11.

"There is a saying," said Paul Braun, star player turned superstar sports executive, "that all publicity is good publicity. What do you think, is that true?"

"No," I said. "If your player goes drink driving, films himself kicking a cat, films himself singing racist songs, that's bad. Flat-out bad. If you make him your club captain, times the damage by ten."

Paul's eyelids drooped closed, then came back open. "I wondered if you were describing the same player with three incidents." His eyebrows furrowed. "When I took over as CEO, I worried you were right. We didn't have players filming themselves behaving badly, though if they had phones with cameras inside, I'm sure they would have done. We had a wild bunch in those days and I spent a great many sleepless nights worrying about the next round of discussions with sponsors. To my amazement, the numbers never went down. In fact, after a scandal, ticket sales would rise and there would be more requests for journalist passes for the next home match."

"You decided that all publicity was good publicity."

"Essentially, yes. But more than that, I discovered that publicity is valuable. Publicity can be turned into profit. I chased it. I made deals with bar owners and nightclub bouncers: when my players arrive, call the newspapers. I learned that my star midfielder hated the national team's star striker, so I bought the striker. Instead of being a story four times a year, their conflict became a daily drama. And what drama! The stadium, which had been half-empty, began to fill up. We found a young midfielder, our version of David Beckham. We put him in front of the press and suddenly we had not only men but thousands of women and girls at every home match, not to mention hundreds at every training session. What is it you call us? A megaclub? We had a big history but it was the daily drama and interest that made us what we are today. We became the biggest story, every day, and when you compound that over thirty years you gain the financial muscle to win the league nine years in ten."

"Your Beckham comp didn't do too well out of it, did he?"

"Comp?"

"Comparable player."

"Ah. I don't claim that I did it perfectly. I, ah, went full Paul." He had been relatively upbeat, but now some haunting memories rose to the surface. "There was no journalist we would refuse, no interview we wouldn't grant. Our older players were more able to deal with the intrusion but the younger ones, there is no doubt they suffered. Especially our Beckham comp. He had no privacy so inevitably his private life collapsed. He lived with me for a time. That was my effort to give him the stability he needed but of course it was nothing compared to what he had lost. When I realised what a monster I had created, I tried to restrain it, to control it, but the genie was out of the bottle. Long-term, it was perfect for my football club. Short-term, I did a lot of damage. I see a lot of the young Paul Braun in the young Max Best."

There were four bottles of water on the table, two still, two sparkling, and I opened one of the still ones. It seemed more professional. Something struck me and I found myself beaming. "Hang on! Is this what I think it is? Oh, oh, oh! Paul, you have to look at me and say, 'we're not so different, you and I.' Go on! This might be my only chance!"

Paul's face went blank for half a second, but he played along. "We're not so different, you and I."

"Yes!" I said, doing a tiny little punch.

"What was that?"

"It's the bit in a movie when the villain - let's say The Joker - tells Batman that they're actually exactly the same."

Paul pointed at me. "That is what I'm saying. When Dieter said we had to keep an eye on your career, I was sceptical, of course, but Dieter is rarely wrong about football. What I saw from afar was a young man recreating FC Hollywood but at a very small regional club in England. I very much enjoyed that part of your story, but when we went over to watch the Youth Cup final I was convinced that you had the football know-how, too. You were top of our list to substitute for Basti. Dieter wanted you for footballing reasons. Me?" He smiled. "I wanted to relive the old days. You have not disappointed. Max in Munich is FC Hollywood, the sequel, and I am very much enjoying it."

"Hang on," I said. "All this time I've been worried about how you'd react to what I was doing, and you have been eating popcorn?"

He grinned. "I have been on edge, worrying about what political things you might say, but you have been strangely quiet on that front. While you are focused on the football, it is thrilling to wait for your next explosion. When I saw you had rented a butler to serve the discarded players - a butler as a punishment! You're actually crazy - I had an out-of-body experience. I felt what it must have been like for the reporters in the old days. You have that phrase in Chester - he's done what?! Yes, we are similar. It is like looking into a mirror, at times."

Around us was a buzz of chat. Hundreds of decision-makers were deep in earnest conversations. What stunning transfers were being mooted for the first time? Which clubs were getting rinsed? Who would benefit from all the money sloshing around? I turned my full attention back to Paul Braun. "What I like about the FC Hollywood thing is that you took all the money from sponsors and put it back into the team. You did what you did to build the club. I'm not trying to do it your way. I'll make more from transfers than from all the commercial deals we ever make. I get publicity because I'm trying to do the right things and that puts me in conflict with the bad guys. You've got this enormous publicity machine here but how have you used it to make the world a better place? You do small things around the edges - it's the 20-year anniversary of the gay fan club - but in comparison to what you could do, it's a drop in the ocean. You're Batman but you only go into Gotham once a year."

"Dieter told me that when he asked you to do this role, you turned him down but changed your mind soon after. What happened?"

I frowned. It was amazing that he had asked that question. That was the exact right question at the exact right time. "I decided that maybe I would be able to do something good."

"On which of your favourite topics will you be preaching from your pulpit in my megachurch?"

"I'm not going to say anything political while I'm here. My focus is on winning games. If I win all these matches, my profile will be raised massively, permanently. Why speak when I can, you know, walk the walk?"

"Hmm," he said, frowning. He didn't believe me. He glanced up at the big timer. "What do you think of the football club I built?"

"Tell me one thing first," I said. "Before Elversberg, you made me give you the starting eleven, and when you heard it, you told Fabian and the others to shut the fuck up whining and do what I said. That was because I was the only one looking out for Fabian, right? As a former player you wake up every day with pain all over your body and you like that I actually give a shit about player welfare. That was it, right? That's why you decided to back me?"

"As I said, I welcome some chaos. When I discovered that you told the captain of Germany he couldn't even train because of a phantom injury, my eyes filled with dollar signs." Paul laughed so freely I had to join in. He continued. "I was right. The amount of content generated by your decisions has been staggering. We have taken one hundred percent of the narrative oxygen since that first team sheet was finally revealed." He smiled happily. "Of course our best eleven would include Fabian Fromm, but as long as you won the match, what was the cost to us? The scenario we have scripted is perfect for a brief FC Hollywood sequel; when you leave and Basti returns, everything resets."

"It was all a dream," I said.

"Ha! Quite so. Dieter was convinced you would win five or six from the eight matches. We would be top of the table when you arrived and top when you left. In fact, you have exceeded expectations so far. No, the reason I made a point of backing you when you presented the line up... was the line up."

"You agreed it was time to rotate the goalkeepers?"

Paul laughed. "No, that is crazy. We don't do that in Munich. But you do it, and you like tactical flexibility. We had two worries when it came to Max Best, the football manager. One, that you would not, perhaps, be too distraught if Bayern were to lose in spectacular fashion."

I shook my head, smiling wryly. "You thought I might throw a game?"

"No. But, perhaps yes. If you thought it would be funny, for example."

"I can't say I didn't have a couple of daydreams about it. The Allianz Arena full of angry fans, red flares everywhere, the goals pouring in against us, me ordering stupid formations, people trying to get to the technical area to drag me away."

Paul gave me a wary look. "You didn't daydream about it too much, I hope."

"Only when I needed a lift. What was the second worry?"

"That you would do the opposite. That you would want to make such a bold statement - here I am! - that you would pick a wildly attacking formation. 2-2-6, or something out of Soccer Supremo. Instead, you presented a solid, sober, mature concept."

"Why did you say mature with such surprise? I can be mature."

"You can be, yes. And you were. Can we talk about the analytics team? Karl, Dieter, and I have watched the matches closely, as you might expect, and we are delighted by what we are seeing. Perhaps our appraisal is clouded by what we had feared, but we see control, patience, discipline, a willingness to nullify the opposition, and a big increase in threat towards the ends of matches. The analytics team's view is not so favourable. Our metrics are down, they say. In turn, they have not impressed you. Please tell me candidly what you think."

I didn't see that there was a benefit in hiding my thoughts from Paul. I didn't really want to do anything that would make Bayern stronger, but I couldn't be a complete dick, either. The triumvirate had given me a dream job, had put an enormous amount of trust in me, even if Paul was partially doing it, surprisingly, for the lolz. "They're technically very competent and I'm sure they work well with someone like Bastian. Their player analyses are quite accurate. If you ask them a question you get a solid answer. The thing is, what questions are you asking? They bombed on Bologna and any other manager wouldn't have known."

"Can you explain?"

"Um... Not that one, Paul, sorry. I plan to be in a position where analysts like yours are underestimating Chester, so, yeah. What I would say is that just a second ago you praised me for being willing to nullify the oppo, but your own analysts and coaches hated that. They want us to stamp our authority on the game and play the Bayern way. These guys are always talking about the Bayern philosophy, the Bayern DNA. So you've got a misalignment there, haven't you? I'm 100% sure you and Karl would have been happy to get mud on your shirts from time to time. Why can't the current lot?"

Paul pulled a face. "Basti is very charismatic. The backroom staff have bought into his methods. Dieter, Karl, and I are football people, Max. We try not to undermine the head coach, and there is the notable fact that the sport changes rapidly. In the modern landscape, the most successful trainers have a defined philosophy and way of playing that they stick to in all circumstances."

"Yeah. I've been thinking about that and I think that stubbornness is the exact reason why megaclubs losing by four, five, six goals is getting more and more common."

Paul took a drink. "You're quite old-fashioned, Max. In some ways, you're a throwback."

"I can't afford a philosophy. I mean, I'm the manager of Chester. If my best player is a left-winger, I'm not going to play the Christmas Tree formation."

"The Christmas Tree!" beamed Paul. "I haven't heard of that in years."

"Paul, repeat after me. My Christmas wish is to see Bayern Munich use the Christmas Tree formation against Werder Bremen."

"Oh my God," he said. "Don't. What are you thinking? There's a reason people don't use it."

"And there's a reason people sit pitchside at the best stadiums in the world and watch the match on their fucking iPads." I scoffed. "And there's a reason people listen to what those guys have to say. Doesn't mean it's right. Yeah, look. In summary, Bayern don't have a major issue with the analysts. They're doing what they're supposed to be doing. It simply doesn't help me specifically and I'm only here for four weeks. You're going to ask me about the players and okay I might be acting harshly with some of them but I'll be gone in a month and what's the point of me trying to win them over?"

I felt that Paul wanted to keep talking about the analytics, but he glanced at the countdown. "What about the medical team?"

"Highly skilled, and the equipment is amazing. You've got that MRI scanner? Holy shit, that's a life goal. Million quid or so, right? My question for you is, if you've got the scanner right there at the training ground, why can't anyone get Fabian Fromm to hop in? Players have to be protected from themselves."

"We want players who want to be on the grass."

"Of course. So do I. That's basic, isn't it? But you know on Star Trek where the medical team have the power to take the captain off duty? That's what you want. The doctors and physios work for the players, but that means they can take charge when needed. It's a strange sort of Schrödinger's hierarchy where both people are above the other and below the other but we've got it working at Chester. It helps that the physios can say, let's go and ask Max what he thinks about you training with a hamstring tear. That takes it from being 'am I going to play on Saturday' to 'am I going to get a new contract?'"

"I follow what you are saying but Fabian's injury exists only in your head."

"No," I said. "I can't remember the exact wording but he let slip that he had told someone in the medical team and they had basically agreed Fabian could play through the pain. I don't have a particular problem with that - like you said, you want players who want to play - but everyone needs to be open about it. I'm pretty sure Basti would listen to the physio's report and say 'if he can play, he plays'."

"When did this injury happen?"

"I have no clue."

Paul stared at something on the far side of the room. "It's possible it happened just before you arrived. He, or the physio, knows your reputation for enforcing rest. You know," he said, frowning, "it is possible he hid the injury because he was desperate to play in order to help the team through this period. That would fit his character."

I smiled. "There are no redemption arcs in FC Hollywood 2: All A Dream."

Another glance at the clock. We were getting towards the end of our time. "Kumba Viera. You should, perhaps, be more worried about Don Pino."

I folded my arms and when I noticed I had done that, unfolded them. "No. Absolutely not. I won't kowtow to agents. That's a non-negotiable for me. I'm 26 and I'll either have three more years in this sport or thirty. Forty, even. I'm not spending 40 years being slapped in the face by players and agents. No way. You treat me and the club with respect and if you negotiate a better deal for your client at another club and the transfer fee is fair, I won't stand in your way. If I stand up to this prick now I save myself 40 years of stress. It's even better because I only have to think about the player for a couple more weeks but the impact of what I did will stay in the memory for years."

Paul was not smiling. "If you want to turn Chester into a big club, you need to deal with characters like Don Pino."

"No, I absolutely don't. Keeping slimeballs like him away is how I ended up with Dan Badford and, yeah, Peter Bauer. I'll do things how I do things and by the way, you've got this upside down. He should be scared of me. The next time he decides to slap me in the face I'm going to announce that I'm bored of Chester and want to manage a megaclub. Chelsea will be on the phone two minutes later. I'll tell them I'll join if they bin off their Don Pino players. What will they choose? A manager who wins at a better rate per pound of wages than anyone else in the world? Or an agent they secretly loathe? Yeah, I'll win that one. But oops! At the last second I'll say soz, I can't manage Chelsea. How about Real Madrid? One condition - you have to get rid of your Don Pino boys." I exhaled, enjoying the little daydream. "I have job security and I have a growing stable of football clubs that listen to my advice. It's insane to slap me in the face."

"Kumba Viera didn't slap you. He's a very sweet person, in fact. I heard he tried to talk to you and you brushed him off."

"Yep."

A flash of annoyance crossed Paul's face. "The eye test shows he's an elite defender. The analysts agree."

"Yeah, just in case it wasn't clear, we've won two games without him and we'll continue to win without him. I'm making a point, Paul. I keep hearing that managers need to put up with these bad boys if they want to win. Look what I'm doing. Winning without them. It's a sports movie where you're rooting for the characters to win. That's a better movie than the original FC Hollywood, where everyone hoped they lost."

"As good as you are, it is stupid to go into fixtures with seven world-class players out of the squad. In the lunch break I will find Don Pino and talk to him. We would both like to see Kumba return to the team. A social media post started the conflict. Perhaps a social media post could end it?"

"Are you telling me which players to pick?"

He slumped forward with a groan and muttered in German.

"All right, fine," I said. "If the apology is good enough, he can get out of 1A. But Paul, you shouldn't be taking shit from these people. Give me five million quid and I'll give you a list of twenty centre backs as good or better than him."

"An intriguing offer. Back on Planet Earth, remind me of the name of the striker you developed and sent to Portugal?"

"Foquita."

"Foquita! That's it. You did very well with him. His name is pinging on our systems. I will suggest to Don Pino that he might want to work with you instead of, as you put it, slapping you in the face. What can we do to release the other players from Special 1A training? Henno Wald?"

"Nothing. He undermined me and I can't have him around."

"That is extreme."

"You know I make big changes in matches. My whole style relies on getting buy-in from the players and Henno has bought out."

"Diogo."

"If he was an ice-cream he'd lick himself."

"Could you be more specific? What was it he did that caused your initial complaint?"

"Stat-padding and mutineering. He went against my instructions and tried to get others to do the same."

"One of those being Rui Santos?"

"Yes. He's out on a permanent basis."

"We know he went attacking when you told him to stay in the back line. Do you know why he did that?"

"Because he's a moron who thought I was a soft touch."

"He lost his place in the national team to a player who is more progressive. When you asked him to stay back, you were denying him the chance to prove that he can still generate threat."

"Poor little bunny. He mutinied; he's out. By the way, Diogo tried to get Henno next, and Henno said no. I see everything that happens on my pitch, Paul."

"You saw Drissa Doh make a bad tackle. That is normal. It is harsh in the extreme to exclude him for that."

"He's not a team player and he's not getting back in."

"And finally, what of Player H?" He named a Bayern player who is irrelevant to the story.

"What about him?"

"He didn't do anything wrong, as far as we can tell, yet you haven't selected him, not even in a squad."

"Yeah, I can't use him."

"He's a world-class right back."

"Is he? I'm not sure I agree."

Paul eyed me for a long time. "Is this because of the rainbow armbands?"

"I'm not sure I know what you mean."

"Don't," said Paul, pointing a finger at me. "Player H is regarded as international class by coaches and analysts around the world. Already today two sporting directors have approached me to ask if he is available and the event has barely started. I don't believe that while he performs to a high level in the Champions League and World Cups and while his data output is incredible, everyone is somehow misrating him and only Max Best knows his true level. The other way round I can believe. Player H is fantastic. There is only one possible reason you wouldn't use him, and that is because he once refused to wear a rainbow armband in support of the gay community."

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"I don't know what you want me to say."

"Tell me that's the reason."

"That's the reason."

Paul tutted and shook his head for a long time. "Then why isn't he in 1A training?"

"It's like you said. He hasn't done anything in my time at the club to deserve that. But I can't use him in matches."

"You could put him on the bench so your dislike isn't so obvious."

"No, thanks."

"Max," said a visibly frustrated Paul.

"Look," I said. "He's free to hate whoever he wants, right? And you're free to reward his hate with a new contract. And I'm free to never pick him, ever." Things had gotten frosty on our little table. "I can't use him. I don't want to use him, either."

"What's the difference?"

"Good point. There isn't one."

Paul's eyes narrowed as he tried to work out what I had meant. It was clear to him that in my head at least, there was a distinction. He couldn't detect one, so he gave up. "It hasn't all been bad. Willi and Cheb are playing better than we would have expected."

"They're mint."

"Till Rehder is a nice story."

"Hope so. He's living every German boy's dream."

Another glance at the clock - we only had a couple of minutes left. "Will you tell me what you did with Zoran?"

"Yeah, sure, why not? I saw there was something wrong with him but couldn't say what exactly. Physically he was all right, he seemed cheerful enough. The only clue was, like, his level of play versus his ceiling. He should be closer to his peak than he is, right? I thought maybe he needed a bit of rest, and took him to one side to have a quick chat with him.

"Zoran, bro, I said. I want you to take the weekend off. The last thing you need is to fly to Kiel. Go to a spa. I'll slap it on the club's credit card.

"He goes, I don't need a break. I feel good, plus the performance team love my numbers. They think I'm peak. I say yeah but dude, those guys drive to work in a clown car. I'm the Soccer Supremo. I didn't want to come here and make you a better player because one day that will bite me on the arse but for my own inscrutable purposes I have decided to fix you. Do you want to be fixed or not?

"He's not sure, so I try one of my old lines. When it comes to football, there's only one person you should listen to. He nods and says, you mean my mum."

Paul Braun laughed.

"No, you muppet. Me! What coaching badges has your mum got? He shakes his head. Mum tells it to me straight. She's the only one I really trust. I go, shame she's in Slovenia. No, she's here. I bought her a house. I stand up. Let's go. What? Let's fucking go talk to your mum. Right now!

"So off we go, right? The house is packed. There are women everywhere, loads of kids. I ask Zoran, are all these yours? He thinks that's hilarious. It's all the wives of his brothers and cousins and whatever. Complete bedlam and Zoran's mum is in the middle trying to keep some sort of sense of order. She's got a limp and she has this permanent expression like she's desperate for a cigarette.

"Anyway, I win her over - "

"Wait, wait, wait," laughed Paul. "You can't skip that part. How did you win her over?"

"Oh, er, let me think. The first thing was I made her sit down and I started bossing the kids around. Giving them tasks to keep them busy for a few minutes. Then I told Zoran to make his mum a nice coffee and he didn't know what she liked and I lost my temper a little bit and said fuck football let's fix this instead. I gave him a quiz. Answer wrong and you're out of the team. When's your mum's birthday? What's her favourite restaurant?

"The mum's loving that I'm getting on his case for being a bad son - he's whining like I bought her a house! - but then the mum asks if I know what my mum's favourite things are and I list all the answers to the questions like a good little boy. So that's more brownie points but she says is she coming to visit you in Germany? And I have to say no because she's sick and she doesn't even know I'm in football let alone in Germany and I had a bit of a wobble right there in the kitchen.

"Yeah, anyway, she's Team Max now. I told her I wanted to send Zoran to Marbella to meet a top specialist I discovered that no-one knows about. I realised then I hadn't needed to do all the other stuff. They're quite superstitious and are big into alternative medicine and mystical remedies. The mum wears ribbons of horse hair around her bad knee. I told her I would send her some top quality British horse tail when I got back home."

"Max, what did you do? If he fails a blood test..."

"It's nothing like that! It's physiotherapy but I explained it like it was a miracle cure and they were into it.

"Zoran flew off and had a physio session while we were in Kiel. What the physio does is sort of unblocks your tension and lets your muscles relax. If you've been all crunched up for ages and you get that release it's an unreal feeling, right, so on Monday morning he was buzzing, said he felt as good as new. Taller, too. You watch his performance data go up in the next few weeks." His CA certainly had.

Paul was sceptical but he had seen Zoran score a dominant hat trick in less than a quarter of an hour. "It sounds like I should make this physiotherapist my next signing."

"Too late. I've had a not-so-secret agent softening her up and while she wasn't sure about saying yes to the Chester manager, she said yes to the manager of the rekordmeisters." I was beyond pleased with myself. Technically, I didn't have the budget to hire Nicole, or even to bring Magnus Evergreen back, but that was a problem that would solve itself when I sold a player or two. I looked around at the tables nearest to me. There was West Ham. There was Lazio. Which clubs would I be paired with next? Knowing the way Paul worked, my second meeting would also be with him and he wouldn't let me talk to anyone else until he was satisfied I had answered all this questions. "Paul, what are you in the market for?"

He followed my gaze. "I'm very interested in what the others are going to pitch to me today. Of course there will be centre backs to replace Kumba. Midfielders to replace the three you have kicked out. I'm almost disappointed you couldn't wait one more weekend to 'fix' Zoran. I don't often get to buy strikers. And with us needing so many players - what one might call the Max Best Effect - clubs won't try to charge us the Bayern Munich tax. If we're only in the market for one player, clubs expect us to use our entire budget on him. If we need three, four, five, our counterparts know we need to be prudent and if they want to make a deal they have to treat us the same as any other club. We might be able to pick up a few players at reasonable prices."

I nodded a few times. It made sense, and if there were no bargains to be had it didn't matter because when Basti returned, the out-of-favour players would be welcomed back. Yeah, my acts of squad vandalism could save Paul millions in transfer fees. "I think what you're trying to say is thank you, Max."

He gave me a level stare. "Don't push your luck."

Threats didn't hit the same while I was riding high. I smiled. "Be nice or I won't let you send your hundred-million Euro striker to my magical physio."

The countdown was under ten seconds. Paul's eyes darted around as he replayed the scene where Zoran tried to leap into my arms. I was the Merlin to his prize asset's King Arthur. Paul locked onto me. "That will be a free service between friends, will it?"

I shrugged. "Practically free. Small enough to slap on the company credit card." The buzzer rang. "If that company gets two million Euros every time it wins a match."

***

My next pairing was with Malmö FF, the rekordmeister from Sweden.

The first part of the chat was me trying to get to grips with its geography, because my counterpart was telling me it was just across the water from Copenhagen, and not all that far from Kiel. I couldn't really place it in my mind until the dude explained that Malmö and Copenhagen were joined by a bridge and there was a Scandi Noir detective show imaginatively titled The Bridge.

"I've seen that! It's the blonde detective with the jumpers!"

"Yes," he said, relieved to have broken through. "Although since then, every show in both Sweden and Denmark has featured a blonde woman in sweaters. The wool industry is booming."

We talked about our needs and budget, plus who we were trying to sell. It was really interesting because they were a fan-owned club who had basically maxed out their stadium, made a slight profit every year, and when they got European prize money or big transfer fees it got dumped onto a large pile of cash that I later learned was about fifty million quid. What could the money be used for that would actually improve the club? They could spaff it on wages but not in a way that was likely to improve their position.

Kind of a first world problem, but a problem nonetheless. I couldn't imagine selling a player to a Swedish team, but that big pile of money was filling my brain up.

"Would your members vote to lend me the money?"

"What are you saying?"

"Like... I want to build a stadium in Manchester so my little club can get into the top four leagues. And I need to build a new stand with Chester. We're going up to the Championship and we'll get ten million quid a year but I need the money now, really, so I can have the stand ready for the start of next season. And the training ground needs cash. I wouldn't want to take money from a billionaire but I'd take it from a fan-owned club. We could discuss terms and all that. Make it a good deal for you. Oh, and your manager does Relationism! I could bring a team over for a friendly and we could play Europe's first ever Relationism versus Relationism match!"

"No, Max. We fired him. He was two managers ago."

"No! Really?"

"Really. We're the richest club in Sweden so when we don't win, we don't much like it."

"Not winning sounds rough. Maybe in the after-parties I'll buy you a drink and you can describe what it feels like."

He found my cockiness entertaining. "If I also had a one hundred percent winning record across two countries, perhaps I would be keen to mention it."

***

Next up was Kilmarnock, a mid-table Scottish Prem club, who were spending about 4 million pounds a year on their first team, including the manager and coaches. That was only a slight step above Chester so I wasn't going to get a big transfer fee from them.

They knew me as the guy who had humiliated Aberdeen in the UEFA Conference League, so it was a fun and friendly discussion. Two bald men bonding over what we would do if we had a comb.

I mostly talked to them from the point of view of REM, the agency I had set up with Ruth and Emma. Kilmarnock could be a destination for players on our books who needed regular football for a season, for example. The wages would be comparable to a League One team.

The third meeting was with Chester's most bitter rivals, Wrexham. They were struggling in the Championship and realised they needed a different class of player than fit into their current manager's style. Fascinating that they were planning for life after the guy who had brought them from the fifth tier to the second, but for all the owners projected a kind, paternal image they were actually pretty cut-throat.

I said I was happy to deal with them - even if the Chester fans wouldn't be too happy about it - because when players had kids in local schools or were in a relationship with our Chief Operating Officer, Wrexham was an obvious and convenient sideways move.

"Sideways," said the guy, shaking his head. "You know we're a league above you, right?"

"Have you seen the tables? There are about six places between us. Be afraid. Be very afraid. Also, Zach Green's yours for two point five million. Tell your boss."

The fourth meeting was incredibly significant. It was from a team I had actually seen in the flesh, Bodø/Glimt, from the Arctic Circle in the far north of Norway. I told the guy I liked some of his players and enquired about one of their full backs, but Bodø were drowning in UEFA money and didn't need to sell players below their transfer value.

The guy liked my enthusiasm for his team, though, and gave me a hot tip.

"Everyone in Norway knows of this player and there is growing interest from abroad. Helge Hagen. He looks just like Erling Haaland." He was referencing the Manchester City striker whose most recent contract was said to pay him some 700,000 pounds per week. Buying such a player at the early stage of his career was the ultimate fantasy for any sporting director.

I noted that my new friend said he 'looked' like Haaland rather than he 'played' like him, but I resolved to check the lad out.

***

I met with guys and gals from more teams and the business part got done faster and faster, then we spent our remaining time gossiping about other people in the room. It was great fun, actually, with no stakes because although I felt like I was wasting people's time by turning up with almost no money, everyone also knew I would be getting minted soon and that I had some quality players ripening on the vine.

It was fifteen times fifteen minutes well spent because I had deepened my relationships with various people and clubs, and all this work would make future deals go a little smoother. This wasn't the room where I would sell Lee Contreras or Tom Westwood for two hundred thousand pounds. It was the room where I could trade guys for two million or more.

But it was the post-meeting drinks sessions where the pace really picked up. First, the rumours and gossip were next level. Evaristo was going to leave Bologna to become the next Juventus manager! Pedro Porto was two defeats away from being sacked by Man United! Max Best was the favourite to take over when the Brighton manager was poached by Tottenham! (Wait, what?)

At the same time, the speed dating became ultra-high-speed dating.

Guys snuck up to me and asked what I thought about the Bayern players. I let them all down, as gently as possible. "I've got my Chester hat on, I'm afraid."

But then came the surprises. The Wrexham guy came back and said he had been on the phone to his data team. They wouldn't pay millions to buy back a guy they had released for free, but they were enthusiastic about several other Chester players. "William B. Roberts?"

"Get real," I said.

"Youngster."

"Oh my God. Tell your boss he couldn't make movies fast enough to pay for him."

"Charlie Dugdale."

"Selling my most creative midfielder to Wrexham would cause me physical pain and make me unpopular with the Chester fans but I would consider it for the right price."

"Andrew Harrison."

Andrew was a hard running midfielder with a relatively low ceiling that was more or less in line with Wrexham's average CA of 125. He would fit Wrexham's current system and would be able to grow into their next one. He wouldn't want to move too far because his girlfriend (Emma's best friend Gemma) lived and worked in Manchester. "That... would work. I could even give you a discount," I lied, "because he needs to live close to his brothers."

"Josh Owens."

"Jesus," I said. Josh was a kid who had been chucked out by an academy. I had rescued him and now he was a solid League One left back. He also had a long throw, which was a thing the Wrexham manager loved. The idea of Josh hurling throws against Chester next season was... unpalatable. "That would be an awesome move for him and I do have a younger guy coming up who will need first team minutes soon. Yeah, I'd reluctantly consider that."

"Can I visit you when you're back in Chester?"

"Absolutely. Don't come in a Wrexham-branded car, I reckon."

I was reeling from that discussion when I had similar ones with the guys from three more Championship clubs - Preston, Bristol City, and Hull. Then came the Prem bros - Ipswich, Brentford, Fulham. Wibbers, Wibbers, Wibbers, no, no, no. I brought them to the hall outside to meet Ruth. She was William's agent, after all, which was a great shortcut for her to build her contacts book. In a year or two, most of REM's clients would be of interest to Premier League teams.

Those Prem clubs must have been hearing good things about Matt Rush, the right back we had on loan from Manchester United, because they were extremely interested in loaning players to us. I said I wasn't keen on developing guys for other clubs but it would be good practice to discuss some potential deals in case I was left high and dry in the January transfer window.

Coming from the Chester manager, that might have sounded impudent.

From the Bayern Munich trainer, it came across as 5D chess.

I bumped into Chelli, the guy who handled the South American wing of our agency, and promised to introduce him to some big shots when things got a little less manic. He told me everyone was asking him about Breno, the talented little Brazilian brat who had stolen my ball-surfing move. That was a slight surprise - Breno was a social media sensation but had barely played any real football.

Then came two more surprises.

***

"Max," said Paul Braun, introducing me to someone as if for the first time. "Please meet Don Pino. He's the agent to one of our clients."

"Oh, really?" I said, going along with the fiction, reaching out a hand. "How wonderful."

Don Pino shook mine. He seemed to be in a great mood, and I wondered how much richer he was at 6 p.m. than he had been at breakfast. Certainly he had agreed to go along with Paul's suggestion, or perhaps he was theatrical by nature. The switch in tone from earlier made the encounter feel like a dream that goes on for too long. The elements are the same but the vibe changes in strange and eerie ways. "The pleasure is all mine, Max Best. I hear you are quite a promising head coach."

"I've heard that too," I said. "People are so kind."

Paul said, "I can see you're very busy. Quite the Queen Bee, Max! Is it B for Best or B for Bayern?"

"Impossible to say," I mumbled.

"I hear he's the biggest name in the business," said Don Pino.

"What?" I said, with a laugh, but I remembered I had said something of the sort to him in our little contretemps. "Hang on," I said. "The name Best is big because of George Best. I'm about one percent of the value of the name. I'm not that arrogant, guys."

"Ah," said Don Pino. "That does make a little more sense. I heard from some of the people who overheard your statement that you were quite delusional."

"Kay. But I'm not. Paul, have you actually met Ruth? She's the agent for Parnell Gourlay."

"We did meet, Max, yes."

"Cool, top." I looked from Paul to Don Pino. The way they were angled towards each other seemed very amiable. "What have you decided?"

Paul gestured towards Don Pino, whose phone was rarely out of his hand. The agent brought up a social media post.

@ Don Pino

Kumba Viera is happy with conditions at Bayern Munich for the present moment. He believes he can win important titles there. Negotiations for a new contract are underway and both parties are satisfied with the progress that has been made.

I pulled a face that might not have been found in a diplomacy handbook. "Have you posted that?"

Paul shook his head. "We seek your approval, Mr. One Hundred Percent."

I held a finger up. "Can you wait here, please? Just two minutes."

I went to the organiser's desk and asked the woman there for a pen and some paper. I scribbled, tongue sticking out in the manner of all the great writers, and brought my creation back to the superclub CEO and the superagent.

I said, "The message needs to come from Kumba."

"He didn't write the original," said Paul.

"He hurt the fans," I said. "It needs to come from him."

"I'll take the heat," said Don Pino. "That's my role."

"Yes, I agree, but the fans don't have a relationship with you, they have a relationship with Kumba. He needs to speak."

"Max," insisted Paul. "If you had bothered to speak to Kumba, you would know that he didn't have anything to do with the original message. It was gamesmanship by Don Pino."

"Kumba chose his agent," I insisted back. "You're responsible for the people you choose to speak for you. This is the way it needs to go, okay?"

Paul's eyes flashed and he went on a quiet rant in German.

"Show me the text," said Don Pino. I handed him the paper and he read it out loud. "At Kumba Viera. I would like to apologise to the wonderful fans of Bayern Munich for the distress I caused them recently. A footballer's career is very short and we have to maximise our income so that we can provide for our families, because who knows what the future might bring? The suggestion of a move to another club was a gambit to secure good terms for what might be my final contract. It is part of the negotiation process and I naively did not expect it to prove controversial, but it did, and for that I am sorry. The reality is I am happy at Bayern, my family is happy in Munich, and I am told the two parties are close to agreeing an extension that I will be truly delighted to sign. (That is unless the mighty Chester FC would like to buy me, in which case I must cry 'auf Wiedersehen, I'm off to a real club'.) Please accept this apology and know that the next time I pull on the Bayern shirt, I will give my all to the team as I always have done. Servus, Kumba."

There was a little pause. "You can delete the bit about Chester. That was a joke."

"Before we discuss further," said Don Pino. "If we post this, will you put my client back in the team?"

"Erm," I said. Kumba would be an amazing asset in the heist and if I had him available I would potentially think about bringing him off the bench in the next couple of matches. I normally used Bench Boost on attacking players, but with a boosted CA 179 defender I could get much more aggressive, knowing that he would clean up a lot of the mess that came his way. "For tactical reasons I'd probably use him as a sub in the next two but I'd want him starting against Stuttgart."

"In other words, you would use him as if nothing had happened," said Paul, who was trying to be a Max-to-normo translator.

"Yeah."

"I don't understand," said Don Pino. "How is it a good thing for your best player to be a substitute?"

I said, "Kumba defends with good positioning and so on, but much of what separates him from normos is his physicality. If he plays sixty minutes instead of ninety, he can get more intense on every interaction. You watch. He'll have amazing stats coming on as a sub, the way I plan to use him."

Paul said, "Check our recent cup match. It's just as Max said. Claude Sonko told me that Max described his plan in the dressing room... in the previous match! It went just as Max said and for the first time ever, these elite players want to be a substitute. It's a relief that Max's time is coming to an end because some of our players are starting to think he's a wizard."

That sounded like salesmanship to me, but I liked it anyway. Don Pino re-read the text. "It's not what we would normally write, but it has a certain authenticity. I will discuss it with Kumba. In the meantime, you will release Kumba from training with the bomb squad."

It suddenly felt hot in the room. "Oh, I will?"

Paul gripped my wrist. "Don Pino is asking, not ordering."

That wasn't how it sounded to me, but I rose above it magnificently. "Not sure about that," I said. "I've already paid for the butler for tomorrow. And it's not like it's a big conversation, is it? You send him the words and he says yes or no. It's a matter of thirty seconds, isn't it? That text, or something very similar, could be on his socials tonight, he could be back in training tomorrow, he could be in the squad on Saturday. Or you could yank my chain again and - " Paul tried his best to crush my wrist, so I shut up and gave him a dazzling smile. "How about I leave the professionals to finish all this?"

"That could be a good idea," said Paul.

I couldn't resist one last jab. "Paul, don't forget while you're negotiating. I have that list of 20 centre backs as good or better than Kumba."

"Yes, you mentioned that. I think for now it won't be necessary."

Don Pino was looking wary, but I was done with him now. It was almost inconceivable our paths would ever cross again. "Paul," I said, getting myself excited. "I was thinking about the whole FC Hollywood thing, and the way I haven't spoken directly to the fans since I got here. That's not my style, really. In those old clips I saw, the players were always going on talk shows and blabbing about the inner workings of FC B. I was thinking it would be funny and a sort of appropriate homage if I went on a talk show. Is there one in particular you would like me to avoid?"

Paul's alarmed look slowly changed until he was grinning almost as much as me. "I think I can arrange for you to appear on the one I would like you to avoid."

"Top. Have a think about which players I'm allowed to lay into. I'm thinking the Portuguese lads get both barrels, Kumba gets treated very sympathetically - what with his fan-friendly apology and everything - and I sidestep the German guys."

"Why do you want to do that, Max? You insisted in your contract you wouldn't do more media work than the club was contractually obliged to give you."

"Because Bastian can rest easy now, right? I've done my bit for his health. Now I'm on my own schemes."

"Schemes?"

"Keep in touch, guys. Cheerio!"

***

I was feeling very cheeky and silly, so I went over to the organiser's desk and flirted with the woman who was in charge of the technical aspects of the day. I persuaded her to let me put a short message up on the giant screen, typed it out, and showed it to her. It made her laugh. Yes, fine, we can do it just this once, seeing as the event is technically over. She clicked on her laptop and the screen's display changed to read:

Max Best (Chester FC) needs an elite women's goalkeeper and is willing to pay an absurd transfer fee for the right candidate.

The people in the room, who were mostly over to one side where the refreshments were being served, pointed and laughed and the buzz of conversation doubled.

Almost as soon as the message had gone up, someone tapped me on the shoulder. He was pretty blocky, like an ice hockey dude, and his accent was quite heavy, which I had learned was a sign he didn't get to speak English much.

"Hello," he said. "My name is Gerrit and I am from VfL Bochum. In the Bundesliga," he added, because I must have looked pretty blank.

"I'm Max," I said, offering him a handshake. "I'm from Bayern Munich. In the Bundesliga."

Gerrit smiled. "I have heard of you, I must admit." He glanced at his watch. "I apologise but I must be brief. VfL Bochum's trainer - ah, manager - plays 4-4-2 diamond and switches to 4-2-3-1."

"Okay," I said, nodding, wondering why you would combine those particular formations. I would have to think about it later, in my hotel room, but one thing stood out. "You need at least one amazing central attacking midfielder. Actually, you probably have that guy so you're not here about him. It would be harder to find someone who could play wide in a 4-4-2 diamond and switch easily to one of the 3 in the 4-2-3-1."

"Yes. Exactly. That was... That was a very good guess. Have you been reading Munich's reports into the other clubs?"

"God, no. Ew."

That confused him. "But you have the kind of player we need. Exactly the right kind of player."

Now he had confused me. "Wibbers? You can't afford Wibbers. I've turned down bids from big six Premier League clubs."

"Wibbers? What is Wibbers?" He glanced at his watch again. "I speak of Pascal Bochum."

"Pascal?" I said, amazed. But why was I amazed? In a typical match I used him on the left of midfield, the right, and behind the strikers. From what I'd seen, he could easily do a job in the Bundesliga. "Oh. I'm amazed because Bochum want to buy Bochum. This is a joke."

"It is not a joke, Max Best. The name is funny, yes, but he fits the profile of what we need. Very intelligent, fast, good on the counter, good pressing. Of course, he is not tall, but he survives in the English leagues."

"Right but he's the manager of my women's team. I can't sell him mid-season."

Gerrit got thoughtful. "We need to act quickly in the market and we have various options. If we wait, the chance will be gone. I am authorised to suggest a deal for Pascal Bochum, to be completed on the first of January - "

I was suddenly filled with dread. Pascal was my first ever signing. We'd had a bumpy ride but he was a vital member of the team in more ways than one. The thought that I would have to let him go was perfectly beastly. In the first draft of my movie script, all the beloved characters stuck together until the end. The twist at the end of act one wasn't that I sold a fast, intelligent player in order to build a media centre.

Apart from Foquita, who was handed to me on a plate so didn't really count, the highest transfer fee Chester had ever received was 800,000 pounds. If VfL Bochum offered more than that, I would have to give it serious consideration. Yes, losing Pascal would cause all sorts of problems, but it was his dream to play in the Bundesliga, his absolute dream. He would get a good wage - I was seeing lots of German salary data and had many points of comparison, so I would be able to ensure he got a fair deal - and with a top-flight team's facilities, he would reach his PA of 133 all the sooner. A long, lucrative, and happy playing career would follow, and then he would slip into coaching, where he would truly excel. "I'm sorry, Gerrit, what? I spaced out. Daydreaming. Can you say that again?"

"Of course. I was proposing a deal for Pascal, January first, with a transfer fee of one point one seven million Euros, which at current exchange rates amounts to one million pounds."