dylan's wit was drier than our aquatherapy room. "Things cost money, that's right, Dylan. I want to get a couple of vans, too."

"Company car sort of things?"

"Yeah but for general use, not for anyone specific. They will live in the car park at the Deva and anyone will be able to use them to pop to Saltney or bring someone to the airport or just whatever. Oh and the main use will be for the Chester Knights." That was our pan-disability team.

"The entire team in two vans?"

"They're 8-seaters and the Knights play short-sided matches most of the time. Normally in Cheshire, too, which works because the van's range is about 200 miles."

"Range... Oh, they're electric."

"Of course. We'll feed them from our solar. Free transport in perpetuity for just 50 grand a pop. Bosh, there's another hundred gone."

"Number goes down."

"Number goes down in the best possible way. We'll spray them pure white with the logo on. Sealbiscuit's children. The Seal Pups. First two of many, mate. I'm building a fleet! It's gonna be spectacular. What's that, mummy? I'm scared! Don't worry, pumpkin, it's only Max's Armada!"

Dylan was grinning because I was grinning. "This is normal Max. This is you. Plotting and planning and scheming and getting excited. Why aren't you like this when we talk about the cup final? You're more into vans than the Vans Trophy."

My mood dipped for a second, but I barged through whatever darkness that was. "I've got loads of money, mate! Resources! I love that word. Don't you love that word? And I can do whatever I want. More equipment for the club's dentist. Another billboard in the city. VR headsets to teach our players about decision making. A server farm for the data guy. A data guy. More solar panels, air-source heat pumps, trees, paths, landscaping. The freehold to the land under Bumpers Bank. Courses for our staff. Free meals for all our employees. Some actual pay for the many volunteers who have kept this club going all these years."

"Yes!" he said. "You've got to pay them!"

"More investments, too. Ryan Jack wanted to do a little thing in Liverpool. Build a little football pitch or whatever. I looked at it and was, yeah, this is fine. Unspectacular from a financial point of view, you know? Not everything has to have a big return but if it's not in Cheshire or North Wales, it sort of does.

"So while I was checking that out, I found this little team that wants to be the only non-league club based in the city of Liverpool. They play in purple and call themselves The Purps. Amazing! If we could get some land and throw up a little stadium, we would have one tenant for sure and we would be able to rent the pitch out year-round.

"Can you imagine how much demand there would be for a top-quality pitch in the middle of Liverpool? If we could even throw in some small-sided pitches for five-a-side we could make absolute bank. That's a much bigger project than Ryan - heh - pitched, but my theory is, if you're gonna do it, go all out."

Dylan was still grinning. "You want to run a football centre in Liverpool? Owned by Chester FC? You're off your nut, you."

"I'm not off my nut. I care a lot more about grassroots football in Liverpool than either of their big clubs do, that's for sure. If Chester get a return and we get to see loads of quality kids, maybe before the big clubs even know they exist, that's a good investment. It'll have to wait until we're getting Premier League money but that's going to happen, Dyl. I guarantee it."

"Will you be doing one of those in Wrexham, too?"

I scoffed. "We'll start in towns that grow good players, mate."

"Are you Max Best?"

I saw a guy in a high-vis jacket standing awkwardly on the aisle. I got that all-too familiar feeling in my hands - they were about to start shaking. I was in trouble, yet again. "Yep."

"Can I get a selfie?"

I smiled. Relief. "At full-time, yeah. Actually, you know what? How about we do it pitchside - it’ll be a better photo - and I'll make my way out through the tunnel? I know the way."

"Sure, yeah! That'd be great. Don't run off, will you?"

"No chance."

The guy went back to his post. Dylan looked at me funny. "What are you playing at?"

"Just being friendly."

"Hmm."

At full-time, I went down the steps to a gate that was opened by my new mate. I posed for selfies with him and a couple of the other stewards. All good fun.

What a lovely, kind, and considerate human being I was!

On my way out of the stadium, Dylan and I got lost and ended up hanging around in a dark corridor. The strangest thing happened next. Just when I was looking for someone to guide us out of this labyrinth we had blundered into, one of York City's coaches appeared and to my relief, he was happy to be of assistance. We even went to a nearby pub and had a chat.

Lovely, warm, friendly chat... with a guy who had Coaching Outfield Players 17.

***

Tuesday, April 6 - Four Days To Go

Squad Morale: 6.1

Chester Zoo Marketing Team: Max, it's cup fever! Even the animals are buzzing about Wembley, lol! If we had a CGI budget we could do a Noah's Ark sketch and have them boarding a bus two by two. Anyway, my team and I would like to ride the buzz bus (sorry not sorry lol) and release the next Zoo advert early, if that's okay with you. I know you haven't seen the final cut yet but trust me, it's a banger!

Me: Yeah, go for it.

A short time later, they sent me a YouTube link. By now you know how these ads are structured so I'll give the summary.

It starts with me looking at a map of the zoo, confused. Off screen, someone says "Can I help you, Max?"

I say, "Yeah I'm looking for the seals."

Cue the text: Max Best (Player-Manager).

The voice says, "We don't have seals, I'm afraid."

"Oh. It's just because Chester FC are the Seals and I thought... No matter, I'll assemble an all-star team!"

There follows a rapid-fire series of clips where my finger is pointing at various animals.

"Parson's chameleon! You take the sticks!" The chameleon was hugging a stick, hence the joke, and for viewers who didn't know the jargon, a translation appeared. Take the sticks = go in goal.

"Reticulated python! Sweeper. Wait for the oppo to come close, then strike!"

"Mountain chicken frog! Defence. I want you jumping high."

"Humboldt penguin! Midfielder. Just sit on the ball, yeah, while we regain our shape."

"Asian elephant! You're midfield an' all. Don't forget to defend."

"And finally, you. Bat-eared fox-in-the-box. Get me a goal, yeah, and if you feel the need to engage in some cooperative foraging, can it wait till half-time?" The bat-eared fox had incredibly wide ears. "I know you can hear me, Francis!"

Then came the drone shot with narration (Chester Zoo, we’re simply the best!), followed by the usual quiet outro. This one had me sitting on a bench next to a super cute red panda. It was a composite shot - I never met the dude - but it looked real enough that it later attracted complaints from nutjobs.

Over the sound of a football match, I was gently bickering with the panda while it squeaked back at me. It sounded like a child's toy but the zoo promised it was real audio. "No, you're not playing today." Squeak! "Why? You know why. I need a striker who's hungry for goals, not hungry for my brand-new manager's chair." Squeak!" Oh, it's my fault for buying bamboo furniture? That was hand-made from specially-grown shoots, that. Delicious, tender, melt-in-the-mouth, freshly-harvested - okay yeah maybe I was asking for it. Fine, you can be in the team. We'll make you the mascot, okay? You're cute enough."

Cue a close-up of the most adorable little real-life Ewok blasting the lens with Charisma 20.

***

Match 42 of 46: Oxford United versus Chester

There are two schools of thought when it comes to managing a player's workload before a big game. Many top managers like to keep their key players in the team, even using them in meaningless matches in the days before a final. Those managers are more worried by a player losing sharpness than him getting injured. As you know, I was the opposite. Avoid injury, let players go into matches at 100% fitness, and everything else would fall into place.

I had written off this match against Oxford ever since we reached the Vans Trophy final. The EFL could put me in stocks and throw tomatoes at me for all I cared - no way were my first-choice players stepping foot onto a pitch four days before the club's first ever appearance at Wembley Stadium, the home of football. If I had to put out the under 18s, I would do just that.

But when I actually sat down to sketch out the team, it wasn't half bad.

It massively helped that Dazza had returned, but check this out:

• 5-3-2 formation, which is a real formation that exists so you can't get me on that.

• Sticky in goal. CA 106.

• A back five of Adam Summerhays (75), Peter Bauer (97), Fitzroy actual Hall (108 (one hundred and fucking EIGHT)), Thomazella (73), and Nasa (76).

• Three central midfielders. Omari Naysmith (82), Andrew Harrison (100), Bark (100).

• Dazza and Chazza (Chas Fungrieve. No, that nickname didn't stick.) They were CA 111 and 65, respectively, for a team average of 90.3.

Ninety point three, mate! That was more than respectable. Yeah, Oxford had an average of 109, but my lads were 0.7 CA away from being actual League One quality. If the EFL fined us for this lineup I was going to be a total dick to each and every one of their staff in the cup final. The Vans Trophy is the EFL Trophy, remember. I was the star player of the team most likely to win their cup and they were telling me how to run my football club. And they would want to shake my hand and tell me where to stand for photos? They could get wrecked.

Now, bearing in mind that I was puffing myself up like a French peacock, acting all indignant, acting like this eleven was on a par with Brazil 1970, I'll admit that it didn't help our cause that we spent two hours apologising to the away fans. They had booked their tickets when this seemed like being a vital fixture in our calendar. Once our supporters were gathered in their pen, six of our superstar starters went over carrying large bin bags full of 'Chester going to Wembley' scarves. One per fan! Pass them around! That went down great.

"Que Será, Será, whatever will be, will be, we're going to Wem-ber-lee, Que Será, Será."

"Ches-ter! Ches-ter!"

When the rush of energy that came with the first handout had abated, the lads went back and threw Australian cork hats into the stand. That was to commemorate Dazza being captain for the night. It caused a fucking sensation. Three all-new chants were born in the next hour.

"Dazza Smith's upside-down army! Dazza Smith's upside-down army!"

"He surfs, he shears, he drinks up all the beers, Darren Smith! Darren Smith!"

"Six foot four and eyes of blue, Dazza Smith will batter you!"

We were three-nil down after half an hour.

It's easy to concoct a plan that involves you probably losing a match, but it's much harder to live through it.

Each goal gave me a sinking feeling. Down. Down. Down you go. In a couple of days, Secretary Joe would send me a text telling me we'd received an email from the EFL. He would forward it to me. 'Weakened team blah blah blah repeat offence blah blah take your duties seriously bluh thirty thousand pound fine bleh'. I was getting furious just thinking about it, and instead of focusing on the match I was dreaming up replies. I needed something new, something cutting. That brilliant line - If the team's so weak why can't anyone beat it? - was no longer valid.

While the Oxford fans chanted, "You're getting sacked in the morning!" - funny - I thought about Saturday's post-match celebrations. We would walk up the steps, wouldn't we? Shuffle along a little aisle thing, shake hands with some dignitaries. A minor royal, perhaps, and the top dudes from the EFL. Collect our medals, lift up the trophy.

What if we didn't? What if we won, ran to our fans, then went to the dressing room to get pissed?

That thought gave me enormous pleasure, but that pleasure made me feel guilty. Every single one of my players would want a photo of themselves with the trophy. With the trophy and their kids. With the trophy and their dad.

It just pissed me off that the club was effectively being bullied by some nobodies in suits. Guys who had never played the sport. Never managed a team. Didn't understand.

Our fans understood, though. All our efforts were aimed at Wembley. Portsmouth would be formidable foes. We needed whatever edge we could get, and at the same time as our reserves were getting smashed by Oxford, Pompey had their strongest team in action. They would be tired, and they would only have three days to prepare for the final.

Advantage Chester.

But then came an unexpected moment. Peter Bauer moved the ball out of defence and passed to Omari, who was stood up by an opponent so played it towards the left touchline. Adam Summerhays ran onto it, moving it down the line into space, but instead of continuing forward, he thrashed the ball from deep towards the edge of the penalty area. Dazza was alert to that possibility - he had been in the Sin Bin when I had dug up footage of Adam playing that pass as a kid - and Dazza got on the end of it, took a touch, and lashed the ball home.

Three-one, and a consolation goal has never been celebrated so lustily. The Oxford fans must have thought we were crazy. Absolute limbs, scenes, bedlam, and that was just me and Sandra.

Portsmouth won and finished the day 10 points behind us. Both teams had 4 games left to play. There were 12 points available. Two of our matches were against third-placed Plymouth - tough - and Portsmouth themselves - super tough. We could still be caught!

***

Wednesday, April 7 - Three Days To Go

Squad Morale: 5.2

I went to Bumpers early to train before the worst of the construction noise started and because I was going to travel down to south Wales and hang out with Gwen from the Welsh FA before watching a match in Cardiff.

I started my session by doing loads of laps of the pitch - my stamina was good enough to play a full 90 and I wanted to keep it that way - then smashed loads of free kicks. My legs felt bouncy, the ball was sighing off my feet, and even my least-used skills were working. I took ten Rabona penalties against Sticky and scored all ten. There was a strange vibe surrounding the final, something I couldn't put my finger on, but one thing I knew for sure. I was going to put on a show.

***

I had a quick chat with Sandra and Physio Dean. All our reserves seemed to have come through the previous night's game without picking up any knocks. They would all be in good Condition by Saturday, so apart from Ryan Jack I had my entire squad to choose from.

As I was driving south, my phone buzzed. I saw that it was a message from Dean and it bugged me enough that I pulled into the next services to read it. Having done so, I slapped the steering wheel seven times, hard.

Dean: Christian Fierce has twisted his ankle badly. He's out for Saturday.

My captain was out. 

No!

No, no, no!

I ground my teeth. I planned to return to Wembley again and again, to make it my second home, but that wasn't going to happen in the next two years. We wouldn't be in a major cup final that we had a chance of winning for three. Even if we did get to a final, Christian would be nowhere near the first eleven, and he wouldn't want me to throw him on for the last two minutes as a sort of pity selection, a box-ticking exercise.

Christian Fierce would never play football at Wembley Stadium.

I slumped my head against the steering wheel before perking up a little. He was only 30. If he stayed with us next season, as planned, he could then move back to League One, playing for a team who took the Vans Trophy seriously.

No, I thought. That didn't work. He would hit his ceiling this coming season. CA 120. He wouldn't drop down so suddenly when he could theoretically play in the Championship for another 4 years. What about when he was, say, 36? He would be a good League One player, right? He would get another go.

Maybe.

Or not.

More likely... not.

I pictured him walking around Wembley Stadium in his best suit while the rest of us were in our training gear. He would put a brave face on it. Encourage us. He would be the best fucking non-playing captain he could possibly be.

"Fuuuuuck!"

I groaned and thumped my skull into the head rest.

Me: Okay. Please make sure he's all right. I'll call him when I get to Cardiff.

"Fuck!" I said, punching the steering wheel one more time, just in case that was the time that fixed things.

While I sat there, quietly fuming at life's injustices, my brain conjured up a simple idea. If Christian wasn't playing, who would be the captain on Saturday? Me. If we won, I would lift the trophy. I would be the centre of attention, the object of cheers while ticker tape cascaded all around me. I would be drenched in glory.

My jaw clenched, painfully, and I had to work hard to relax it. I looked at myself in the rear-view mirror and said, "Fuck you. Seriously."

***

I felt numb by the time I got to The Vale and met Gwen and the Welsh FA. Fortunately, they had very little interest in English competitions.

They were, however, ecstatic at the rivalry between Saltney and TNS - no broadcaster had been able to show a Welsh title race for about 15 years. TNS had simply won the league at a canter for a decade and a half. "Sorry," I said, "but this will be the only year it's a contest. I'm going to blow them out of the water next year. The two best teams in Wales will be Saltney and Saltney Reserves."

She smiled. "That's such a funny line."

"I know. But I'm really not joking."

Her eyes widened. "Shivers."

***

The match we watched was Cardiff City versus Hull in the Championship. Two big clubs that Chester would be playing next season so this was a perfect way to combine some politics with some scouting.

Cardiff had CA 127, Hull 126.

Yeah, a step above us, but nothing to keep me awake at night. I could imagine losing the first matches against each club when our players were still adjusting to life in tier two, but getting four points in the back half of the season. Repeat that for all the mid-ranked teams, beat the rubbish ones, and bosh - we would finish 14th or something.

Piece of piss.

Consolidate, then smash. We could start the second Championship season on CA 130, right? Adding 20 points across the board would be easy in the revamped Bumpers slash Saltney training complex. Who would max out? Andrew Harrison was one. He would be a candidate for the God Save the King boost, wouldn't he? In fact... maybe he would be the only candidate.

Gwen took my thoughtfulness to mean I was bored, and - very kindly - tried to engage me in a topic she thought I would want to talk about.

"Are you nervous about the cup final?"

"Not yet," I said, as I scanned the coaching staff and compared their coaching numbers to their wages. There didn't seem to be much rhyme or reason to how people were paid. "I'm sure the nerves will come on, like, Friday night. I'm okay with not being stressed all the time. Last season was intense and I remember promising myself I would have more fun this time around. Well, the stakes got higher and I had to keep being intense to get where I needed to go. But I've done that, right? I've kept my promises to everyone. We got promoted, we're going to Wembley, everyone's gonna get paid. I think I'm allowed to just, I don't know, run around a bit. Kick a ball a bit."

Gwen didn't reply for a while, but then in a soft voice, said, "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm great. Everything's great."

***

Thursday, April 8 - Two Days To Go

Squad Morale: 5.7

I was in the gym running fast on a treadmill while watching footage of Portsmouth before and after they signed Matt Rush. I had told Spectrum exactly what I was looking for and he had delivered, beautifully. I closed the video file and swiped to the graphs and charts Spectrum had whipped up. They confirmed what I strongly suspected - Pompey had been transformed by Rushy's arrival. If they beat us in the final, the toxic gammons who ran Manchester United - Rushy's parent club - would laugh their heads off.

Bones, the club doctor, ran into the gym; I slowed. "Boss," she said, having picked up the lingo from everyone else. "Colin has a hamstring tweak."

"You're fucking joking."

"I'm really not. Dean said to tell you right away."

I pushed and pulled at my forehead, worked my scalp, tried to get some brain activity going. Nothing doing. I left the iPad on the treadmill and followed Bones through the door, through the entrance area, and out into the morning air.

She said, "This is bad, right?"

"Yeah," I muttered.

"How bad, though?"

"From what perspective?"

Bones considered that. "From the perspective of us winning on Saturday."

I stopped walking, and she stopped, too. She didn't know the squad very well so it was a fair question. "It's not a knockout blow. Neither is Christian's injury. Fitzroy is great, Dazza is great. Of course you lose something when you lose a guy like Christian but you gain something different from Fitz."

I walked forward ten paces, then stopped again.

"You can't just shrug off losing two key players. Our bench will be much, much weaker. Every time there's a collision you'll look around and see a talented youngster instead of a battle-hardened veteran. Your nerves will get more and more shredded." I did a thousand-yard stare. "This whole week seems to have been designed to raise the tension."

"Oh, God."

We walked on, but once again I stopped. "It's my job to cope with these setbacks. I can cope. This is why we give minutes to our squad players. So that they're ready to step up. You're gonna see a lot of devastation around the place in the next couple of days but it's not about how these injuries affect the team. It might sound sappy but it's the human factor.

"Christian might never get another chance to play at Wembley. Ditto Colin, except in his case it's even worse because not only is this definitely his last chance but the last time he was at a club that got to a Wembley cup final, he did his hamstring right before it. The only time he ever hurt his hamstring. Today's the second time. Ever. You get me? It's unthinkable that it's happened again. Actually, unthinkable is the right word. This is a cosmic joke. A sick joke."

I frowned, wondering if Old Nick and the imps had something to do with it. They wouldn't, though. Not only did they have no motivation but they knew that hurting my players would be the fastest way to make me quit.

No, it was just the universe once more proving that we lived in the shittest timeline.

I tried to gather some composure and pushed through the doors of the medical cabins.

Colin was on a treatment table, on his back, facing the ceiling, looking wretched.

"All right?" I said, cheerily.

"No, boss. It's happened again."

I checked his profile. In the Injuries section, it said 'possible hamstring injury'. His Attributes were stable - nothing red - but his Condition had fallen to 92%. Something was wrong with him. "Talk to me."

"I was just warming up, we was all making jokes about who was gonna score the most goals at Wemblee..." The way he pronounced the word was heart-breaking. Like a little kid. "And then - argh! Not again. I couldn't believe it. I can't believe it."

I rubbed my forehead so hard my thumb left streaks. "Dean?"

"It's hard to say, Max. We'll know more tomorrow. It doesn't seem..." He looked up at me, with hope in his eyes. "What do you think?"

"I think..." What did I think? Now that I was in the room, looking at the patient, watching him relive one of the worst moments of his life... I couldn't help but think it was all in his head. The curse disagreed with me. The curse said something was wrong. "Colin, does your hamstring hurt?"

"Stings, boss. It's not torn, but it's, you know. Frayed."

I held my hand out. Rock steady. "Okay, here's what we're gonna do. This doesn't leave this room, okay?" The others tensed. The air got thicker. Thick with intrigue. "Colin, you're gonna chill the fuck out, okay? Do you know what a day spa is?"

He leaned back on the table and put his hands over his face. When he took them away, he was smiling. "Yes, boss."

"Are you rich enough to check into one today or does tiny, impoverished Chester FC have to pay for you to go?"

"I can pay, boss."

I grinned and went next to him. "Dean's gonna get you an emergency session with Nicole right now. Then you're gonna chill. Get in the pool, swim around. Tomorrow morning you'll do the same. You can get down to London late if you need but I want you in the sauna, in the steam room, lounging by the pools listening to the plinky plonky music."

Dean said, "Oh, Max! I meant to tell you. I ordered Plinky Plonky Hits volume 27 and it arrived this morning. Will I put it on?"

"No - lend it to Colin. He needs it more."

Colin was shaking his head, biting his lip. "I get it. You don't think I'm hurt."

"I do but I don't think it's major. Okay, now here's the kicker. Dean will tell you I don't say this very often, but I'm willing to let you play hurt, mate. We will assess you again tomorrow and on Saturday morning but basically what I'm thinking is that if you start on Saturday, play five minutes, and shred your hamstring so bad it looks like pulled pork, who cares? You've got the whole summer to recover but you'll always have that five minutes of playing at Wembley.

"This isn't me being sentimental," I lied, "just that I think you've got a good half in you, at least. If the vibe on Saturday morning is that you don't want to risk it - absolutely no problem. But basically, it'll be your call."

"What if I start on the bench and I come on for five minutes at the end?"

"That's less appealing to me," I said. "But we can see." I looked from Bones to Dean and then back at Colin. "Why the fuck aren't you on your phone booking a spa? Call your wife. Get a babysitter. You're still not moving. What the fuck is happening?"

Colin smiled. I put my hand out and pulled him up. He slid off the table. "Thanks, gaffer."

"Before you go," I said. "I'm just thinking about who else would suffer the most if they picked up an injury, since we seem to be doing a Final Destination speedrun. Who do you think would be most gutted to miss Wembley?"

"You," said Colin.

My head snapped back. Why would he think that? "Er, no. The correct answer is Jonny Planter."

"What?" said Colin.

"The groundskeeper?" said Bones.

I explained. "I think Jonny's talented. Elite. Well respected in his field, cue laughter from middle-aged men who refuse to explain the joke to me. Like, Jonny is the Max Best of mowing lawns and poking them with tridents. But he's absolutely in awe of the guy who does the pitches at Wembley."

"Pitches plural?" said Dean.

"Yeah, they've got loads. They slide them in and out, right? They've got an NFL one that's got different, um, gravity to the others."

"Gravity?" said Bones.

I shook my head. "That's what they talk about, those groundsmen. They're bonkers. They literally breathe grass. Kind of like Diggy Doggy!" That got a much bigger laugh than it should have. "Why am I talking about this? Oh, yeah. Before you go, Colin, can you have a chat with Jonny? Every time there's an injury on the main pitch he takes it personally like he did a bad job and the gravity's wrong and all that. And it'll be good for the mood in the camp to see you up and about and smiling."

"Sure, Max. Sure."

***

Sec Joe: Max, we got the email. The EFL are fining us £60,000. It's unbelievably steep. I'm almost in tears.

Me: Sorry, Joe. Bet you wish you were still living the quiet life in non-league, eh?

Sec Joe: Turns out they weren't tears. Someone was cutting an onion. 60 grand? A drop in the ocean, haha. (Please don't leave us.)

Me: Mate, do you need a spa day? I won't let those bastards get me down.

***

Briggy drove me down to the Midlands for my last piece of grinding for the 2026/2027 season.

It was a UEFA Conference knockout match between Premier League Wolves and Fiorentina, an Italian club with one of the best kits in the game. A truly gorgeous purple thing that was set against the home team's 'Old Gold'. Mwah!

"It's weird, this," I said. "I played in the first qualifying round for this tournament. That was July 9th last year and it's still going on."

"Has the season worn you down, Max?"

"Er... yeah. Not as much as some other seasons because this time I had a few good breaks. It's still a grind, isn't it? July to April via Gibraltar, Germany, and Scandi. And there's still a month to go for some clubs. Six weeks, in some cases. It's mad. I couldn't do this for the next forty years."

"When will you stop?"

"Amazing question," I said. "See that guy there? Wolves 17? He has scored 4 goals from 38 appearances this season and he's bagging a hundred grand a week." I paused. "Reckon I've got a few years left in me."

Briggy snorted. "I bet."

"Hey," I said. "Do you... Are you sort of enjoying yourself or whatever?"

She looked up at the night sky. "Max, I'm not one of your lovesick hangers-on. Can you just come out and ask me what you want to ask me?"

Lovesick hangers-on? The hell? "I would like you to stay next season, but only if you're enjoying yourself."

"I'm enjoying myself."

"Okay."

"You can't afford me."

"How does 20 pounds an hour sound?"

"It sounds like you want a punch."

That tickled me. "I can pay you a bit from Chester and some from Maxterplanalytics. Little bits from Gibraltar and whatnot. Are you comfortable having multiple bank accounts spread out across all sorts of tax havens?"

She eyed me. "Stop blabbing. We'll work it out." She pointed to the pitch. "What's happening?"

Mostly what was happening was that I was earning 7 XP per minute, which was just the tonic after a strangely draining week. Experience points were a proxy for the concept that by watching the game I could learn the game, and it was indeed very interesting to note the tactics on display and how they clashed. "Wolves are doing a 4-3-3 that morphs into a 4-1-4-1 and some tangential setups. A lot of Prem teams do this basic thing with the main difference being how they use the 3 in midfield. Wolves are geared towards counter-attacks, which is perfectly valid. Fiorentina are doing 4-2-3-1." I sighed.

"What?"

"No, it's good. I've been watching, trying to convince myself that I prefer how Wolves are playing, but that's just because I'm bored of 4-2-3-1. Being honest, I can't deny its efficiency. Efficiency, though. What a terrible word. I mean, it's one I use loads but I'm the manager of fucking Chester. I have the lowest budget wherever I go. I have no choice but to talk about efficiency, right? If you're a solid Premier League or Serie A team, can't you aspire to entertain? To be cool, innovative, interesting? Jesus actual Christ. Do you know what I mean?"

"No. What else should they do?"

I tutted. "I don't know. There are, like, four defensive midfielders on the pitch right now. How about the managers get together and say, if we've got the same number each, let's make it zero! Let's both play 3-3-4 and see what happens!"

"You're talking shit now, right?"

"Big time. But I tell you what, if they did that, every fan in this stadium would remember tonight forever. How is it so unthinkable that two managers would get together and agree to make a match actually fun to watch? I mean, Christ. Sport should be fun, shouldn't it? You're paying big money to watch a match here and you should be entertained." I shook my head. "On Saturday, I'm gonna be a dreamweaver. Gonna make some memories. I've got some skills in my locker I haven't busted out since I was a mystery winger for Darlington. This week, the more the tension has increased, the more those skills have been working. 80,000 people are gonna lose their goddamn minds."

Briggy's phone buzzed. She looked at it. "Your friend Beth wants to do an interview about Wembley."

"Tell her no. I don't promote EFL products." Briggy started tapping away. "What? No sassy comment telling me not to be petty?"

"Nope. They have stolen a hundred grand from you this season. Fuck 'em."

"Fuck 'em," I agreed, before giving Briggy a rare squeeze - she enjoyed it! - and concentrating on the match once more.

***

Partway through the second half, the week's grinding paid off. I crossed 4,000 XP and I used it to buy Attributes 11.

When I unlocked a new Attribute there was always the same animation. On a nameless player profile, a yellow cell jumped around the empty spaces. This time, when the animation slowed and came to a stop, it did so at the top of the middle column. The yellow cell dissolved, revealing the hidden word:

FLAIR

"Huh," I said.

"What?" said Briggy.

Flair was an Attribute I had wanted to unlock when I first became interested in Relationism. That 'freestyle' way of playing seemed like it would be much easier if you had a team of players with high flair. "I used to think that Bestball, as you call it to annoy me, needed high flair. I've stepped away from that particular viewpoint to an extent, but yeah, I still want players who can do cool things with a football, who can get out of trouble with a neat flick or an unexpected scoop, players who will thrill the crowd."

"Oh-kay..." said Briggy, warily.

"There's a Flair Attribute in Soccer Supremo," I said. "I haven't paid it much attention until now. It's, ah... It seems like a luxury, doesn't it? You put the ball between your feet, flick it up over your head behind a defender. It's funny but it's kinda pointless and you'll just get a smack from the defender. What's the point?" I pulled at my lip.

"This train of thought you're on. Does it arrive at 'How to Beat Portsmouth Station'?"

I thought that was hilarious. "I know how to beat Portsmouth. I've got a super simple plan. I'm not thinking about them."

"If I may be so bold, sir," she said, in a sarcastic impression of the Brig, "why the fuck not?"

I didn't reply, but simply smiled and went through my squad screens and filtered by Flair.

In the men's squad, the Flair leaders were Wibbers, Roddy Jones, and Dan Badford. It amused to note that my Brazilians were all in single digits. Hadn't I gone there with the avowed intention of finding some guys who could do tricks? "Briggy."

"What?"

"Did you know that before I went to Brazil I swore to everyone I wouldn't come back with a player called Gabriel?"

"We can stop talking about football now, I think."

I switched to the women's squad and the numbers immediately jumped up. My talented midfielders were high on Flair. Sarah Greene had 15, Dani 17, Kisi 20. Too much Flair, that girl. Meredith Ann was on 15. I hypothesised that this number would slowly decrease over the course of her career as she became more interested in her stats than her TikTok highlights. That would be a win for her and her team, but a loss for the sport.

"It's just a natural progression, isn't it?" I mused. "Some numbers are supposed to go down."

"Use your inside voice."

My mind returned to the link I had assumed existed between Flair and Relationism. I had actually used that module less and less with the men's team, especially after I had sold Duggers and Pascal. But I still dipped into it quite often with the women. Why? Because I trusted them to do it better. Because with their overall high Flair, it was a more effective option. Was that me running home to hide under my biases, or was I responding to something I instinctively knew to be true?

Now that I had unlocked the attribute, I could do some real-life testing. That could be a mission for the rest of the season and for the summer. I would have four transfer windows before Chester played in the Premier League - if I needed to bring in some players with high Flair, it would be possible.

I dipped into the other three squads I had in my head. Bayern Munich's players were as expected. The gaggle of attacking midfielders had high scores, the solid defenders didn't. I went through the squad more slowly, looking for surprises, but the only mild one was Li Anjie, the Singaporean winger who wasn't really at the level of the rest of the squad. His flair was 17, which he hadn't displayed even once in training.

The levels at College 1975 in Gibraltar were fairly abysmal. The most surprising result there was with Sardena, the goalkeeper. He had Flair 14! Why?! He was lucky he didn't try some cool flick or skill when I was there because I would have melted his face off.

The last group I had immediate access to was Chester's under 18s. Their scores were generally pretty high. If my theory was right, Bestball would work great with them. Win the FA Youth Cup again? Don't mind if I do.

***

XP balance: 349

***

Friday, April 9 - One Day to Go

Squad Morale: 4.9

The Chester cup final squad (minus the spa-bound Colin) boarded Sealbiscuit and shortly after, it pulled out of Bumpers. For some reason, when we got to the exit we normally took, the driver kept going, bringing us through the city centre. Evidence of cup fever was everywhere. The buzz on the team bus went up a few notches as randos saw us driving past and we watched them literally lose their minds.

Squad Morale: 5.2

I waved back, trying to show our fans that I was just as excited as they were.

I was sure it would come.

The nerves, the butterflies, they were just being masked by the tension, right?

The ever-rising tension.

One piece of good news that somehow made my shoulder muscles turn rock solid was that Colin Beckton's Injury tab no longer suspected him of having a dodgy hamstring. Great, but his Condition score was only 94%.

If there was nothing wrong with him, it should have been 100%. Why wasn't it?

I used a knuckle to tap against my teeth.

Why wasn't it?

***

Squad Morale: 4.3

The long trip drained everyone, and the Morale rollercoaster continued.

Whatever was happening inside the player's heads, they acted professionally. We got to the hotel, decompressed, and did a presentation about our tactics, and the strengths and weaknesses of the oppo.

The players listened and asked questions. Even the spare lads we had brought in case of late injuries were alert, paying attention, absorbing all the information.

Squad Morale: 4.1

Okay, what the actual hell was going on with our Morale? 

I decided that it was just nerves. Which of my players had any experience of anything close to this final? Colin and Ryan, who quite possibly wouldn't be playing. Wibbers had the Youth Cup final, which had been played at Old Trafford. He and Magnus had some European experience. Youngster, Dazza, and Gabby had played in the under 20 World Cup. None of it compared.

We were young and raw. I decided to let the Morale swing. Everyone had to deal with their anxiety in their own way, didn't they? As actors loved to say when rehearsals were going terribly, it'll be all right on the night.

We went to a function room that we had turned into a players lounge. The hotel had brought up some comfy sofas, there were tables with decks of cards and board games, and there was a long table with stuff that fans had sent in. Letters from oldsters with fading photos of them watching Chester as a young 'un. Drawings from schoolkids that showed footballers holding a trophy. Notes, gifts, trinkets, good luck charms.

Squad Morale: 4.4

I played cards with Adam Summerhays, Fitzroy, and Joel.

I let Nasa beat me at chess.

I went to see what Wibbers, Omari, and Bark were doing, which was going through their socials.

They showed me clips of fans from around the world making their way to London. From Slovakia, from Texas, from Germany. One Australian was on his way from Thailand. "Dazza!" I shouted across the room. "Your brother's a fucking maniac."

"You're right there, cobber," came the reply. Something like that, anyway.

The clips kept coming. There was a die-hard Portsmouth fan who was married to a Chester lass - surely the only instance of such a partnership in the entirety of human history - and they were getting ready to travel to the match together but weren't actually speaking. Wibbers liked that I liked that one. "They're not gonna talk until after the final whistle! They're just leaving each other notes!"

Squad Morale: 4.6

"Oh, shit," said Omari.

"What?" said Wibbers.

We gathered around Omari's phone and saw a video from Portsmouth's official account. They had collected about 50 coaches in one spot. This actual armada would be taking hordes of fans from the south coast to the capital. Pompey Always Take More, came the caption. It was cheesy but somehow intimidating. "We outnumbered," said Omari.

Squad Morale: 3.9

"All right," I said, loudly. I'd had enough of the wild mood swings. That was my trademark. "Shut the fuck up!"

I clambered up a chair and onto a table. Some of the guys were chilling with headphones on. Their neighbours slapped them on the arm. Soon I had everyone's attention.

"We're all nervous," I said, which wasn't strictly true. "It's a big day tomorrow. But we're prepared. We've got a killer tactic. We're fresher, fitter, better. It's like Emma says when I ask her to take a spider out of the bathtub for me..."

This got some good giggles, and Morale flew up.

"They are more afraid of us than we are of them. Think about it. We're nervous because of the occasion. Pompey are nervous because they have to play us!" That got some cheers. I grinned while I slowly rotated, making eye contact with as many people as I could. "We're ready. We're prepared. Be nervous. Enjoy it! Next time we get to Wembley you'll all be going, oh, this dump again?"

More smiles, more Morale jumps.

"Look, don't make yourselves crazy tonight. Don't be up on your phone seeing how big it all is. It's big. We know that. But we can fucking handle it!"

Christian shouted 'Come onnnnn!' and there was a full-throated roar from everyone in that room.

Squad Morale: 6.3

I landed the plane. "So when you get to your room, after you've checked for spiders, go to the bathroom mirror, look yourself in the eye and say, I'm ready for Wembley; Wembley isn't ready for me!"

...

Thanks for your support!

If you left a review about Soccer Supremo on Royal Road, thanks! There were so many so quickly that other writers have thrown a hissy fit and demanded the admins take action. Your review might have been deleted. It's bonkers stuff but the point is that the response to my call out was so incredible that it is literally unbelievable, and that makes me very happy.

You are the Max Best of leaving fulsome reviews, and I am happy to be the Emma of this relationship. Okay, now to write a cup final. (One person in the discord theorised that I might skip it and just mention the match in passing. That would be TOO experimental, I think!)

Also it won't be called Que Sera Sera. I have this stupid thing about not giving away spoilers in chapter titles and it would 'spoil' that there's a Wembley arc.