4.

I led Pedro Porto and Briggy into the Ninth Circle of Hell, also known as Ambers' Bar. I knew that a watering hole inside Sutton United's stadium would be full of people who hated me but I wanted to have the meeting in public with alcohol available; there weren't many options. Any pub near the stadium would also be full of Sutton fans. I couldn't head out too far; my lads were either in the showers, getting changed, or eating the post-match scran. When they were all done we'd get on Sealbiscuit for the long drive home. Ambers' Bar was warm(ish), close to highly-trained medical professionals like physio Dean, and anyway, weren't we all part of the same football family? Couldn't we all get along? If anyone tried anything I'd get to watch Briggy beat the shit out of them - a fitting encore for what we had just done to their players out on the pitch.

The bar was a semi-industrial space, painted pure white, with a sloping roof, skylights, and a few cheap ventilation fans embedded into the top of one wall. Not very attractive to start with and it had been made to look even cheaper with a few TV screens stuck on the walls at irregular intervals and at different heights. To add some colour someone had nailed up half a dozen yellow-and-black Sutton United scarves. Of the four that were affixed to the bar, three had the ends dangling down but one didn't. The lack of consistency aggravated me.

Was I going to lose my temper and annoy everyone, including myself? And then blame the furniture? No! I had to try to be charming. Danny Ocean slash George Clooney didn't have a psychotic episode every time he saw a hand-written sign pointing to the toilets with a stray punctuation mark before the letter S.

I reached out to erase the apostrophe but realised that both Briggy and Pedro were looking at me like I was mental, so I pointed to some tat and said, "Do you have that in your country?"

Pedro mumbled something that Briggy thought was hilarious. She obviously thought Pedro was handsome and charming and I realised that if I behaved myself, I could have some fun with this situation. I could take Pedro to charm school. Subtly talk up my achievements while making Pedro self-destruct. What would be the rules of the game? Pedro and I would compete to get reactions from Briggy. Smile's worth a point. Twinkly eyes two points. Belly laugh five.

"Let me buy you a drink," I said. "I feel like I'm gonna need a beer and Chester don't have a midweek match, so... Actually, I'd better clear it with the manager. Boss, am I allowed a beer? Yes, Max, knock yourself out."

Briggy smiled; score one charm point for the boy Best!

Pedro was scanning behind the bar where there was a very decent selection of spirits and soft drinks in fridges. "Would they have wine...?"

I got the barmaid's attention, which is a lot easier when you are with a sexy pirate who happens to be the manager of maybe the most famous football club in the world. "Two pints of Tribute, please." Pedro gave me a surprised look. "That's the best wine they've got," I said.

Briggy smiled again, bigger. Two-nil! Best roars into an early lead! She nodded meaningfully towards the London Pride pump. "What do I get?"

"You get to protect two high-value targets from this hate-filled mob."

The hate-filled mob was about 30 Sutton fans who were drowning their sorrows. It's safe to say they were surprised to see me but utterly gobsmacked to see Pedro. There was one comfy chair which I fussed over. I grabbed a napkin and wiped the seat and the armrests before guiding Pedro into it. When he was seated, I fussed over him, too.

While I was wiping his arms I paused and locked eyes with him. "Is this charming?"

He didn't blink. "Very," he said, then he fell into an easy grin. Briggy liked it! He'd scored from my shot. No fair.

I went to the metal table where two guys were hogging four chairs. "Pleased to meet you, guess you know my name. Can you move your coat, please?" That went down GREAT so I dragged the chair noisily across the room and helped Briggy sit it in like a true gentleman. Then I went back to the same metal table and asked for the second spare chair. It now had two coats on it so there was double the drama. They couldn't refuse, though. I checked Briggy couldn't hear me and said, "Thanks, lads. I love coming to Sutton; I always get what I need."

I dragged that chair over, too, and tried to angle myself in such a way that Briggy would be able to protect me.

"Briggy," I said. "I might have pissed those guys off."

She couldn't believe it. "We've only been here one minute."

"I work fast."

She loved that, but I had already lost track of the score in my mini-game. I needed to concentrate because I wanted something from Pedro, he wanted something from me, and while that was going on I would be running a scam to make it more likely that someone in this stadium would be the Manchester United manager a year from now.

On the wall I was facing, just above and to the side of Pedro's head, was a hatch. A sign announced that it was the serving point for Jenny's Kitchen, which, when it was open, offered plain burgers for six pounds fifty and cheeseburgers for seven pounds.

"Briggy," I said, "go over there and take a photo of Pedro and me as though you're a normal football fan. I'm going to lean in like I'm worshipping at the feet of the master, right? And Pedro, you look wise and paternal. Imagine you're my mentor, ludicrous as we both know that is. Make sure your beer is in shot."

They obeyed and Briggy came back to show me her work. Pedro took a peek, too. "I look old."

"Yeah. Have you tried being younger?" Bzzzzz! That cost me a charm point. I backtracked. "Nah, it's just a bad shadow. You look great. You look like you could board a ship-of-the-line with a crew of twenty."

Briggy briefly looked away from her creation to check she had heard me right. Her attention returned to her phone. "What's this for?"

The curse's Job Information screen showed managers who were at risk of losing their jobs. After a few painful defeats early in the season, Pedro had been on slightly insecure, but when results had only marginally improved, he had dropped to insecure. Pedro had the best manager stats I had ever seen - virtually straight 20s in all categories. He even had 20 in Adaptability, which was funny because he never, ever changed his formation.

It was a bit of a mindfuck to me that he was so clearly one of the outstanding managers of the current era but even he couldn't save Man United. It didn't exactly fill me with confidence that I could do a job in Munich, though that particular club was not in a state of perma-crisis. "I'll explain it later. Send it to Bethany Alban. Ask if she wants us to plant it on someone's social media feed or if she can use it straight up."

Her thumbs danced around her phone. "Your journalist friend. How very mysterious."

Pedro sat up when he heard the word journalist and he looked around the room, eyes hooded, as though he had been led into a trap. "Easy, tiger," I said. "I don't kick a man when he's down." I leaned back, quite pleased with that. Tone? Friendly. Briggy? Approval. Pedro? He knew. His eyes flashed but he hadn't come here to take part in my weird shenanigans. I saw that he was about to start on the main topic but I had a sudden urge to postpone it, or more specifically to work towards it in my own way. "Let's get to the important business," I said. Pedro sat up a little. I pointed to the sign over his head. "You're a man of wealth and taste. Would you want a bacon roll, a fishburger bap, or cheesy chips?"

"Bap is..." He tried to make a two-handed gesture while gripping the beer handle. "The bread thing?"

"Yes. Bun. Barm. Muffin."

"Not the bacon roll. The bacon here is no good. Much better in Portugal."

I shook my head. "Mate, what happened to you? You used to be way better at this."

"At this? What's this?"

"Being in England. Being in the spotlight. You started so well. It was ten out of ten for so long. Even when you had bad results you said the right things and everyone was eating out of your hands."

Briggy said, "What happened?"

I opened my mouth but sank back into my chair. I couldn't mouth off while playing the charm game. "Ah, nothing. Forget it."

Pedro said, "Tell her. Go ahead. Let's hear one more version." He said the last part with a little heat, which obviously found its way into my tone.

"Okay," I said, "how about this? For a hundred and fifty years we've been playing professional football in this country and we've got history and traditions and stupid as we are, we fucking like them. Football's never been more popular, right, down through the levels. At the top we get Pep and Jurgen and Pedro and what do they do? They act like everything's such a surprise to them. Oh! We need to play twice a week. Really? Are you sure? Gosh! If I had known that I never would have taken this job!

"What I'll do is I'll tell these stupid English people how to fix their broken sport. Hey, everyone, says Pep, says Jurgen, says Pedro, you play too many matches. Cancel the League Cup. Reduce the size of the Premier League. Scrap this, bin that. Do everything in your power to make my life easy because my schedule is more important than the wider health of the sport. Oh, that's interesting, we say. No doubt there's a weight of intellect behind these comments, a consistency, an internal logic. But hold on. Three days after the season finished, Manchester United flew out to Hong Kong and Malaysia for a tour. Wait, I thought there were too many matches? Maybe if we need to reduce the calendar we should start with meaningless friendlies?

"And then you might complain about the World Club Cup, whatever the fuck that is, and the ever-expanding Champions League, and the 800-team World Cup. Let me just check Pedro's opinion on the expanded World Cup... Ah, search returns no results. But we know for sure he thinks we should destroy the traditions that led to Manchester United becoming a huge institution that people care about. That we can say for certain because he says it every time he loses a match. Which," I added, but I stopped there because that really would have been kicking a man while he was down.

Briggy looked from me to Pedro. He blinked slowly. "I cannot criticise the ownership or the marketing team. When I complain about the fixtures it is honest but it is also a message to the owners. We can't take more. We can't take more. They don't listen. I try to give hints to the media, to the fans, to let them join the dots as you have done. What should I do? Speak and be fired? Big football clubs are political, Max."

"Mate, you coming here to tell us how shit it is winds me up and I like to think I'm not really, you know, one of those kinds of people. But if you're doing that to me, imagine what you're doing to the average Englishman. You're turning your fans against you every time you talk like that. You can't afford to lose the fans. You say it's political but you're not being political. The fans want to like you. Stop complaining about the things that made Man United what it is!"

He drank some of his pale ale, which felt wrong in some way I couldn't put my finger on. "I hear your perspective. It is interesting." He tapped his lips. "I could give my comments more context. Yes, I will think on this."

"Are we still friends?"

He pretended to think about it and wobbled his hand to indicate that the decision could go either way. Briggy laughed. Pedro took another swig. "Yes, of course."

"Great, because I have more complaints."

"Fucking hell, Max," said Briggy.

"No, wait, I'm trying to help. Honest! Bad-mouthing our bacon is another easily fixed mistake and an opportunity. Our bacon's the best in the world - in our minds, even though it's actually from Denmark - and I strongly advise you develop a whimsical attachment to an English foodstuff. Let yourself be papped eating it a few times and someone will notice ohhh look Pedro Porto drinks Yorkshire Tea and devours Cadbury's Mini Eggs! We're simple people, Pedro. We love it when our guests rave about Gregg's sausage rolls. Actually, better not to do it with anything stodgy or people will compare it to your style of football."

"Stodgy?" he said, sipping his beer. "What is stodgy?"

"In food it's, you know, er... heavy. Porridge. Oats. In football it's five at the back, slow build-up play, get the ball wide in the last third but go all the way back to the goalkeeper and start again."

"Minha mãe," grumbled Pedro.

"What's happening?" said Briggy.

"He is complaining about my tactics."

"Max," said Briggy.

"Oh, here's another one. Stodgy. Adjective. Not scoring a first-half goal in ten consecutive matches."

Pedro let out a stream of Portuguese before saying, "And was this match I just witnessed not stodgy? Long pass to the tall player. Long pass to the tall player. Long throw to the tall player. Very beautiful, Max Best. Very unstodgy."

"We scored four goals. Oh," I said, slapping my head. "A goal is a bit like a point in other sports."

"Thank you for that, Max. Good to know."

"This match was a punishment beating. The home fans hated it but the Chester lads are on the buses and trains going back up north, singing, drinking, laughing. It was a masterpiece of brute force. I can do finesse, too. Tomorrow I'll be managing the women and we'll have more shots against our closest rivals than Man United will have forward passes against the seventh best team in London." I remembered something and it explained why the scene felt weird. "Cheers," I said, lifting my beer towards his.

He scoffed but clinked his glass against mine, looking me in the eye as he did so. "Cheers, Max Best, master of the punishment beating. Today we are all Sutton." He took a swig and let his eyes drift around the room. Dour English people in drab puffer jackets, the sports news channel on the screens, bits of Sutton United memorabilia. "Matt said you do not like these people."

"The fans are fine, except those two who were hogging the chairs. No problem with the players. But someone at the top of the club tried to get Chester a transfer ban, and the news was leaked just before we played them. They were trying to cause chaos. Fucking stupid. They merely adopted chaos. I was born in it."

Briggy said, "What does it really mean, a transfer ban?"

"It would stop us from buying new players. If I can't buy players it's stupid to sell players, right? I'm only going to sell Dazza and Gabby if I can get replacement strikers. The most sophisticated way to do it is to buy the replacement first, which is partly why my squad's so big. I have two senior left backs and a talented guy coming up. I could sell one of the two first-teamers because I've got Adam learning the game in the background and by next summer he'll be pretty good. But basically if I can't buy, I can't sell. If I can't sell, I can't build the training ground, can't build the stadium, can't create jobs.

"We have created about fifteen full-time jobs since that Sutton match and there will be another fifteen or twenty this coming summer. For a long time, Man United were the biggest private employer in Manchester. It might have been the biggest in the north west of England, I can't remember if I heard that right. They had about a thousand staff. A thousand jobs! Chester won't ever have a thousand but that's one way I can make a difference, you know, a long-term difference, and Sutton put that at risk to maybe have a better chance of one result in one game. It's pathetic. Just another way the sport is turning to shit.

"Man City have spent more than fifty million pounds suing the Premier League - the league they are in, the league whose rules they promised to abide by - and they have made everyone rethink what football is. It's not about what happens on the pitch, it's about who's got the best lawyers. It's about snide legalistic bullshit. City can get in the bin and Sutton can climb in there with them."

Pedro listened patiently to my rant. Briggy said, "But tell us what you really think."

That made Pedro laugh. "Max, it's astonishing to hear you talk like this. Aren't you suing UEFA?"

"Yeah they fined me for wearing face paint in a match. I'm defending my right - and everyone's right - to own my own face. UEFA don't own my face, Pedro."

"There are two cases, no?"

"I got a fine for proposing to Emma on the pitch. The fine was bigger than some clubs get for homophobic or racist chants. That's bullshit. The principle of the case is that UEFA hate love more than they hate hate. It's actually noble what I'm doing. I've set aside a ton of money for legal fees, though Gemma says we've got a great case and we'll actually rinse them."

Briggy looked surprised. "That doesn't sound like a strong case."

"The second one, no. I meant the first one. The second one is to drag them in the court of public opinion and then we'll stop before they get a technical victory. Heh. Take that, you dicks. Winning the first will pay the costs of the second. The sport's governing bodies talk a good game when it comes to racism but there are still racist chants in every match in some countries and there still isn't an openly gay player in any major European league. The only one I can even think of plays for Gibraltar. They're one of the lowest-ranked national teams, Briggy. It's better than nothing but the state of the sport is actually scandalous."

Briggy said, "It's hypocritical that you complain about entities that use legal frameworks to their advantage while you do so yourself."

"What's the advantage to me personally? Nothing. I could lose a ton of money. I get nothing. Nobody owns my face and nobody tells me where I can and can't propose to my dream woman. UEFA think they have complete ownership over me and every player in Europe. It pisses me off, Briggy!"

Pedro said, "You want to make it so that you can do your funny things and not get a sanction and if you take legal action every time they come at you, perhaps they will think twice. That is the advantage you seek."

"No," I said, slowly. "I'm pushing back on small things until I have the resources to do something bigger. For now, I'm doing what I can, which is basically nothing. I'm a nothing player and I manage a nothing club. I'm not the manager of Manchester United."

"Oh," said Pedro, in an 'interested' voice that probably scared people who knew him. "What would the manager of Manchester United be able to do?"

"A lot. Briggy, United are called the Red Devils. Pedro is the head devil. Head of a literal red army. 76,000 in the stadium, millions around the country, always the most watched matches on TV. Their marketing morons claim there are over a billion followers worldwide. When the manager of Manchester United eats a Mini Egg, sales go up. When he speaks, the world listens. In recent years the world has heard a lot of unsolicited opinions about how to 'fix' English football but, ah, there are some topics we haven't heard much about."

Pedro was giving off angry pirate energy but I came from a long line of buccaneers. Probably. His disapproval on this topic didn't bother me. The tension was getting to Briggy, though. "Max, maybe Pedro doesn't want to hear your opinions. I mean, you have so many."

Pedro scoffed, but it was in the direction of charming. He drank and looked around. "We're in a pub drinking beer. Friends can talk shit to each other, can't they? Especially about football."

I lowered my voice and softened my tone. "I'm sorry but there's something I need to get off my chest, Pedro. I honestly don't want to fall out over it but I have to say it."

"Do you?" said Briggy, as a form of warning.

"Yes."

"Go on," said Pedro.

I checked no-one could overhear. Briggy was doing a good job of keeping people away. "Your first season at United, the players got together before Pride Week. Let's do something, they said. Some small token gesture. We could wear colourful armbands, maybe. Great, perfect, yes, said every single player. Except one." I turned to Briggy. "The same exact thing happened at Bayern Munich, by the way. In both cases, one player in the dressing room said no I won't wear a funky armband because I fucking despise gay people and wish they didn't exist."

Pedro's voice rose. "He did not say that. That is not how it went!"

"So along comes the day of the match. There's no armbands, no gesture, no social media messaging from the biggest club in the world. And who's in the starting eleven? Why, it's Bobby Bigot."

Pedro was pissed. "You don't know him. Close your mouth."

"Why play the guy who refused?"

"It’s his right to refuse."

"I agree. But you can’t pick him. Just leave him out for one match. Why pick him that weekend?"

"I needed him."

"You lost anyway so you sold your soul for nothing."

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

"I didn’t sell my soul. I support gay people and the Pride movement."

"Not as much as you support a bigot. I've never been happier to see Manchester United lose. You can speak about support but you speak more with actions and your actions showed which side you are on."

Pedro shook his head, disgusted. "The badges, the rainbow shoelaces, they do nothing. It's nothing."

"So why won’t he wear them? If it’s a pointless gesture and he still refuses to do it, he’s just being vindictive. And by the way, it's not pointless. It’s almost pointless but not quite. In Eastern Europe they’re waging war on homosexuality. What’s the latest I read this week? Banning gay people from being teachers? They’re ten years further along the road of authoritarianism but we still have a chance to stop it here. Every time the entire football industry unites behind an issue, the right wing has to make a calculation about what they can get away with. They know they can't win an election without football fans. If the manager of Manchester United is going to clap back at them it will make them think twice. I've got seven thousand in my ground, you've got seventy thousand. That's a small army already." I tapped my middle finger against my thumb because I had seen people do it to calm themselves down. "I want to do something useful and meaningful with my life and on my own that is going to be tiny but with help I could do a lot."

"You would like me to be an activist? For a cause? My cause is to win football matches. It is work enough."

"You want wins? Here's a quick win for you. Stop taking fifteen-minute flights to Newcastle."

Pedro's eyes widened at this latest complaint. He leaned back and thumped the back of his head against the wall. "Normally you drink beer and get a hangover later. With Max you get both at the same time. You know I wouldn't last long in the job if I said or did any of the things you would have me say or do."

"That's fine by me," I said, and Briggy gave me a sharp look. I summoned up some cheekiness. "It's going to be easier for me to win the Premier League if he's not in it."

Briggy thought that was rather charming. Things had got a bit raw but I was back in the game. Her lips curled to one side. "You don't have to say everything that comes into your head, you know."

I rubbed my forehead. "I just wish I had some help. One voice. One other football manager who spoke up about one thing."

Briggy was staring at her phone suddenly. "Bethany is asking if she should book a hotel to... a certain city for the summer. Why would she ask that, Max? Am I stuck with you until the summer?"

"She's fishing," I said. "She was one of my first ever players. I moved her into the defence but she did well in midfield, too, because she worked so hard and she was so fit. Relentless. Amazing attitude. Never gave less than a hundred percent, even for a second. You could say that Beth is the benchmark by which I judge every player I come across."

Pedro was going through the beer faster now. "You want to take a philosophical approach."

Briggy stirred. "Oh, are we finally talking about Matt Rush?"

I gave her a sour look. "We've been talking about him the whole time."

Pedro leaned forward a little. "I would like to approach the topic in a more prosaic way."

"Sure," I said. "Briggy, go round the room until you find someone who can explain prosaic to me."

Pedro sighed. "We go back to the previous Friday. We had a meeting. Once a month we review the loans. It's short, there is a person who does it full time. It is to control, you know? I'm very interested in Matt's progress. I see he plays well, his numbers go up, his charts fill, it's perfect, the perfect loan move, then on Monday morning I hear it is over and boof." Pedro used his free hand to mime his head exploding. "We look into it, see the numbers, yes, that's a big drop, something has happened. We get together and call Matt. Are you injured? No. Were you asked to do something new, difficult, were you put next to an inexperienced player? No no no. So what do you say? I don't know. All I know is that in the interval Mr. Best complains and in the second period I am removed. After training today he tells me to find a new club. From high to low in four days. That is rapid! It cannot be so rapid, Max."

"Speed isn't the issue, Pedro. I've read about you as a player and hunted out some clips. You were slow. I'm fast. I make hundreds of tweaks to my formations in one game; it takes you an entire season to move your DM back three yards. You can't complain that I'm rapid because to you I'm flashing by like a Japanese cartoon so you think what I'm doing is science fiction but to me it's normal speed. Oh, and while we're talking about ways we're different, in your interviews you always talk about how you played every position on the pitch except goalkeeper and striker. I played every position plus goalkeeper plus striker plus sweeper."

Briggy said, "My football knowledge is failing me again. What does that have to do with the topic?"

"Nothing," I said. "I just wanted to mention it in case it comes up later."

Briggy tutted. "It is a young man's career on the line, is it not? You could be a little more serious. And you are the only person in the bar who is not, to use your word, buzzing that Pedro is here."

"Are you buzzing that Pedro is here?"

Briggy did a cocky grin. "Yes but for different reasons."

I scoffed while Pedro did that thing where he pretended not to understand that he was smoking hot. I checked behind me and Briggy was right. We probably hadn't needed to stage the photo - we were being papped non-stop and I realised the bar was filling up. Were people coming back to the stadium to get a glimpse of the Manchester United manager? Probably. What would ten-year-old Max do if he met the head devil? I took a long, deep breath and let out a smile. "I never imagined the manager of Manchester United would want to talk to me. It's literally beyond my wildest dreams. I'm not going to be deferential because let's face it, Pedro is buzzing that I agreed to see him." He and Briggy both pretended to be staggered by my cockiness. "But I know I'm going to look back on this moment fondly, yeah. Course I am." I couldn't resist a little jab. "The next United manager might not like me as much."

Pedro muttered in Portuguese to himself, then said, "The implication being you won't have long to wait. Is that the joke?"

"Yep."

He looked into the distance, as though he was on the prow of his pirate ship looking at the nineteen English frigates coming to blow him to smithereens. "I'm not finished yet."

I felt a pang of pity for him. "You're in an impossible situation. You work for a climate criminal billionaire arsehole who's as likely to sack you for driving an electric car as because you lost in the FA Cup. Half your players are like Zoolander - they can only turn in one direction. You're one of the best judges of talent in Europe but you're not allowed to choose who comes to the club. Your boss sacks hundreds of Mancunians but it's you who has to face the media. Nothing about it's fair or nice but I don't understand why you're wasting what could be your last days on Matt fucking Rush, when you could wear a little rainbow pin badge at a press conference and cause a stir. It's obvious to me which is a better use of your time and social capital."

I stopped because Pedro was staring up at someone to my side. I knew it wasn't trouble because Briggy was on the case; she had been politely keeping selfie-hunters away from us. The new arrival was Peter Bauer. He looked just as cool and collected as always but I got the strangest impression he had been doing a different face just seconds before. Maybe he was horrified at how I was talking to Pedro. "Sorry to interrupt," he said.

"Shit," I said. "Is it time already? Do we need to go?"

Peter smiled. "If you want to chat to Pedro Porto, boss, the lads will wait. I came to ask if you wanted another beer."

The Bauer name was as close to football royalty as it was possible to get - maybe Best was up in that bracket - and it didn't surprise me when Pedro rose and shook hands with Peter. Pedro retook his seat. He smiled at us. "I'll have another."

I drained my glass. "Fill her up."

Peter took our empties and wandered away.

Pedro said, "I don't have social capital to help eight billion people, Max. As soon as I learned to accept that, I asked myself where to draw the line. Everyone in Portugal? Everyone in my city? Whatever I choose I am, what's the word... spread too thin. I have a thing I say to my friends. In an airplane they tell you when times are rough you must put on your mask first. You understand it? You do for yourself first and then you can help others. You are shocked but this is my way."

I was shocked because it was the exact metaphor I often used. "Go on."

"I decided early in my career I had to make a limit and the limit is my club. I do everything for my players. Everything always for my players, for my players, and they take care of their families and their children go to school and learn and become doctors. Do you see? For me this is how it works. This is how I make change. The problem with the armbands, yes, I do not like it but we must be a team. If one says no, all say no. One for all, all for one, that is a team. We have to make a quick decision, we decide with the team. It is not nice for me. We have a year until the next time, yes? We talk about it. We discuss. I try to make a change. Maybe I do, maybe I don't. Maybe I'm sacked in the middle. Maybe I get Max Best giving me the big shit because I am too slow but we have another phrase, slowly you always win the race."

"Mmm, yeah," I said. "That's what society needs. Good people with huge platforms invisibly and silently doing great things for a couple of dozen people."

Pedro rocked forward and laughed. He let out a stream of Portuguese again. "Impossible. It is impossible to be so belligerent. Briggy, Peter, how do you stand it?"

My player-coach had arrived with a couple of juicy beers. Nothing for himself, I noted. "Oh, it's not that bad. Yes he likes to preach but he lets me kick the ball really high. It's what I always dreamed of."

Pedro snorted and held out a fist that Peter bumped. "Will you join us?"

"I'd love to, next time."

Pedro nodded. "I look forward to it."

I held up a finger. "One second, Peter. Pedro, are you going to try to persuade me to let Matt Rush stay?"

"Yes."

"But you don't know why he decided not to turn up last Saturday? He didn't tell the loan manager, he didn't tell you?"

"No. He claims he doesn't understand. Of course he's not being honest but he's just a boy. He's scared and confused."

I leaned forward. "Can we agree that if he doesn't speak up he's not getting anywhere near my fucking team ever again? Like, that's the baseline for any possible reintegration. That's fair, isn't it?"

"Yes, but he may need time. Weeks, maybe. If he stays at Chester but doesn't get into the team, he might wake up. It is hard to say. This is a delicate time. You have to trust your players, of course, but there's a way out that's good for everyone." He smiled. "The slow way."

"I don't have time for slow." I turned and looked from Briggy to Peter. "One of you could talk to him... Briggy, you're good at pretending you don't like me. What did Kit say in the meeting? People can unite behind a common enemy. If you talk to him, give it all, oh my God Max is being such a shit. That kind of thing. He might open up to you."

Briggy said, "I like the idea of being paid to bad-mouth you. Where is he?"

Pedro looked alarmed. "You don't mean to do it now?"

Peter said, "He's hiding at the back of the bar there."

Briggy mimed sliding a helmet's visor down. "Target acquired." She strode off.

"Peter, you're my bodyguard."

He smiled and sat where Briggy had been, arms crossed and menacing. "All clear."

I poured delicious amber nectar down my gob. The buzz was hitting me just right and I was seeing Peter and Pedro through a rosy haze of affection. It struck me that they knew a lot more about life in a megaclub than I did. As the date of my arrival in Germany got closer I would have to ask Peter for his impressions of the players and staff. For now, though, why not pick the brains of a truly elite manager? "Pedro, what did you do on your first day as Man United manager?"

"My first day?" he said, scratching his head as he tried to remember. "I had the tour and filmed a video. I asked the staff to gather in one place - I didn't realise there were so many; we were like sardines - and I stood on a table and told them who I was and about my plans."

"What did you say?"

"I said I was proud to be part of such a big club, a club with so much history, it was the ultimate dream for me to be there. But I said we had to be realistic. Remember what came before but the current moment is a bad moment and it's time to make new memories. It will be hard work, very hard, but I have a belief in myself and my ideas and if we believe in the idea we can achieve great things. I said I never asked people to do more than I do and they would see that I worked hard and suffered and believed the most of all. I told them what I was going to do and then I did it."

"What would you do," I said, slowly, "if you were in a job for a short time? For example, there is an earthquake and the manager has to go home to take care of his family and you're out of work and you think it's interesting to step in for four weeks. For example... Peter, what's that club you used to be at?"

"Bayern Munich, Max."

"Let's say you were in charge of Bayern for four weeks. What would you do on your first day?"

Pedro took a big gulp and shook his head. "What a question. It would never happen."

"Oh, sorry for asking you to be my mentor," I said, in a fake-annoyed voice. Peter laughed.

Pedro raised an eyebrow as part of a variety of tiny gestures. "Well... If it is like this I don't need to meet everyone. More precisely, they don't need to meet me. What would I do? Gather the players, introduce myself." He nodded a few times. "I would want to start training my system right away."

I nearly lost my mind. "Pedro! You can't bring your formation to a club for a month! It takes fucking ages for the players to learn it, if they ever do. And then the other guy comes back and finds you've been in his car messing up the heights of the driver's seat and you've changed the settings to kilometres and he can't change it back because you set the computer to Portuguese. No, come on. You can't do a radical overhaul for one month. Be serious."

He waved his hand around in an animated way. "Then don't ask me to do it! I'm the wrong person for the job. I only know my idea. I don't have a second idea."

"But you know how to deal with elite players. It has to be someone like you, who they respect. You go in and keep the current way of playing but it's the man management where you earn your corn. You put your shoulder around that guy, you shout at that guy, and somehow it all works. That's you. Actually, here's the question. How do you do that?"

He eyed me. "How do you do that?"

"I don't. I go fast and anyone who slows me down gets chucked off the back of the ship."

"Ballast," said Peter.

I pointed at him. "He was a good player."

Pedro stared at something. "I don't have a special method. Someone once said I have a lot of empathy. I didn't think to give it a name before but yes, empathy. I listen. I think. I have compassion. We have a saying, something like if you want to know a man, wear his shoes. You laugh that I talk about playing left back, right midfield, everywhere but goalkeeper and striker, but that is part of it. I understand the demands of the roles and I understand the players. I can talk to them about it." He shook his head. "Matt Rush, he knows I was a player but he doesn't feel it in an emotional way. When he looks at a photo of me on the pitch it is like how I look at a photo of Charlie Chaplin. It was so long ago. What do those people have to say about the new world? What could Charlie Chaplin teach me about TikTok?"

Peter chuckled. "Charlie Chaplin would be unbelievable on TikTok. He would crush it."

Pedro leaned back and closed his eyes. "Perhaps it is time to retire the comment about which positions I played. The young players would respond better to learning which players I brought through. Look at these right backs. What do they have in common? They started with me. They listened to me."

I pulled a face. "You don't have to defend yourself to those little shits, Pedro. You're the best manager in the world, maybe. If Matt Rush doesn't want to play for you, chuck him off the ship. Sail to Tortuga - there are thousands of right backs with better attitudes."

"Not in Tortuga," said Peter.

Pedro's head tilted. "That pirate thing again. Why do the English think I look like a pirate? I don't look like a pirate. In Portugal no-one says I look like a pirate."

I said, "They're too busy eating delicious bacon."

Pedro drank and looked into the beer for a count of five. "You have spent time with Matt Rush. What do you think happened to him?"

"It's obvious. He came to Chester all nervous and desperate to prove himself. He played some games, it went well, he decided he was Cafu reborn and thought he didn't need to put in the work. And that was the moment his career ended."

"It could have been family," said Pedro. "Someone is unwell. His friend has cancer. His girlfriend left him the morning of the match."

"Nope. He was in a great mood. That's what pisses me off."

Peter said, "Why does it affect you so much?"

I pointed to Pedro. "He has amazing natural talent. I have amazing unnatural talent. He grinds like a mofo. I work day and night. It wouldn't fucking occur to us to stop putting in the hours just because we got to a certain point."

"The job is bigger, you work harder," said Pedro.

"Right! Matt got to a level he was satisfied with and packed it in. Thousands of kids get dumped from academies every year so to me, that's a joke."

"What does packed it in mean?" said Pedro.

"Like, quit his job. Put down his tools. When Man United won the treble in '99, some of the players were going ah it doesn't get any better than this! Roy Keane was there going we've not achieved anything yet; we have to do it again next year. Roy Keane puts the mental into mentality but he had the Man United X-factor and Matt doesn't. He's never going to hit his ceiling so there's no point keeping him around."

"You don't know that," said Peter.

"I do."

Pedro said, "Have you ever had a player become mature after finding a girl, getting a house, having babies? It could happen to Matt."

I looked behind me. "Is that what's taking Briggy so long?"

Pedro laughed and shook his head. "I can't give up on him. I feel Chester is a good place for him to develop as a player and as a - "

He trailed off as Briggy returned. She raised her eyebrows at me. "There was a podcast episode about the most exciting young players outside the Premier League. He was number one on the list. Someone made it into a video with Matt's best moments. He admits it went to his head."

"For fuck's sake," I said. "This is what I've been saying and you've all been treating me like a leper. I just want this on record now. Is everyone paying attention? I won that conversation. I won and I got three conversation points because it's three points for a win. That's it. So long and thanks for all the fishburgers."

Peter said, "It's not the end of the world, is it? He's young. He can get a second chance."

"That was his second chance," I said. "Don't you remember he was laughing at Pascal because we had just won a match and Pascal started preparing for the next one but in Matt Rush Land it was too early to do that? This was his second chance, Peter."

Pedro didn't think Matt's crimes were all that great. "Max," he said, "let us talk to him."

"I don't want to."

"I mean us, Manchester United. We will talk to him. Now that we know... Yes, it can go well. Don't you want a quality right back?"

"No," I said, in a sulky voice. Peter laughed and pushed me. I 'relented'. "If you... Let me just say this now. I have zero interest in motivating him or getting to know him. He gets zero empathy from me, all right? If he needs empathy it's coming from Manchester, not from me. If he does what he did again, poof, gone."

"Anyone can have a bad game," said Peter.

"Oh my God, I know the difference between having a bad game and not turning up! He can... Let me think about this." A weird and wonderful idea was forming in my head. Something as cheeky as fuck, something that Pedro Porto would be delighted to go for. I flicked a switch labeled 'obviously fake empathy'. "Okay, I think I understand how hard it can be as a young player with social media messing up your head. That's why I'm not on social media. What I'll do is let him play one match every two weeks. I think part of the problem was that he thought he was indispensable. I had that before with one of the women's team so I bought someone even better than her. She took it well and works harder than ever. I'll do that with Matt. He plays once every two weeks, maximum, so he's always hungry."

Peter said, "That's a lot of games he won't play in."

I bit back a sharp response because I was supposed to be in empathy mode and because they were picking up what I was putting down. "Yes, that will be hard for him," I said, earnestly. "I wonder if it might be good for him long-term, though? But I have a more serious problem, Pedro."

"Yes?"

"You see, as well as being able to see which players are having a bad day and which are taking the fucking piss, I can see who's improving in training. My better ones are kind of hitting a wall and Matt is, ah, quite close behind. If I'm being absolutely honest, I think his progression will stall by the new year and unless something changes, like a genie gives us a new medical wing overnight or something like that, I think we might actually hold back his development. He's not a bad kid, is he? I wouldn't want to do that to him."

Pedro was frowning. "I don't understand. They are hitting a wall? What wall?"

"We don't train in a fifty million pound base, Pedro. It's cheap. For once I have genuine sympathy for Matt, going from Carrington to Bumpers Bank. He never complained but he doesn't need to. I see it in all the players. They get to a level and, well, stop. But I've got an idea."

"Tell me," said Pedro.

"What if, one day a week, Matt went to Carrington and trained with you? That would give him a big boost I'm sure and that training plus the game time we offer I think would really give him a lift. But it could be seen as a strange thing to do so I suggest we send another person with him from Chester and we explain that this special training is actually about the other guy."

Pedro gave me a pitying look. "You want us to train one of your players, Max? Who?"

"Peter," I said.

Peter reacted with surprise. "Me?" I glanced over and saw that Pedro's expression had gone hungry. "Max," laughed Peter. "Are you shipping me out to Manchester United?"

I lowered my voice. "As a way to save Matt Rush's career, yes. Only one day a week, right? Mondays, let's say. It'll be fun and you can see what their coaches are doing."

Peter said, "You want me to be your inside man, spying on Pedro?"

I pointed. "He's got an inside man spying on me. It's only fair." It was getting hard to contain my giddiness. If I could get Peter into one of the top ten training centres in the world, his CA growth would skyrocket. I had a perk that allowed me to spend experience points to increase training speeds. I was mostly using it on Peter and this would put it on steroids. Putting Peter Bauer into Manchester United's training sessions would be the greatest reverse heist ever! Danny Ocean had never concocted such a plan at short notice! It would have been better to use the scam on one of the players approaching the training cap, but Pedro would have no interest in most of them.

The idea of coaching Peter Bauer was absolute catnip for an elite manager. Pedro Porto was also trying to act cool. "I would be open to that, Peter. I hope you think we have something to offer you as a player. And, of course, it would be very well for Matt."

Peter jerked his head away, signalling that I should follow him. We walked five yards away and stood in front of a framed Sutton United shirt with Beautyman 10 on the back. "Max," whispered Peter. "What is the nature of your game? Is this to put me as a coach at Manchester United so that when Pedro is fired, you can take over?"

"Peter, you sly devil," I said, delighted. "I love it when you get Machiavellian. No, I would never take that job. If Pedro wants to do everything he can to help Matt Rush, well, I don't see it working but I love that he wants to try. I really do. And I'm leveraging that to get you trained up faster. As a player, I mean. This could be like adding a topsail or whatever, speeding things up so you're ready to start in the Championship. Christ, I'm an actual genius."

"You're excited."

"Oh, shit," I said. "You're not. Have I fucked up? What did I do? We don't need to do this, it was just a good scam. Forget it."

He shook his head a little. "I will do it. I just wanted to be sure of your motivations before I agreed." His eyes drifted away. "It will be interesting to see what drills they have. What processes. I rather think on my first day I will be excited." He stared at the framed top. "I wonder what happened to this player the fans loved when he was no longer useful. Will you throw me off the back of the ship when I reach my maximum level?"

"No," I said. "That's not how it goes. You get thrown off if you stop trying to get there."

"I see. Yes. And when I hit my level?"

I scoffed. "Then we win the Premier League."

His jaw clenched and for a second he looked ready to breathe fire. He squashed his eyes closed and when he opened them, he let out a short breath. "Huh," he said, but it was more like the noise a bull makes when it wants to charge than a noise from a refined German playmaker. He stared at the framed kit for about five seconds, which felt like an eternity. In a silly, childish voice he said, "My name's Max Best and I'm bad at man management, waaaaah."

As he walked back to accept Pedro's offer, all I could do was shrug. The hell was that all about?

I followed him back to our corner of Sutton. Briggy had taken my chair, the cheeky git, and when I got closer she didn't get up. Another employee with ideas above her station! Captain Empathy saw my reaction and said, "I asked Briggy to sit, Max."

"Yeah?" I said.

Pedro turned to her. "What did you say to Matt? Max doesn't want a mentor but I do. Teach me!"

Briggy was delighted to be the object of so much attention. "So, it was quite easy. I thought about what you said about empathy and thought of everything I have learned so far about football. I told Matt that the two most important managers in English football were in the next room deciding his future and it didn't look good for him and he had about five minutes to tell someone what was in his head because if he didn't, the next professional match he played would be in Scotland." She leaned back. "My words had the desired effect."

There was an awe-struck silence before Peter said, "Briggy, you are my hero."

I looked at Pedro and pointed to Briggy. "Fast. That's how we roll in Chester. Bosh. Three points to Briggy."

Pedro grinned and was about to reply when there was an enormous cheer.

I looked up and followed someone's eyeline to the TV screens. On the sports news channel was the photo we had sent to Beth along with the caption, 'Manchester United manager spotted enjoying a pint at first round FA Cup tie.' A former player was talking in a corner of the screen. The guy behind the bar turned the volume up. The player was saying, "I think it's great. Going to a first-round FA Cup match and having a beer with a lad from Manchester, being a mentor to a young manager... People who see this will be like whoa maybe he gets English football after all. It shows he cares about the traditions. He took some flak recently for some of his comments but this shows he loves the game. This will go down well with Reds in Urmston and Gorton, I can tell you that."

I was grinning from ear to ear, not least because I watched in real time as Pedro's status went from insecure to slightly insecure. He must have been right on the cusp of that boundary. Beth had probably slapped up a quick story for The Daily Mail's website and it was probably sweeping the socials. Pedro Porto, man of the people. I'd bought him a couple of weeks. I felt his hand on my shoulder. "What happened to it being easier to win the Premier League if I'm not in it?"

I shrugged. "I'm not good at doing things the easy way." We locked eyes. He was on the verge of saying something wise, something profound, something that would unlock the next levels in my understanding of life, football, and what it means to be a modern man. I had an idea for a caper, though. "Do you want to make some money?"

"What?" he laughed.

I stood on my chair and raised my arms. "Attention Sutton. Attention." The barman turned the TV down; all eyes were on me. "Twenty quid for a selfie!" The Sutton fans, amazed at seeing their little bar on national TV, were in a great mood; they laughed. "Twenty quid for a selfie with the great Max Best. Ten quid for Peter Bauer. Man United guy's a fiver."

"I'll give you fifty pee," shouted one wag. "Fer the three of you."

"Sold!" I said. "Come on." The guy couldn't believe it but Briggy took his phone and Peter, Pedro, and I posed for a very charming photo with a random Sutton fan. "Mate," I said, taking him to one side. "You've got the only photo with the three of us. Call the Daily Mail and ask to speak to Bethany Alban. Tell her you've got a photo to sell. If she's not interested now, she will be soon."

"Sell?" said the guy. "I could get money? For this? Really? I could use some."

"Bosh. Perfect. Just make sure you say that Pedro was, like, taking the time to talk to you lot, being all classy and gracious and whatever. Deal?"

"Yeah, sure," said the guy. It was a lot for him to take in. "Wait, but what do I say about you?"

I smiled. My job wasn't under threat; I didn't need a PR boost. How about a little mischief? "Tell Beth... Tell her I hear Germany is charming in the summer."