4.2 - Judgement Day

23.

Extract from the unedited transcript of the Chester Fans Trust Mid-Season Forum dated Wednesday, 1st February.

Those present include DoF, MD, first team manager, Board members (Bulldog, Sean, Ollie, Barnesy, Ruth), Club Secretary.

Not for distribution. NOT for distribution.

.

Club Secretary: Moving on... item two, review of transfer dealings.

Sean: On a point of order, Mister Chairman.

Club Secretary: Go ahead, Sean.

Sean: I call for a vote of no confidence in Director of Football Max Best.

Ollie: I second the motion.

Ruth: This isn't a Board meeting.

Sean: We can't wait that long. Most of the Board are here. Let's bin him off before he finishes wrecking the club.

MD: Sean, sit down. This is a place for discussion.

Sean: I vote we discuss binning him before he finishes wrecking the club.

Ollie: I second the motion.

Ruth: Oh, do grow up.

Club Secretary: He's right. Most of the Board are here. We could form a quorum.

MD: Joe!

Club Secretary: It's the statutes!

MD: You just like saying quorum.

Max Best: All right, guys. Take your best shot. Get a majority of people here to agree with you and I'll walk out right now.

MD: Max!

Best: I always said, if I can't even persuade half the fans, it's not going to work. Let's just check the rules. Sean, can women vote in this?

Sean: Of course.

Best: Ooh, Sean's gone woke, everyone! [Laughs.]

MD: Max, this is serious.

Best: Yep.

Club Secretary: A full vote? This is most irregular. I don't have ballot slips. We need pencils. Dozens and dozens of pencils.

MD: Don't worry about it. It won't come to that. Sean, what's on your mind?

Sean: Since Max Best came to the club, we've won one game. One game in the whole of January.

Best: Your Honour, I would like many other defeats to be taken into consideration.

MD: What?

Best: Every match Chester City and Chester FC lost since the day I was born. I'm to blame for those, too.

Sean: That's not... that's not what I'm saying. Don't try to make me look stupid. I'm saying he was brought in to make things better. But it's worse. You all know he's got his clients here. You can't be in charge of a club and be an agent to some of the players. That's what killed Oldham. And his clients aren't that good. Not worth having this drama about. He tells us Lyons is the best striker in the league, but he's scored, what, three goals? Two of those were easy headers from perfect crosses from a player who played one game and left because Max has shit relationships with agents. He wants to turn us into some kind of vegan club. That video he made! It was all over the Wrexham fan boards. They were pissing themselves. We're a laughing stock. Okay maybe we'd put up with a load of snowflake shit if he was scoring goals, but he isn't. He promised to play, but he hasn't played a minute. Last I heard, he was training with the goalkeepers! We all read the article - he chickened out of the match against our main rivals!

Best: Article? What article?

Sean: That article is full of shameful stuff. Not letting players shoot? Not letting parents attend games? I happen to know he released a good young player for playing sensible passes. In that piece it says, there's an actual football expert there who says, yeah Best has some tricks but he'll get found out and won't win another game. And he was right! They didn't. So even this so-called success of his was just smoke and mirrors, like the writer said. He promised us local signings but he's brought in a German dwarf, a Bible Basher who is also - shock - his client, and a deaf girl. Yell all you want, but she's deaf. She can't play to a high level.

Ollie: I agree with that.

Best: There's nothing on the Manchester Evening News website.

Sean: Everyone I talk to tells me he's erratic and nothing he does makes any sense. He winds people up. Employees are quitting or thinking about it. He has no sense of priority. He barely watches the first team, but he's off at youth tournaments which, I'm sorry, aren't that important. They're just not. And a couple of weeks ago he was watching Burnley instead of us! He's acting like the son of a billionaire who's bought a football team. He doesn't seem to realise we're in a hole and he's doing most of the digging.

Ollie: I second everything Sean said.

Best: And you do it very well.

Ollie: You think you're funny but you're not.

Best: I'd like to hear more about my bad relationships with agents, please.

Sean: Jack Litherland got himself a transfer to Solihull and the agent made sure it happened late in the day so that we couldn't get a replacement. See? Look at his face! He doesn't even deny it.

Best: The timing was certainly unfortunate, but I can't believe an agent would deliberately make himself unpopular with an entire club just to annoy one little guy.

Sean: Maybe he thinks you won't be around long.

Best: Ah, is that it?

MD: What do you mean, Max?

Best: Nothing.

Sean: So are we going to vote or what?

Ruth: We haven't heard the other side, you cretin. And we're going to be a vegan club? What are you blabbing on about?

MD: Max made a joke about it. We're not becoming a vegan club. Sean, if you'd like a serious discussion, can we stick to things that are real?

Best: To be fair, I did have oats for breakfast yesterday. It was quite filling.

MD: We could address the real points one at a time, maybe? Ian, you're in charge of the first team. Do you assign any blame to Max for performances since he arrived?

Ian Evans: I think Best does his job the way he plays. Very fast, takes big shots, somewhat indisciplined.

Sean: See?

Evans: But why would he be to blame for anything I do, Sean? The first team's my responsibility. End of.

Sean: I heard he made a substitution from up in the Director's Box.

Evans: What? What are you saying? That I'm not in charge of my team? Watch your mouth.

Best: He means when Trick Williams was hobbling on the other side of the pitch from you and I told Dean to check him out.

Evans: He'd done his quad! He'd done his quad, Sean! Is that what you talk about? That Ian Evans isn't in charge of his own team? That Ian Evans doesn't pick his own team? Is that what you tell each other?

Best: Ian, who's the best striker in this division?

Evans: Henri Lyons by a country mile.

Best: It's actually me, but you're close enough.

Unknown Fan 1: Then why don't you play?

Best: Problem with my registration. Paperwork stuff. We're going to London on Valentine's Day to sort it out.

Fan 1: Why haven't you told us?

Best: I wouldn't have played anyway. I've been working pretty hard.

Sean: Going to Burnley.

Best: Yes. And Rotherham. And Anglesey. And Swindon.

Unknown Fan 2: Can I say something?

MD: Please do.

Fan 2: My son is the goalkeeper for the Chester Knights. The disabled team. Max stayed with us the first weekend he was here and he was a lovely boy. He told all kinds of crazy stories and my son was very charmed. But I've been finding out those stories were true! That article confirmed he was the manager of a women's team in Manchester. They beat Manchester City! The writer of the article was the captain. I even emailed her to check!

Best: What's this article? Beth's article is out? Someone send it to me.

Fan 2: Anyway, we went to the tournament in Crewe. I'm sure you've seen clips of Max coaching that deaf girl. You can't believe what it was like in there. Talk about goosebumps! The atmosphere was like nothing else. He took a nobody and turned her into a superstar in ten minutes! And that's our Director of Football. I'm so proud when I think our head of football takes time to come and see my little boy play... I'm sorry, just give me a moment. I can tell you all now, we're the envy of the rest. Terry says everyone wants to come and play for us, now. Parents who turned us down before have done a 180. People are calling from Ellesmere, from Warrington. So no, Sean, we're not a laughing stock. We're the opposite.

Best: The Wizard of Oz had eleven writers? When did I say that? [Laughs.] She's shameless.

Bulldog: Me next, I suppose. The things I do... My son, T, is in the youth system. He's the one from the article everyone except Max Best has read. I think I've suffered from Max's craziness more than anyone here. I've had sleepless nights from being so stressed and angry. He's denied me one of the biggest joys in my life - watching my son play football and play it well. If this is a vote about wanting to slap Max Best in the face, I'm in. If this is a vote about cracking his head open in the alley outside, I'm probably still in. If this is a vote about football, what the hell are we even doing? With all due respect to Ian, when it comes to football the guy's on another level to anyone else here. Yeah, one coach quit because of him. And guess who's his biggest fan, now? The same coach. He thinks Max should be the next first team manager. Sean, you were trying to make training with the goalies seem like a bad thing. He's a winger. What does he know about goalies? Nothing. So he's learning. He wants to be better at his job. It's dim, even for you, to try to use that against him.

Best: The Munchkins! Don't tell me the whole thing is... It is! This is amazing.

MD: Max, can you read that later?

Best: Fine. Guys, listen. I appreciate the defence and everything but Sean's problem seems to be that other fans are laughing at us. I don't give a shit what other fans think. I only care what you think. It's just us. This time yesterday I was really happy. I thought I'd had a five-star January. We found a few little gems for the youth teams, we did well in two youth tournaments, we signed two big talents, we got the women's team financed and started, Jack and James had improved the first team.

MD: The sponsors loved the video.

Best: Right. Generally, there was a feeling that the numbers were going up, across the board. I'll be honest, now, the Jack Litherland fiasco was a gut punch. I felt sick. I've been curled up in a ball the whole day. And it's worse because we still had just enough time to fix it. If I'd been in the game longer, had more contacts, had a list of six left-backs who could come in and do a job for us, six clubs we could call late in the window... but I don't. Not yet. So yeah, not a good end to my day. But that's the last time anyone's going to do that to us. This time next year, we'll have talented young players in every position, in every age group. Agents can try to pull our pants down. Other clubs can try to take our players. We won't win every battle. But we'll always have a plan B. Plan B isn't loans and scrambling around to fill holes in the squad. Plan B is talent. We signed a nine-year-old. When's he going to make his debut? Ten years. That's the horizon, now. He's going to be a right-back, but I've told the coaches I want him to play twenty percent of his matches at left-back. Because a decade from now we might need him to fill in.

Unknown Fan 3: I play five-a-side and Sunday League and I've seen Max scouting at three of my matches. He said he'd scour Cheshire and he's doing that. He didn't sign me so maybe he's not as good a scout as he thinks, but he's fucking grinding like he said he would.

Best: Are you Jed Fry?

Fan 3: Yes.

Best: [Laughs.] You're not a striker, mate. Give it up.

Audience: [Jeers].

Fan 3: I am. No, really!

Best: Come on, be serious now. Drop to left-mid. There's that guy Rory. Let him go up front.

Fan 3: Rory's our best centre-back!

Best: Put Rick and Lucas at CB.

MD: Max, maybe we could get back to the topic.

Best: The topic was, what, the way Sean and Ollie know way more about football than me?

Audience: [Laughs.]

Best: All right, listen up. I'm not going anywhere. I just started. And it's been a good start, with one bump in the road. Sean and Ollie, I've been poking fun at you tonight but here's the thing - I plan to be here for years, but you'll still be Chester fans long after I'm gone. You can support your team any way you want, even if that means making weird allies and trying to get me out. I can take it. And Pascal and Youngster can take it, too. Your hate will inspire them. But I made a promise to the deaf player. I promised her that the Chester FC community would be right behind her, all the way. I promised her that in this stadium, in this city, she'd never have to defend her right to exist. So if you don't think this amazingly talented young girl deserves a chance to show what she can do, same as Tyson, same as Benny, then you need to step down from the Board.

Audience: [Cheers and yells.]

Best: Ian Evans Blue and White Army! Ian Evans Blue and White Army!

Audience: [Ear-splitting chanting.]

Audience: [Applauds itself.]

Club Secretary: Item three on the agenda. Bathrooms in the Harry McNally Terrace Not Cleaned Often Enough.

***

The Fans Forum cost me. I was already drained and exhausted when the Jack Litherland hammer blow fell. That pushed me into something like despair. Turning up at the Forum, smiling, wearing the mask of the uncaring, aloof boy genius, that pushed me over the edge into burnout. Being attacked by the morons didn't affect me much, but being defended by Chesterkid's mum and Bulldog was more than I could take. Why was that? No clue, but their interventions helped me find some reserve of resolve, one last reload, and I gave Sean and Ollie, the pricks, both barrels.

Chanting for Ian Evans was the natural extension of my emotional state and my whole 'We Are Us' mania, possibly influenced by the fact I was teamwork 20. Or maybe the whole thing was pure self-defence, and my scarred, scabbed psyche was simply lashing out in a crowd-friendly way. The plot Sean and Bradley Rymarquis had hatched had one big flaw - I was fucking incredible at crowd dynamics. Influence 20, bitch.

But it all came at a price. I was a natural introvert. I'd spent years alone, and while I couldn't help but get myself into conflict, I hated it. I hated every second of it. Since I'd become a player, my release valve had been playing. Running fast, smashing shots, winding up crowds. Brad had taken that away from me. Add in a large dollop of financial stress, the humiliation of being tricked, our slide towards relegation, and I was really struggling.

So I spent a few days in Henri's house in Darlington, only leaving to attend matches - solo - to grind for XP in case I ever felt like doing my job again.

Thursday morning I watched a season of Bojack Horseman - depressing as fuck, hit the spot. In the afternoon I finally started Catch-22 - incredible, a masterpiece, depressing as fuck, would read again. And that night I started going through Rolling Stone's top 500 albums, hoping to find new music to get enthusiastic about, mostly while lying flat on the floor, eating cheese slices. Nothing really spoke to me.

I tormented myself with worries. Was I so unlikeable that everyone would always turn against me? Was I so naive that the unscrupulous would always try to exploit me? Was there something wrong with me in my very core? Some fatal flaw that meant everything would always turn to shit?

It was this thought that stopped me scouting. What was the point bringing more talent to Chester if I got sacked and the Seans and the Ollies took over? If I wasn't there to stop the bullying and the banter, people like Trick Williams and D-Day would make my signings' lives miserable until they quit. I knew I should have used Playdar anyway, just in case, but I didn't feel like chasing beams of light. The tool had to serve me, not I the tool.

On Friday evening, I put on my cleanest hoodie and drove to Birmingham to watch West Bromwich Albion host Coventry City in the Championship.

The match was interesting in some ways, most notably because Coventry played a 3-4-2-1 formation I'm sure I'd never seen before. I could imagine some use cases for having two CAMs, especially if the other team were heavily into man-marking. But even as I picked up a good chunk of XP, I was mostly thinking about the National League North league table.

Pos. Team Played GoalDiff Pts

19. Blyth Spartans 29  -24 35

20. Chester 30  -11 33

21. Leamington 28  -12 31

22. Bradford 29  -21 29

23. Kettering 30  -23 26

24. AFC Telford 31  -34 18

Every team would finish the season having played 46 matches, so we had 16 left to go. Our goal difference was not so bad, thanks to Ian Evans's defensive nous. If Leamington drew their two games in hand, we'd still be above them on goal difference. Of course, if they won even one of their games in hand, we'd drop into the relegation zone outright.

Ian Evans... he'd been fairly supportive, all things considered, at the Forum. There was a moment he seemed to turn, though. That was when Bulldog had said that Spectrum thought I should be the next manager. Evans had glowered at me and folded his arms. I'm fairly sure they stayed that way the rest of the night, even as I led the entire room in a rousing rendition of his chant.

God, trying to work out how everyone was thinking and feeling was all so exhausting.

But what my black mood boiled down to was the simple fact that I was powerless. I couldn't change the squad, and I couldn't influence the tactics. If I found another Raffi or another Youngster, it'd be a year before they were ready to play. So the squad was the squad and Ian Evans was Ian Evans.

The crowd noise picked up: West Brom had a fast break. Exciting, but it came to nothing.

I brought the table up on my phone again. Telford, there, languishing at the bottom, were doomed. If I'd gone to Telford as Player-Manager, this whole mess never would have happened. Right? Even if my enemies had pulled the same registration trick, I'd have been managing the team. We'd have won a few more, drawn a few more. We'd have been creeping up on Chester, starting to climb above the very worst teams. No chance Telford would have gone down under my management. No chance.

Maybe the worst thing of all was that I knew another big defeat was coming at the FA hearing. It was a fight I couldn't win - it was a fight I couldn’t fight. I'd been fighting for so long, and I didn't have it in me to fight any more. Four randos and one imp would get some free shots at me and I'd have to take the blows. Then I'd gather my strength and fucking destroy all comers, starting the summer.

The best thing to come out of the Forum had been getting the link to Beth's article. Apart from a few outright lies which I had to admit tied the narrative together in an interesting way, it was really quite truthful. She'd always dumbed herself down, tried to make herself seem like a real girl. But the article proved she was whip-smart, observant, and hard-working. She must have interviewed everybody there, unless she made half of it up. Somehow I didn't think she'd invented any quotes except for mine. She felt that I owed her, so she could take a liberty or two. Or maybe she thought I'd appreciate the storytelling aspect of it.

Regardless, I thought it was a wonderful piece of writing. Maybe it was only because I was in it, but I found it incredibly addictive. When the Forum was over and I'd shaken enough hands, I slipped out. As soon as I got to my freezing cold office in the bowels of the stadium, I read the article five times in a row, and I'd read it another five times since.

The Daily Mail, though. Ugh. Beth was ambitious, tough, and ruthless. Basically a good person but if someone charismatic told her to do something slightly unscrupulous for the greater good, she'd do it. I knew that from experience. Why had she always pretended to be a bit dim? Odd. On the subject of hiding one's true nature, I needed to be even more careful with the whole wizard thing. Beth had spotted me literally tapping my screens - I wasn't aware I sometimes did that. Hands in pockets for the next match!

Back in the present day, West Brom scored, and continued to have the edge in a chaotic match. Good fun, but not enough to take my mind off my troubles.

The next day I traveled to Swansea to watch them play Birmingham while Chester were losing two-one at home to Spennymoor. I watched the highlights later. Doug Walker filled in at left-back, which he was capable of doing when Aff was around to help him out. With Aff injured, the role was a bit too much for the guy. Both Spennymoor goals came from our weak left-hand side, and the storm over Jack Litherland whipped itself up again. No-one mentioned the avoidable injuries to Aff and Trick that were the real issue.

The next week I did even less. On Tuesday I watched Port Vale against Accrington Stanley, but mostly I tried to ignore football. I went on little day trips. Cheap dates that didn't pound my dwindling bank account too much. I went to Barnard Castle to test my eyesight, then took Emma to Grassholme Observatory where we had our minds expanded by gazing into the ever-expanding universe. The next day, we went to Durham Falconry and walked around learning about birds of prey. One evening, we were just pottering when we saw some kids playing rugby. Emma asked me to explain the rules to her, which I did by way of invention, since I'd never played the game or even liked it much. "That guy is called the Big Bird. He's the only one who's allowed to stick the ball up his shirt and run with it. The guy with the ball now, he's the Bishop. He can only move diagonally. The referees aren't called referees, they're called judges. They're allowed to change five rules every match, and the players and spectators have to work out which."

It was awesome spending time with Emma, but it also cost me energy. A few times, my mask slipped and she caught me being catatonic, but she knew I'd overexerted myself in January and didn't make a big deal of it. And best of all, apart from a few very specific questions, she almost never asked about my upcoming hearing.

MD was good, too. A few journalists had found Beth's article and wanted to do follow-ups or their own versions, and he sent the requests to me. I kicked them all into touch. Not interested. But he gave me space and didn’t ask why I wasn’t showing up.

Then on Saturday the 11th, I walked into Mordor, right up to the Eye of Sauron, which as you know is conveniently located near a tram stop in Beswick, North Manchester.

***

Mordor was also known as The Campus and everything was named after various climate criminals and painted a gross shade of blue.

If I'd been alone, I would have left a trail of vomit, like a handsome slug. I wasn't alone; Kisi was my tour guide, and she'd invited her coach, Sandra, and her new friend, the Butcher of Burnage, Meghan. My meteoric rise in the world of football had not gone unnoticed in one small corner of The Campus.

"You lied to me, Max," was one of the first things Sandra said to me.

"Yeah, probably. Which bit in particular?"

"You said I was way ahead of you in our careers. Now you're a Director of Football and causing chaos at tournaments." Kisi must have passed the article around her team. Again, I had that strange feeling of being totally unknown in the world, except in certain very specific circles where I was very, very famous.

I tried to remember the incident she was talking about. "You mean when I was inhaling painkillers and reorganised your team?"

"Oh, was that it? I thought you'd been huffing glue."

Kisi made us stop. Her version of a tour guide had the elegant, precise movements of a flight attendant. "To your left, across the road, you can see the world famous Climate Crisis Stadium." I think that's what she said, anyway. I was dizzy from being surrounded by Manchester City players and staff. There were millions of them, everywhere. And I'm not exaggerating when I say millions.

"I've been to a match there," I said. "It's got great acoustics. You can hear a pin drop."

Meghan started to respond, but Kisi stopped her. "Max is teasing. Really, Megs, you can't let him wind you up all the time. He'll only do it more. That's something my brother is yet to learn."

"Kisi says you think her brother will be a great player," said Sandra.

"Top. Top talent."

"And he's cute," said Meghan, causing Kisi to slap her on the arm.

Kisi fell back into tour guide mode. "Straight ahead, the Academy Stadium, where Max will be our guest of honour today. To the right, the Performance Centre."

"What's this shit?" I said, jabbing at a series of pitches behind me.

"Junior Academy pitches."

"Yeah and that little half pitch thing?"

"That's for goalkeepers."

"Fuck me," I said, both impressed and disgusted.

"As I said, that's for the little kids. Over there," she pointed to loads more pitches, "is where the older youth teams train. That includes us. Behind the Performance Centre are more pitches. They're for the first team. And the Performance Centre, obviously, has a grass pitch and an artificial one."

"Where's the escape rocket?" I said.

"What?"

"One of these pitches slides apart and then the top brass fly off to Mars."

"That's secret," said Meghan, giving me a friendly middle finger that Sandra didn't spot.

***

It was all depressing, obviously. The facilities were beyond perfect. All this cost hundreds of millions of pounds. They'd thought of everything - there was a nice space for parents to chill while their kids were training. It had bedrooms so kids or even first team players could sleep overnight. The gyms were pristine and fully-equipped. The boot rooms had columns of pegs for every player, and they were full. Eight pairs of boots per player - even the young guns here had better gear than me. The dressing rooms were vast, luxurious, and welcoming.

Meanwhile I was burning through my meagre savings sending our teams to tournaments and bribing kids to bring their mates to training.

Through every set of doors was another cog in the machine: kids on training bikes, office workers in soothing open-plan spaces, physios helping players bend and stretch. One thing was conspicuous by its absence - gammon. City wanted excellence, and that meant diversity and a good working environment.

Outside, half the pitches were occupied. Warmups, drills, friendly but serious little games.

I stopped by one pitch, chosen at random. I needed a break; it was so overwhelming. By the time I'd spent two hundred million catching up to this, City would have bought another thousand hectares and installed another hundred swimming pools. I couldn't beat them financially - they were owned by an oil state. I couldn't beat them on talent, on tactics, or even on culture. Every aspect of the football club was ten out of ten.

Sandra misunderstood was I was thinking. "Good, isn't he?"

"Who?"

"Patricio."

I looked around until I saw a player profile that matched the name. It was a 17-year-old with high PA and technique 20 who was taking free kicks at an empty net while a bunch of other kids acted like every shot was bending through space-time.

"He's all right," I said.

"Max is jealous," said Meghan.

"Meghan," said Sandra, slipping back into teacher mode.

"Max is the best at free kicks," said Kisi, not heeding her own advice about being easily wound up. "He's, like, the actual best."

"Prove it," said Meghan, pointing to the pitch.

I had no energy for showing off. "Patrick is better at free kicks than me. Okay? Can we go now?"

But Meghan wouldn't have it. She grabbed my wrist and pulled me onto the pitch. I was worried I'd crumble to dust when I crossed the cursed boundary, but I didn't. It was just some grass in Manchester.

"Oi, lads," announced Meghan, who had changed when we crossed the white line. She'd become gobby. "This guy thinks he's better at free kicks than Patricio."

The group as a whole reacted with disbelief, disdain, almost dismay. Some of them were so saddened by my delusion they suggested I get my head checked. Kisi was quietly fuming behind me, but she didn't have a 'boy mode' like Meghan, so she kept her thoughts to herself.

Patricio, though, the handsome little git, was all, like, magnanimous or whatever. He came over and proposed a challenge. "Take shots, see who misses first."

I took a long look at him. Seemed like a nice kid. They all did. My beef wasn't with them, or anyone who was there that day. Everyone here was just doing their job, trying to have a good career. And the pitch was gorgeous, like a snooker table. Being in the middle, having a bit of an audience. It stirred me.

And who knew - maybe this would be the closest I ever got to playing in the Premier League.

"Nah, boring," I said. "Take another shot. Let me see you up close."

He shrugged, went back to his favourite spot, and went through his motion. I kept an eye on the ball as it curled into the top-left corner.

"Yeah," I said, "Good spin. Good arc. Gorgeous technique. You like that, don't you Megs?" I gave her a knowing little smile, which annoyed her. She asked for it! "Dude," I said to one of the other kids. "Ball." He threw it over and I rolled it around and did a few kick ups. "Fuck me that's a nice ball. Holy shit. Do you have any without - never mind." It would have been classless to finish the sentence, even for me. So it had a Man City logo on it. So what? As long as it obeyed me. I dragged it a few metres to the side. "Amigo," I said, "Do that again."

"You're going to shoot, too? What are the rules?"

"The rules are, don't be a baby about it."

"About what?"

"Try to score, bro."

He gave me another sun-kissed smile and looked at the top-left corner of the goal. He started his striking motion, and a split-second later, so did I.

His ball arced slowly, gently, perfectly towards the top-left corner.

Mine slammed into his, sending it flying towards the main road, while mine deflected down into the goal.

"Holy shit!" was the only thing anyone said.

I turned to walk away and noticed Kisi blazing with pride. Sandra was giving me an odd look, while Meghan was... I have no idea.

"Wait!" said Patricio. I turned again. "But who are juu?"

"I'm Max Best. Director of Football at Chester FC. We need talented players. If any of you guys don't make it here, look me up. I can't offer you any of this," I said, waving my finger around. "But I can offer you a fuckton of that." I pointed to the spot where my ball was resting in the back of the net.

***

While Chester's first team were losing away to league leaders King's Lynn - no real surprise, there - I watched Man City Women beat Arsenal Women 2-1.

"Don't you think it's a bit lame all the teams are called 'Women'?" I said, during the entertaining first half.

"No," said Meghan.

"These are almost all new teams, really. This could be the Man City Cheaters versus the Arsenal Supernovas."

"Cheaters?" said Meghan.

"You know, the big cats."

"Oh."

"You're thinking of names for your new Chester team?" said Sandra.

"Yeah. Want to give me some feedback on some ideas?"

"Sure."

I whipped out my phone to make it seem I had a list pre-prepared. "The Chester Warrior Princesses."

"No."

"The Chester Contesters. Your face says no. Chester Megalodons. Why not? Think of the branding."

"I think there's a reason most of the team names are as bland as they are. But why did you suddenly ask to come and watch a game? It's been ages since Kisi started. Honestly, I thought you'd come knocking for a favour ages ago. And I thought it'd be something bigger."

"I've started my women's team. First match is soon. It's way past time to scout the opposition, yeah?"

Meghan scoffed. "We're not your opposition, Max. What league will you start in?"

"I'm hoping the North West Women's Regional Football League. Division One, probably, but if we impress in our friendlies I'm hoping they might pop us straight into the Premier League. Worst case is tier 7, Cheshire Women and Youth."

"See, I don't even understand any of the words you just said," said Meghan. "We're a Women's Super League team. You'll never play us."

"Tsch. With me as manager? We're getting promoted every year. The further down they put us, the more leagues we're going to slap. We've already got a player better than anyone here."

"Really?" said Kisi.

"Almost," I said. And it was true. I had several reasons for inviting myself to see this match. One, to check the levels. In terms of PA, it was more or less what I expected. Similar to the men's Premier League but with more variation. The two best players at Arsenal were injured, so that dropped the average. The best player on the pitch was Arsenal's Leah Williamson, the England captain. She had PA 181. The worst in the starting line ups had PA 138, and a few of the subs were under 100. Clubs had only recently started taking women's football seriously, so I expected standards to improve rapidly in the next few years.

Two, to see how much XP I'd get. To my surprise, I got 7 per minute, same as for the men's leagues. When I thought about it, it made sense. Old Nick wanted me to grind so he could power up. And the tactical battle between the managers was pretty intense. They were on the sidelines, yelling and gesticulating.

And three, to put what I'd done so far into a long-term context. What I'd learned was that if I found ten more Danis, we could challenge for this league. But to get me out of my starting league, I'd surely only need a few Pippas.

"What's happening now, Max?" This was Kisi, getting me to show off by pointing out tactical tweaks the managers were making.

I shook my head, but my reluctance wasn't very serious. Taking that one free kick had improved my mood ten-fold. "Wubben-Moy is having a mare. Four out of ten. If you're playing 3-4-3 and the central centre-back is making those kinds of mistakes, you're in for a bad time. It looks like he's asking his CMs to drop and cover, but that's making it way too easy for City's midfield."

"What would you do?"

"I'd sub Wubben-Moy off right now. Sometimes it isn't your day. People make such a big deal about early substitutions. You played shit, get off the pitch. No big deal. Do better next week and we're all good. But I don't want to lose this game just to spare your feelings."

It turned out to be one of those 'Max is a Witch' moments that are really just coincidences. A mistake from the same defender I'd pinpointed gave the ball to City, who pushed forward and scored an easy goal. Sandra gave me another odd look. That was, I think, number twenty for the day.

We went to queue for some half-time refreshments. Kisi and Meghan went in front so that I'd have more time to look at the options.

Sandra pulled at my arm and whispered. "Max, were you serious about giving those boys a second chance?"

Why was she being secretive? "Er, yes? They're bound to be good. I doubt any of them would make such a huge step down, but if one of them does and we turn him into a player, that's win-win." I laughed. "Maybe it'll do him good to learn to clean his own boots."

"They clean their own boots, Max."

"Do they?"

"I don't know, actually. My girls do. Listen..." She glanced around her. I was all ears - maybe she was about to say something blasphemous like 'this club should be owned by its fans' or 'this club should follow the same financial rules as everyone else'. "I've coached loads of girls over the past few years. Most get released. Maybe some of them would be interested in dropping a few levels knowing you'd be coming straight up. I know a couple who'd see it as a big challenge. Would you want some ex-Man City players?"

Unexpected. "Of course I would."

"I'll make some calls..."

The queue moved forward, but Meghan was stuck in place. I pushed forward and stood next to Kisi so no-one else could cut in. But for the first time since I'd yelled at her for trying to cripple one of my players, she looked like a little girl instead of a tough defender. "If I don't make it," she mumbled, not looking at me, "will you give me a second chance?"

"No," I said, and left a tiny pause. "You're going to make it."

"You don't know that."

I scoffed. "Don't I? Nah. If you end up playing for Chester it's because we bought you." I grinned. "Or you could make sure you're out of contract in the summer of, let's say, 2028."

"Max!" complained Sandra.

"What?" I said. "I'm just saying we'd be delighted to sign her. And maybe she'd like to play at the same club as James Yalley."

I was saying it to tease Kisi the way Meghan had done, but to my surprise, it was Meghan who turned bright red.

***

The trip to Manchester was restorative. Really lifted my mood. I'm not sure what it was - maybe spending a few hours with cool people, or the tantalising prospect that one day, half a dozen high-PA Man City-trained women would show up at my doorstep. Or maybe it was my quick pop in to see mum and Anna, thankfully now bored of Soccer Supremo.

But when I got home, there was more shit to deal with. More shit to knock me back, sap my spirit. During the Chester match, people had started texting me about an incident in the Chester match. D-Day had missed a penalty. I was shocked that Evans had let D-Day get anywhere near taking such an important set piece, but I assumed he had a good reason. The texts and voice notes kept coming. It was unusual for so many people to get so animated about a single incident.

So I loaded up MD's Wyscout account and watched the footage. With the score at nil-nil and with us apparently battering the league leaders, we'd got a penalty. D-Day decided to take it, even though Henri Lyons had picked up the ball. Clearly, Henri was the designated taker. But D-Day made such a fuss that he ended up with the ball in his hands. He then strolled up to the ball and passed it, very slowly, into the goalkeeper's hands. There was some aftermath, but that first time I was so blinded by rage that I literally couldn't see it.

You can guess the rest - the team's bright start was wasted, King's Lynn scored soon after, game over.

***

I stayed in Darlington on Sunday, trying to chill with Emma. I didn't have to work so hard to seem normal, and we read books in cosy silence, went for walks, had a quiet dinner. But while I spent most of the time being cool and charming, my mind kept returning to the footage of the missed penalty. Outsiders were trying to sabotage our season; now insiders were as well. Was it all part of the same plot? Had Ian Evans deliberately played two injured players? Was he in on it?

While I was thinking that, something unprecedented happened.

Spectrum: Ian Evans came to watch the under 14s today.

Why now, suddenly? The news put me right back on edge, and I was relieved when Emma's train left the station. I was free to go from simmer to boil.

***

On Monday, with the FA hearing only a day away, I decided we needed to have another talk about culture.

I drove to Chester bright and early, and I was waiting on the training pitch when the players finished their team meeting. As they approached the pitch, I walked over and put my arm around D-Day's shoulder. I encouraged him to follow me. He said he didn't want to, maybe. I think I suggested his opinions weren't all that germane.

D-Day's version, incidentally, just for balance, is that I dragged him all the way across the pitch and dumped him in front of the penalty spot. Which, come on, be serious.

"Take a penno, mate," I said, calmly, with no flecks of spit flying everywhere.

"What the fuck?"

"Take a penno, and you'd better blinking score, my good friend."

"You've cracked."

"Score or you're finished here."

"Max!" said a few people, but in the end, D-Day had to take the penalty while half the first team watched and the other half raced forward to see what they were missing.

He hit it about a metre high, just inside the post. I launched myself to my left and pawed it away. In a real match it would have gone for a corner.

"Shit!" I said. "Try again."

I went back to the middle, and as he struck the ball, exploded to the right and extended my arms. He'd aimed a bit higher, but I got a good hand to it. Not even a corner, this time.

"Dogshit!" I said.

"That's enough," said Vimsy, standing in front of D-Day, putting a stop to the special drill I had dreamed up on my commute. Annoying, because I had a lot more planned.

I stormed past a lot of horrified players, took a stance near Ian Evans, and pointed backwards in the direction of D-Day, the worm. "That guy doesn't take any more set pieces for this club," I suggested.

Then Raffi was on me, and he bounced me out of the area before I could finish my presentation.

***

The drive to London was awful. Heavy traffic, weird junctions, crazy drivers. Exorbitant parking and the air in the entire city smelled of burnt metal.

I walked to the building and while the decor was super snooty - could have been an interior from a Jeeves and Wooster episode - the staff who worked there were friendly. Didn't really cheer me up, and neither did seeing MD there, waiting for me in his best suit.

"Ah, the hoodie," he said, looking me up and down.

"I'm a footballer. I have to dress for the job I want to get, or whatever the phrase is."

"Before we get into all this, can we talk about yesterday?"

"Yep."

He looked at me and hesitated. "Maybe it should wait."

"I'm fine. Hit me."

He sighed. "Is it true you embarrassed one of our players before training yesterday, forcing him to take penalties against you, which you saved?"

"Yes."

"That player was D-Day?"

"Yes."

"And you know I have to tell you off for that?"

"Definitely."

"Yeah, well," he said. He took his phone out and brought up a text he'd got from Ollie, the prick. It read: Heard Max Best took piss off of that twat D-Day. Maybe I was wrong about him. "D-Day is currently the least popular person in Chester. People hate him more than our last Member of Parliament. That penalty, wow. I really struggle to remember being that angry at one of our players. People are saying you showed more passion going after him than the team did on the pitch. But we both know you did it because you're burned out and you can't think straight. And look, you shouldn't ever disrupt training. And you definitely, definitely shouldn't tell Ian Evans how to run the team."

My head sank. "I know."

"You should probably apologise."

"To whom?"

"To Ian."

"End of list?"

"I would have thought so."

I screwed up my eyes. "Playing football is my vent. I can take out my frustrations on some hapless goalie. I need to run around and kick a ball."

"I get it. That's what we're here to fix." He grabbed my shoulder. "It's going to be all right." He got a text and read it. "Great. So listen. You are what experienced executives like me call going batshit crazy. You've worked too hard and now it's catching up. I've seen it a hundred times. It's good you went to the castle with your girl. That kind of thing? Big thumbs up from me. Do more of that. Decompress. I heard about you turning up to those casual games. That's good, too. There are ways out of the red zone. But right now, Chester Football Club can't trust you to open your mouth in that room. This is me formally and officially telling you to keep your flappy Manc gob shut."

"No way. I've been daydreaming about this. I've got stories. I've got overlapping and underlapping narrative arcs. I've got a backup, too, if that one doesn't seem like it'll go down well. The backup is based, get this, on the Wizard of Oz. I'm going to call them munchkins and rip the curtains down."

MD rubbed his eyebrow. "Yeah. Just shut up. I'm really serious."

I was too frail to argue. I gave him a tiny thumbs up. "If there's anyone who I'd trust to speak for me, it's you."

"That's cute, Max, but you have more people in your corner than you think."

The lift pinged. Emma and her dad emerged and walked towards us. They were both wheeling airline suitcases. Had they flown in from Newcastle? What was that, a seventeen-minute flight?

"So," I said. "It's a conspiracy."

"You're right it is," said MD, as he stood to shake Sebastian's hand. With a huge effort, I pushed myself upright and shook hands, too.

"Unexpected," I said.

"You've got the most persuasive lawyer in Newcastle on your side," said Sebastian Weaver, the smug git.

"I know, thanks."

"I meant Emma."

I grinned. "Ah. Right."

He took a step back and looked me up and down. "Max, you look like shit."

"You know how Superman gets his energy from the Sun? I get mine from football pitches." It was a joke, but it almost felt true. The little free kick session at Man City had given me a huge energy boost.

"Let's go get you back playing, then."

***

The FA panel had five members. Our hearing was at 11 o'clock and once they were done with us, they'd go to have a seven-course lunch at one of those stuffy clubs where women aren't allowed. Four of them would, anyway. The other would take off his clothes and turn back into a literal sub-demon.

Proceedings started with a bland retelling of the sequence of events. Namely, that I ended my contract with Darlington in order to sign for Sheffield Wednesday. That my registration was held by Sheffield Wednesday, and that I was disputing having signed the forms. The panel would listen to my case and decide what to do.

I'll just say now that MD sat to my left and Emma to my right, and every time I stirred or inhaled like I'd say something, one or both of them would pull me back or jab me in the ribs.

So after the preliminaries, Sebastian showed why people paid him hundreds of pounds per hour. He started with a long string of legal gobbledegook to establish dominance. The only parts I understood were references to prior cases, Wigan Athletic FC v Heart of Midlothian and of course, Fleetwood Town vs AFC Fylde.

After that barrage, Emma unzipped the suitcases - MD became extra wary since he was briefly guarding me solo - and Sebastian began slapping documents onto the panel's table.

"Signed, sworn, and witnessed affidavits from the Sheffield Wednesday manager stating that he never had any intention to sign Max Best and had only had brief, exploratory talks. Signed, sworn, and witnessed affidavits from the Sheffield Wednesday Club Secretary stating that these forms were never filled in under his watch. Signed, sworn, and witnessed affidavits from their equivalents at Darlington Football Club, saying they never sent the forms from their side. Both clubs deny that this ever happened!"

The guy in the middle was the senior one, the most gammony, and the most hostile to me. But why? I didn't know him. Did fucking Bradley Rymarquis have an army of agents like a James Bond villain? He couldn't, surely - he was grinding in the lower leagues. Judge Gammon cleared his throat and offered up a slight smile. "The facts of the case support the conclusion that Mr. Best sent the forms himself."

I was struck in the ribs from both sides.

Sebastian seemed perplexed, as though he'd never even considered the possibility that I'd done this myself. "There could be no conceivable motive for the act, nor would him so doing become proof of registration." He spouted off a few more precedents and a mouthful of Latin. "However, even the most cursory look at the timeline of events shows Max could not have sent the faxes." Emma moved to the second briefcase and opened it, neatly stacking some documents in little piles. Her dad picked up the first one. "At the time the first fax was sent, these twenty people swear, affidavits, et cetera, that he was in the away team dressing room in Scarborough, asking to be allowed to go and see..." He flipped through the pages. "Some local flamingoes." He slid the pages next to the previous piles. Emma handed him the next batch. "Affidavits proving that at the time the second fax was sent, Max was getting quote massively hammered unquote in the Eastbourne training centre."

"He could have slipped out of the party," said the FA prick.

"Could he, indeed? These witness statements swear he didn't. Nevertheless," said Sebastian, using one of my favourite lines. I briefly wondered if he'd heard Emma say it and added it to his own lexicon, or if it was more common than I thought. He picked up the next pile. "Plans and layouts of the Eastbourne training centre... Please note the location of the party, marked with a red dot here. For Max to send the fax, he would have had to go down this corridor, then here, then slip out here..." He came over to get yet another piece of paper, brought it over to the front and slammed it down two metres away from the rest. "And get in his car and travel across the city to Blackwell Meadows stadium, where the fax machine is."

The main gammon gave the imp a filthy look, and for the first time, I felt something like hope. Sebastian was fucking killing this. He'd worked it all out, and then gone and got the receipts. The guy was to law what I was to free kicks and being annoying.

"One more thing," said Sebastian, the greatest living Englishman. He rummaged in the suitcase and came up holding a printer. He placed it in front of me. Then another one, then another one. "Max. You are 22 years old, a digital native. Could you please identify which one of these can be used to send faxes?"

"Oh," I said, laughing. "What? Did you raid a museum for these? What on earth?" The three devices were broadly similar. Beige rectangles with buttons. "This is for covering paper with hot plastic. Right? Henri has one. And this is a printer. Scanner. Printer-scanner. This must be a fax machine. It's got the phone bit. I know faxes used phone lines."

"Could you please fax this document for me, Max?"

The machine wasn't plugged in but I got what he was trying to say - that I was too stupid to use a fax machine. Making fun of me while winning the case - genius. He handed me a piece of paper. Where did it go? There was a thin hole on the bottom, and a paper tray at the top. I tried pushing the paper into the bottom, but that didn't go well. I tried putting it in the paper tray.

"Very good, Max. Then what do we do?"

I lifted the phone receiver and brought it to my ear. But that made no sense. Who would I talk to? I laughed again. It was like trying to use a loom or something. "Er... the paper's in. I... shit. Type the phone number, press the green button. Something like that?"

"Something like that," smiled Sebastian. "But you've put the paper in the wrong way round. You just sent a blank fax."

"A wonderful performance," said the gammon. "Most entertaining and, as you know Mr. Weaver, legally worthless." He looked at the spread of documents in front of him, then at the two men to his left, and the two to his right. "Someone did something and it is most improper."

Someone did something, indeed. Bradley. But hang on. He might have been able to send the first fax, the one from Sheffield. But as Sebastian's investigation had proven, he couldn't have sent the second one. He was at the party with us, in the wrong building in the wrong postcode.

This wasn't Brad.

It had never been Brad.

Fuuuuck.

Sebastian was continuing. "We have proven that Max did nothing and Max did nothing improper. He has been unable to pursue his career for two months, and a footballer's career is short enough. Restraint of trade is not trivial and many organisations have been sued into oblivion for playing fast and loose with that area of law. I respectfully but strongly recommend you lift all restrictions on Max and allow him to commence playing for the club that did, in fact, sign him in the correct way: Chester Football Club."

Judge Gammon had a hard, calculating look in his eye - it had all been done subtextually, but Sebastian had implied that he had been the one suing firms into oblivion and he would love a go at the FA. Gammon looked at me and said, "Do you wish to add anything?"

I looked at Sebastian. He shook his head. I copied the gesture. Emma gave my knee a little squeeze to show I'd done the right thing.

We had to fuck off while the FA guys debated what to do.

Outside in the corridor, MD was ecstatic. He raved about Sebastian, claiming he was 'better than Columbo', whatever that meant. Sebastian took some of the praise but claimed that when he started looking into the case, the more fishy it became. He said, and I quote, that something stank and he couldn’t sit back and do nothing.

We were called back in.

The panel had decided that, on the balance of probabilities, the registration with Sheffield Wednesday had probably been some kind of prank. Emma and MD celebrated.

"But," said the dude. "The move was registered with UEFA and FIFA. Mr. Best has also played for Darlington this season. He cannot, therefore, be registered with Chester."

Emma was pissed, to say the least. "So he can go back to Darlington."

"He cannot."

"Write to FIFA and tell them it was a mistake," demanded Emma.

"Even if we had the resources, the process would take months. He can register for a new club in the next transfer window. Not before."

"This is Restraint of trade," said Sebastian, genuinely happy. "You don't have a leg to stand on. I will destroy you! By the time I'm finished with this, I'll own Wembley Stadium!"

"Max will," said Emma.

"Right. Max, my fee is ten percent. I'll take the West stand."

Everyone waited for him to get the go-ahead. So when it didn't come, attention turned to me. But nothing was going to change. Their case had been smashed to pieces by a lawyer who had run rings around them once and would do so again. These empty suits weren't risking their careers for Bradley Rymarquis. No way. I'd assumed Brad was in cahoots with Old Nick, but now I knew that Brad had nothing to do with it.

I'd gone round slagging him off, and when he'd found out, he'd lost his shit the way I would have done. He'd stitched me up with the Jack Litherland deal, and presumably he'd keep trying to land blows on me. But getting the Football Association to stop me playing, come hell or high water? It was Old Nick. And if I wasn't careful, Old Nick would start lashing out at everyone else here. Emma. MD. Even Sebastian, who didn't deserve it. Maybe a little? No, not even a little.

There was this strange feeling I had inside me - peace.

The worst had happened. I couldn't play professional football for the rest of the season. But the curse had given me the body of an elite athlete. If I couldn't find a way to keep fit, make money, and annoy Nick, then I wasn’t trying hard enough. I felt the grin come back.

I got up and swaggered over to the table where the five guys were sitting down. I sat on the edge of the table facing the imp, uncomfortably close to him. He did not like that. "So you can stop me playing football for a few months. What about in Scotland?"

"You can't play anywhere in FIFA jurisdiction!" said the imp.

I nodded. "Great. Well done. What about tennis?"

The imp blinked. "Huh?"

"Can't stop me playing tennis, can you?"

"What?"

"Don't you think there are things someone as fast, strong, and smart as me can do? For money? As a career, even?"

"No, that's... that's not the..."

"MD," I said, looking over my shoulder. "Are you going to sack me? For not being able to play?"

"No, Max. This is a travesty. I'll support you all the way."

"I need cash. I've got an idea for how I can blow off steam and make some money on the side. It might be a little bit... insane. I don't think Sean and Ollie will like it."

"What you do in your spare time is up to you, Max, but I think you'll find tennis is harder than it looks."

I leaned in to the imp and whispered into his right ear, the one furthest away from everyone else. "And you, you little scamp. You tell your boss I'm cutting him off. I'm done with football. Okay? I'm cutting off my nose to spite his face. Ho-kay?" For some reason I was talking to him like you talk to a baby. "We good? We good, bro? Yeah you tell him that."

"But you need to get experience points," he whispered. “You haven’t even found WibWob.”

"I'll do what I want," I said. "And what I want is to slap your boss pink. What's coming next is going to be a lot more fucking embarrassing for him than me playing a few games of football, let me promise you that. All right? And if you ever do anything like this again, make sure it doesn't involve coming to fucking London. Or I'll rip your head clean off."

***

The four of us left, with the Weavers rolling their empty suitcases behind them. They left the museum pieces in the room, along with all the papers. I think the idea was to give the FA guys some extra work to do, but I knew it would be the normal employees who'd have to do it.

In the lift and out on the street, MD and Sebastian got each other worked up about how unfair that all was. How absurd. Sebastian begged me to let him start legal action. MD turned pale at the idea.

"I don't want to get Chester involved," I said. "MD, we'll survive this season. We'll find a way. And next season, the golden age begins."

***

That evening, I went to where Darlington's first team were warming up before their session. I walked over and blew my whistle. There was a fair bit of annoyance but then a few players recognised me. "That's Max Best!" "Course it isn't, don't talk rot." "Max! What are you doing here?"

I waved at everyone to come over. "Apologies to the coaches! Yes, everyone, it is I, superstar football star Max Best. Currently Chester's Director of Football. I've decided I want to play for you for a couple of matches."

"Play for us?" said one of the guys. They were a very mixed bag, physically. Some tall and powerful, some short and squat.

"Yep." I mimed that I was anointing them with holy water. "You have been chosen."

"Why?"

"My plan is, play a couple of matches for you. Score loads of free kicks. Then get a move to a bigger club and rinse them for cash. What do you reckon?"

"Why don't you play for Chester?"

"Football Association is being a dick. If I play, they might deduct points. We'd smash them in court, but it's not worth the hassle. No, not worth it. I can play for you, though."

The main coach guy had tolerated my appearance since some of his players seemed to recognise me. He'd been tapping on his phone. "Is this what you mean by taking a free kick?" He held up his screen. I recognised the footage of me scoring that free kick against Alfreton. A few guys crowded round to check it out.

"Yeah. I can demonstrate if you want."

Another coach threw a ball to me that I caught just in front of my face. Careful, bro! He gave me a sly grin. "Go ahead."

The guys shuffled aside and watched as I placed the ball where I wanted it. I eyed the posts, then stepped up and scuffed the shot sideways. There were loads of laughs. I grinned. "Out of practice. Try again!"

I went through my routine with a little more care. I decided to hit through the dead centre of the ball, aiming to hit it in a straight line like a cannonball.

Poof.

The ball sailed pure and true, this time, the contact expressing itself as a soft, powdery exhale, like a book closing.

"There we go!" I laughed. "No goalie is saving that."

"Can you do that again?"

"Absolutely. Do you want me to bounce it in off the post or something like that? It's pretty boring without a goalkeeper."

"No, through the middle's fine."

I shrugged, and repeated the strike.

There was a murmur of excitement, now. It wasn't just me turning up to their session and adding some energy. They were starting to dream - what if I really did play for them?

The head coach guy was going through some calculations. "Have you ever played before?"

"Nah. I like kicking balls through sticks though. And being paid for it."

"We don't really pay what you're used to."

"Don't worry about it. I only need a thousand pounds or so. You'll double your money. Imagine the ticket sales when the people of Darlington realise Max Best is back." I visualised the posters that could adorn the town. I filled in the headline and the tag. "Max Best is Back! And this time, it's rugby."