.

Chester 2, Chorley 0. Full time.

The results from our rivals were a mixed bag. Bradford got a good win, and Blyth picked up a point. But we were now only a point behind 18th-placed Farsley, who we would play soon, and three behind Buxton. All those other teams had games in hand, but we were on a winning streak and they weren't. We were more likely to finish 17th than be relegated.

My players did a tiny tour of the centre circle, applauding the fans in the various stands. The fans, in turn, gave the lads a standing ovation and launched into throaty renditions of chants such as ‘We Are Staying Up’.

The hospitality volunteer grabbed me and said I had to talk to the media after the match. I said I didn't want to, but she said the club would get a fine if I didn't. While I was trying to work out how to get someone else to do it, Sam, Len, and Tony came to get me. They dragged me in front of a section of the main stand where most of the women’s team were still cheering and yelling things.

“What’s up?” I said.

“Dani’s trying to sign something to us,” said Sam. “I wish I understood it. How do you do it?”

I shielded my eyes from the floodlights - already needed in the fading evening - and scanned upwards until I found Dani. I gave her a little thumbs up, the go-ahead to repeat her sign, and she did things with her hands that I actually recognised. I replied by miming, me or Sam?

Sam.

“Well, bro. You’ve got a new fan.”

“What did she say?”

“Done good job, mate. Done good job.”

Sam Topps fucking beamed.

***

I wanted to get my team into the dressing room and express my feelings and do some planning. I wanted to think about my XP and the direction of my skills. To trigger Playdar and find a new talent. To grab Emma and find the nearest fireplace with a sheepskin rug.

Instead, moronically, with my head an absolute maelstrom, full of the sound and the fury, thinking of Youngster, Trick, and Emma (the good, the bad, and the snuggly), I was plumped in front of the world's media.

The world's media was Gary, a reporter from Cheshire Live, the local newspaper. He had short hair (decent cut), stubble (nicely trimmed), and a checked shirt (itchy). He recorded the interview on his phone (Android). I'd read some of his match reports. They were always about how shit the refs were, all the injustices Chester had suffered, and if Chester lost, fixated on some scapegoat. At one point, he must have felt he'd landed his dream job. But now he was jaded. Complacent and lazy. In his own way, he was as much a dinosaur as Ian Evans, and he was hurting our brand.

He was deeply annoying, though to be fair, anyone would annoy me if they kept me from my players and my perfect woman and my lifelong dream of finding a backup goalie for the women's team. I was feeling combative and my responses maybe reflected that.

"Max," said Gary. "Great win! How do you feel about that?"

"Neutral."

"Sorry?"

"You know people who like their steaks done medium, which is objectively pointless? I feel like one of those people. I feel medium."

His smile wobbled. "That's the third win in a row since you appeared on the touchline."

"Just as accurately, it's the third win in a row since Joe Anka changed his toothpaste."

"I don't quite follow you."

"Okay."

"Max! You've just won your second match as caretaker manager. Chester are flying up the table! I thought you'd be happier."

"I want to go celebrate with the lads. Why am I here? I'm not being paid enough for this. Ask me some questions so I can get going."

"Yes. I understand. So, er... the referee was bad, wasn't he?"

"No."

"We should have had two penalties. There was a clear handball in the first half, and James Wise was hauled to the turf from a corner."

I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose. "What's your question?"

"Don't you think the referee was bad?"

"The referee refereed the game to the best of his ability."

"You subbed Bochum off after seven minutes."

"So?"

"So people are saying he's too small for the hurly-burly of professional football."

"Hurly-burly? How many people have ever said that out loud? You just said it, and so did I. That makes two out of seven billion. Pretty low percentage."

"People are saying he's too small."

"You're really bad at asking questions."

"Do you think he's too small?"

"No. That's why I signed him and why I put him in the squad two matches in a row."

"Then why did you take him off?"

"Injury."

"Injury? He didn't look injured. What's the injury?"

"His head fell off."

"Max, be serious. I have to write a match report."

"Okay. Check this out. Here's your report. Sure that's recording? Three, two,... Jackie Reaper's Chester Football Club worked hard, competed, and showed moments of true quality against a feisty Chorley team who had been on a good run. Are you getting this? Big hero photo. Then a description of the goals and all that. Then you go... Chester's ambitious attacking play bore all the hallmarks of a Jackie Reaper team, while being built on a clearly-identifiable foundation of Ian Evans solidity. Reporters who obsess over insignificant refereeing decisions or a young player being mishandled by an inexperienced stand-in are missing the stupendously more interesting bigger picture, which is that Chester are back, Chester are staying up, and a lot of people have worked very hard to get us to this point."

"Right... but what did you say at half-time? You were out on the pitch for most of it."

"I said, would you like me to sign your match programme? Would you like a selfie?"

"What did you say in the dressing room?"

"I said, 'Do you need me to tell you how to play football?' and they said 'No, Max, we're all experienced professionals we know our jobs we'll be fine'. So I left them to it."

"You were very excited to win a throw-in early in the first half. It was like we'd scored a goal."

"That was exactly the time I got a text saying I'd won third place in a beauty contest."

"Who was man of the match, in your eyes?"

"Pascal Bochum."

Gary let out an exasperated noise. "What's wrong, Max? I'm just doing my job."

"All right, let me help you. Couple of juicy nuggets for you and your readers to think about. Things that are actually interesting and not the same old stuff. One. The focus on our training was attacking the near post. Near post run, near post cross. So why did our two goals come from far post finishes? If you know the answer, send me your CV. Two. Which player in today's game set a new National League North record for a certain key metric, and why is that important? Best answer gets to do the post-match interview next Saturday. I'm off to talk to my players, then hit the Blues Bar for some drinks."

"Are you really going to buy drinks for fans next week?"

"Ah! A question people want to know about. Yes. Whatever happens, I will buy some beers. If we win, I might have a couple myself."

***

I rushed into the dressing room, where most of the lads had already had their freezing cold showers and were towelling themselves off, half-dressed, or blow-drying their hair.

"Quiet," I said, dashing to the flipchart and tactics board. Vimsy helped get everyone's attention. "Everyone here?"

"Henri's still in the shower."

"Magnus, will you get him, please?"

"He doesn't like being interrupted, Max."

I sighed. "Just say something nebulous like, 'The hour of Odin is at hand'." I looked around. "Where's Jill?"

"In the manager's room," said Vimsy. "Because of all the naked men," he added, when I pulled a face.

"Why are there naked men in the manager's room?"

Vimsy smiled. "Because of the naked men in here," he said.

"Come on," I said. "It's not like she's never seen a man's body before. Er..." I pointed to Robbo. "Maybe she's never seen one of those. Anyway, will you get her, please? I've got things to do."

When Henri and Jill were in, I said my piece. "Right. That was good. Some rough edges for the coaches to work on this week. No match on Tuesday, so double training. Vimsy, Tuesday morning or afternoon is yours. Defensive shit. Shuffles, slides, set pieces. Go full dinosaur. The rest is skills and formation practice."

"Are you not coming?" said Spectrum.

"I'll be there for some of it; I'll be up in the office for some of it. Watching. Always watching." This was a tissue of lies; I didn't plan to return to Chester until the next match. "I might take Friday off and take Emma somewhere romantic, like..." I tried to think of the funniest place. "Leeds."

A few people snickered, but not many. Henri tilted his head. "Emma would love Leeds, Max. I think you were joking but it's a good idea."

"Really?"

"Yes. Great food, great shopping, great nightlife. Investigate that. May I return to my shower, now?"

"No. I want to prepare you for next Saturday's match." I flipped to the next clean page and sketched out the team, again in the 4-1-4-1 formation. "Robbo, Glenn, Gerald. For the full-backs, two of Trick, Magnus, and Carl. I'll almost certainly use you all."

Henri spoke again. "You're telling us the team now?"

"Yes, mate, yes. What's the problem?"

"No problem. It is... unconventional. Why not Monday morning?"

"I played Southport. I know every little thing about them. I'll text individual things to look out for, but if we play our game, it's game over. Midfield, we'll start with Aff, so it's D-Day and Joe for the spot on the right. I might let Vimsy decide based on who trains the best. In the middle, Sam and Raffi. Wisey, you've been fucking mint, seriously. But Raffi's two-footedness is going to help us with our left-sided attacks. I'm sure Jackie will have you back in for the last three matches. Henri up front. Pascal and Tony, you prepare yourselves properly for this one, because if we change the formation, we're going 4-2-4 and there will be goals and assists for days. Right? And Len, I need you sharp in case one of others gets a knock or dies from only having a twenty-minute shower. Chad, Doug, same with you. And by the way, if results go our way on Tuesday, and we win on Saturday, we could be sitting pretty. I'm going to ask Jackie to give everyone a runout in the last three matches, so keep yourselves fit, keep yourselves sharp. Any questions?"

"What if Youngster hurts himself? Do we still play with a DM?"

"Yep. Magnus."

"Er... Max, I've never played there."

"Sure you have. In my trial. But yeah, good point. Let's make sure Magnus gets practice time as DM. Youngster, teach him what you've learned. Right, I'm off."

***

MD wanted me to go up to the Executive Lounge to talk to some sponsors, but I made him bring them down to the Blues Bar so the normal fans could see us. There were about twenty more people in than the week before, and the atmosphere was even better. It was fun for a while, but then fatigue set in. I'd expended a lot of energy during the match, even though I had very little to actually do.

Emma drove me home, and we spent a cosy night watching trashy shows and a lazy Sunday pottering around a damp Darlington.

A perfect weekend.

***

Tuesday was all about Ziggy.

Emma took a half-day off work so I could show her around Manchester. Some of the places that were important to me as a kid, plus a bit of culture at The Lowry Centre. We lingered, as everyone did, at L.S. Lowry's most famous work, 'Going to the Match', depicting his idiosyncratic mobs of matchstick men heading towards a Bolton Wanderers match.

I overheard a teacher telling some schoolkids that it was a feature of Lowry's football paintings that they showed very little of the football and were all about the flows of people outside the stadiums.

"So it's a piece of content that claims to be about football but there's virtually no football in it," said some smart alec. "Does that make it the Ted Lasso of its day?"

The teacher mumbled something about 'threading the needle of what audiences can tolerate from an unfamiliar sport' and led her flock away, leaving the painting to me and Emma.

"Is this your favourite? Because it's got football in it?" said Emma, as her eyes swept around the canvas. Top-left, the Burnden Park stadium. Top-right, mills and gas holders, bottom half, hundreds of olden-days people streaming towards the turnstiles.

"I prefer Vermeer," I said, which got a smile because she wasn't sure if I was joking or not, and she liked that about me. "This one is fun. I don't know that a lot of artists were trying to capture moments like these. Northern industrial scenes. Dark satanic mills and all that." I leaned closer. "Maybe this is what match day looked like when this was painted." I checked the label. "1953. But see... there's no kids."

Emma peered closer, too. "Huh."

"There's dogs. People bringing their dogs to the game. That's weird. But one of the best things in football is when there's a mum or dad bringing their kid to the match. I always wonder if that's their first time and how excited they must be. I really hope there are some first-timers next week. I'm going to make them fall in love with Chester, whether they like it or not."

"Did your dad take you to a match?"

Once in a while, Emma tried to ask about my, like, backstory or whatever. I wasn't into it. "No."

"Your mum?"

"No. I started at Sunday League. There were fields near where I grew up. Hough End - we drove past last time we were here. I used to walk down and watch twenty minutes. It was always absolute shit. I don't know why I went. Watched some of my school matches when a mate was playing."

"You didn't play?"

"I got picked once. Didn't throw myself into a dangerous tackle, so I got subbed off. That was the end of that."

"Jesus."

"We went up to Carlisle one weekend, for some reason. I went to watch a match there while mum was doing whatever she was doing. I think that was the first proper match I saw."

"On your own."

"Yeah."

"Do you want to go to Man United's stadium? It's just across the road. If we're doing a tour of important places in the life of Max Best, like."

I checked my phone. "No. We've got time for one more stop. I want to go somewhere more important than Old Trafford. The place where my life finally got good." Tiny smile, tiny frown as she tried to guess what it would be. "A little deli in Didsbury," I explained. Where I met her that day after Ziggy’s trial and told her why I liked football. Emma gave me the happiest, most genuine smile I'd ever seen.

***

Ziggy got us into the VIP section for FC United's Tuesday night home match against Bamber Bridge (known to themselves as 'Brig', I learned).

While waiting for things to get going, I told Emma about the situation at the top of tier 7.

South Shields were well ahead in first, the only place guaranteed promotion. In the first of the four playoff spots sat Warrington Town. Warrington was in Cheshire, so I supposed they'd be big rivals for Chester. If they got promoted, we'd have local derbies. Lots of buzz for those games, then. On balance, that would be better for my club. But as a Mancunian and a Ziggy fan, FC United making it through the playoffs would be awesome.

FCU were third in the league, hoping for a win to cement their place in the playoffs. Bamber Bridge were fourth, so this was a real promotion six-pointer.

I explained all this to Emma, who pretended to give a shit. She was good like that.

"Is Ziggy playing?"

"He's a sub," I said, even though we hadn't heard the teams being announced. Emma was rarely suspicious about how I knew things.

"Lame," she said, and went to get drinks.

I took stock of my XP.

XP Balance: 518

Debt repaid: 1411/3000

Getting 4 XP per minute from managing the first team was nice, but all the thinking and the preparation and the commuting meant I was actually earning less XP per week than when I had freedom to attend any old game I wanted. And being hunched over laptops every evening was terrible in terms of having the means and opportunity to use Playdar.

That was one of the reasons I'd decided to let Vimsy and our collection of coaches do most of the training sessions without me. I hoped to find a balance between making sure the first team won on Saturday and continuing my own development.

My development. There was the match tonight, which was only going to get me 90 XP, all told, because it was tier 7. Then I planned to hit London on Wednesday night to watch Arsenal Women's Champions League tie against Bayern Munich. I expected 7 XP per minute for that one. Then I'd stay overnight in London (urgh) and watch another Champions League match: Chelsea Women versus the famous Lyon Women team. Then a day off on Friday, and do something nice with Emma on Friday evening.

Another reason to stay away from training was that, while doing my crazy session had lit a fire under Sam's arse, and - I was told - Aff's, it had been bad for Pascal and maybe some others. A normal week of training would let things settle down. No pluses from me, but no minuses, either. And two days in, I’d already been rewarded with some green CAs and attribute pops.

So that was the plan. Give my employees space. Let it happen. At some point over the weekend I'd have enough to buy the Morale perk for 2,000 XP, or with another few hours of grinding, 3-5-2 (for 2,200). That formation would help me step into Jackie's shoes with less disruption, but I'd only need it if his knees really had turned to sand. Which they hadn't. Doctor Sanj had three-finger promised.

***

FC United against Bamber, then. Good match!

The first half was real blood-and-thunder stuff. Two teams going at each other hell for leather, trying to land knock-out blows, but with first and second blood going to the home team. Brig pulled one back, then conceded. Half-time came and went. Around the hour mark, Brig scored to get back into the match. Three-two to FC United, and the first hint of nerves around the stadium.

From the stand across behind the goal to my right came an unfamiliar chant, one that made Emma's head snap in its direction. She actually giggled.

"What?" I said.

"They're singing the Spice Girls!" she said, amazed.

"No," I said, dismissively. Loads of burly, beer-bellied big boys singing about Girl Power? No chance.

"She's right," said a guy in front of us. He shifted so he could explain. "I'll tell you what I want, what I really really want. Ziggy Zig-a-zig-ahh!"

"Ziggy's got a chant?" I said, in disbelief.

"He's got two."

"What? You're having me on."

He smirked at Emma and rearranged his face into football song mode. "Zigginho oh oh! Zigginho. He used to be a blue, but now he loves Man U!"

Emma did her charming, relaxed giggle again. "What!"

"He used to be a Man City fan, now he likes United," I explained.

Emma looked around. "Is this Manchester United?"

I'd explained this about eight times, but with Emma my patience was boundless. "This is FC United. It's all Man United fans who are sick of the owners. They made their own club, to have it the way it was when they were still fans and not customers."

"Damn right," said the guy, nodding as he turned to face the pitch again.

"So when Man United is sold, they'll close this one down?"

"No. The new owners will be just as bad. Or worse." I looked around. Great stadium, great atmosphere. "Why would you ever give this up to go back to being some rich guy's plaything?" I wasn't really in the mood to talk about ownership models. "So Ziggy's popular. Didn't expect that." I shook my head. It was fantastic, but how? He had 'scored' and celebrated wildly in a heavy loss - it was later credited as an own goal. And he'd scored an equaliser against Hyde. Total career goals, then: one. "Last time I was here, everyone was saying he was shit."

The guy twisted his neck so he could have the last word. "Grafts, dunnee? Puts a shift in, never gives up, leaves it all on the pitch, and he's a goalscorer. Proper poacher. Top lad on the club socials, too. He's been winning us over, one at a time."

This was all really unexpected. When FC United were desperate for a striker, Ziggy had started two matches with CA 11 - totally unprepared. Then there had been a huge gap where he hadn't played a minute. But he'd kept plugging away in training, and as his CA had crept up, so had his proximity to the first team. Last time I'd seen him, about ten weeks ago, he'd been on CA 24. And now...

Barrett Graves "Ziggy"