6.

"Servus, Max."

"Servus, Dieter."

We were three seconds into the press conference and I had already almost exhausted my store of German phrases. Servus was a new one; I had learned it that very morning. It seemed to be like a Bavarian ciao in that you could use it to say hello and goodbye. I had just used it to mean hello. If the next ten minutes went badly, goodbye could soon follow. My mouth was dry, but that was probably because of all the travel. Right?

Dieter Bauer, legendary player, legendary manager, legendary administrator, explained in English and German what the situation was. Bastian, Bayern Munich's head coach (or 'trainer') had undergone 'a minor procedure'. Having your chest sliced open while a stranger messed about with your actual heart didn't seem minor to me, but it was a commonplace operation and Dieter was hardly going to reveal the details to the press or make it seem like a big deal.

"The procedure took place two weeks ago," said Dieter. "As the international break started."

I took the water bottle and stared at the plastic cap. It was incredibly thin. Why was it so thin? If I wrenched it too hard, water was going to spill everywhere, wasn't it? A very public and very visible show of incompetence that would be. Should I take it under the table and open it? That would give a very strange first impression to the press pack and a creepy first photo for the ones with cameras.

There were twenty or more randos arrayed in one corner of a large, square space. When I emerged from my crevice, half had been milling around the side tables where drinks and snacks were offered. These wastrels had rushed to take up the rows of seats when they heard Dieter say I was to be the next manager, and when they weren't gawping at me they were furiously texting. We had kept this secret very well on both ends - no-one had a clue this was coming. Bethany wasn't there; she would be pissed that I didn't give her a wink about the real date of my start.

I gave the cap the slightest possible twist; it didn't budge. It occurred to me that this particular group of media types hadn't come specifically for this press conference but were in the area anyway. That's just what they did - they bummed around the training ground in the mornings trying to get interviews or gossip or whatever. There were more media dudes hanging around for what they thought would be a mundane summary of the international break and maybe some injury news than had been at the post-match presser when I'd won the most prestigious youth competition in England. This club was fucking massive. My mouth was so dry, and there was water, water everywhere but not a drop to drink.

"The recommendation is for the patient to enjoy six weeks of rest. Basti has had two weeks. Max will be in charge for four weeks. That will take us to the winter break, so Basti will be able to return in a calm environment with more or less eight full weeks of rest behind him. It is an elegant solution, we believe."

While Dieter translated what he had said, I looked for Briggy. She was off to the right, projecting alertness. She hadn't looked like that in England. I assumed she was being more professional now that she was near the people who were paying the bills and who might want to hire her again in the future. She would know how to open German water bottles. There had probably been a module about it in her bodyguarding course.

"Max Best is 26 years old and is the player-manager at Chester Football Club, whose rise through the English league system has astonished us all. We met when we were pitchside analysts in Euro 2024. I sent my grandson to investigate and Peter was so impressed he joined Chester. Paul Braun, Karl Lippstadt, and myself went to Manchester to watch Max's young players beat Manchester United in the FA Youth Cup. We were also impressed, though in our case we are too old to play for him."

I smiled; the trio's average age was around 70 but that didn't have to stop them playing a bit of footy. "Don't you have walking football here?"

Dieter smiled back. "We do. Are you offering to manage us?"

"Paul Braun, Karl Lippstadt, Dieter Bauer... That's the start of a pretty decent five-a-side team. Can you get hold of Sepp Maier?" Maier was one of Bayern Munich's greatest ever goalkeepers. Dropping a few names to show I knew a little bit about the club's history would go down well with the fanbase, right?

Dieter handed his phone over, which meant I had to put the water down. "You call him. He's listed in my contacts under 'The Cat'." Most of the press pack laughed, and they laughed again when I pretended not to understand how to use Dieter's ancient flip phone. I tried to twist the upper half back and forth like I was playing with a Rubik's cube. Dieter took his device back and pocketed it, smoothly. "We are grateful to Max for agreeing to help us out in this delicate time. His arrival allows us to keep key staff in their current roles and continue with business as usual and a seamless transition on both ends. We have a very talented coaching staff we could call on but for this particular case we preferred an outsider and, strange as it might seem at first, Max is actually a lot more experienced than our current assistant coaches in terms of in-game management. Not many trainers would take the role for just a month but Max has been able to organise Chester to cope without him for a short time."

So far, my day had been manic, frantic, crazy, but it was slowing just a tiny fraction, enough to let me take in my surroundings a little more. Briggy had driven me straight from the airport to Säbener Strasse, which would be my base for the next four weeks. Bayern's training ground was vast and had virtually everything a football club could want. This media room led to a corridor on which were loads of other, smaller rooms where one-on-one interviews were recorded. That would be the worst part of the mission - Bayern was all media, media, media and there was no way to get out of it.

I gripped the bottle and strangled the neck. Was the stupid thing child-proofed? Was that why I couldn't open it? Underneath my blank face I felt like a little kid. If I behaved myself I would get to play with ALL THE TOYS.

Dieter restated his words in German.

None of the media guys were holding microphones with their outlet's logo on, so I couldn't tell who was likely to make my life difficult in the coming weeks. They were all dressed like normal people; you could have zapped everyone onto a tram heading into the city centre and they wouldn't have looked out of place. The local equivalent of the Daily Mail was called Bild, and I didn't want to get into a beef with them. I didn't want to get into a beef with anyone, really. The plan was to keep my head down, win a few matches, and there was no need for drama of any kind. Not this week, anyway. Later, I would need to generate some headlines to make my heist work.

I twisted the water bottle a little more firmly and it opened with no spillage. No drama of any kind! A wonderful omen!

"Max?" said Dieter.

"Hmm, yes?"

"I was asking if you would be happy to take some questions."

"Not happy, Dieter, delighted." I took a swig of German water, which was almost as good as what we had back home.

There were too many new people in the room, and soon there would be an entirely new football club to meet. A whole squad plus reserves, youth players, coaches, physios, performance experts, analysts, backroom staff of all kinds. There was no way I was going to remember everyone's name.

There was a press officer at the end of the table - I mimed writing and he brought over a pen and paper while the first question was being asked.

A slovenly-looking dude introduced himself - utterly incomprehensible - and said who he worked for. It was a lot of work to get to a short question. "When do you start?"

"I have started," I said, which wasn't strictly true. I needed to sign a document, but that would happen after the presser. Assuming I didn't blow myself up.

"I apologise but this is extraordinary and it has happened so fast. Which matches will this cover?"

Dieter had some notes with him and was about to answer but I thought I might get some brownie points by showing that I had done some amount of preparation. "Great question," I said. "Okay, first up is a league match this Friday evening against SV Elversberg. That's at home. Next Tuesday is the Champions League in Bologna. I scouted them recently and their manager is doing amazing things. Saturday the 28th is away to Kiel in the league. Is that nearby, Dieter? I was thinking about renting a car and really hammering das autobahn."

"Die Autobahn. It's a ten-hour drive, Max."

"Oh," I said.

"We will fly; Kiel is close to Denmark."

"Oh! I bet they have great bacon. So if we return from Kiel in time, it's a cup match at home to a Bundesliga 2 side. Then Werder Bremen, Champions League in Hungary, Saturday in Stuttgart, and the final match - if I make it that far - will be at home to Mainz." I made eye contact with a few of the media people. Most of them seemed friendly enough, though I thought I knew which one worked for the right-wing newspaper. He was the one looking at me like his daughter had written letters to me in prison. I continued. "That's quite a busy schedule. Two matches per week and lots of travel, so I will be doing nothing else except making preparations for the next fixture. I won't be sightseeing or being cultural. I read Bayern have a handball team and even a chess club! I'd love to investigate everything but I won't have time. This is going to be absolutely frantic, non-stop work. My plan is to use every minute to make sure the team has the best preparation for its matches."

Some people seemed confused about why I had said that, but I was simply getting it on record that I wouldn't have time to give more interviews than I was legally bound to give. No photo ops, no excursions, no nothing.

"Question for Herr Bauer. Why did you say manager instead of trainer or head coach?"

"I'll take this one, Dieter. My fiancée is incredibly intelligent, she's a lawyer, she's the co-founder of a sports agency, but we all have our weak spots and hers is learning the difference between a manager and a head coach. There is overlap but a manager also handles transfers, I say. Head coaches use the players they are given, I say. It just doesn't stick. I have determined that it is easier to get the entire German footballing ecosystem to call me a manager than it is to explain the nuances of the roles to Emma." A couple of people laughed. Tough crowd.

The press guy pointed to a female reporter. She said, "What is your personal motivation to do this?"

"To help a fellow professional and a fellow human being but I can't lie - it's good for me, too. I'm getting four tickets to the NFL game. It has been my lifelong dream to watch the Cleveland Browns."

The guy who didn't want me to marry his daughter was chosen next. He said his name and - knew it, boom! - that he worked for Bild.

"Hang on," I said. "Can you say your name again?"

"Günter Schweiger."

"That's a fun one," I said. "Let me see if I can spell it. Dieter, is this right?"

I shoved the paper towards him. He glanced at it and something incredible happened. It was like a metal shutter came down just in front of his face. Total self-control. There was just a hint of a catch in his voice as he said, "You missed the umlaut. Here." He took the pen from me and under what I had written - the single word FUCKFACE - he wrote, DON'T. "Gunti, your question."

Gunti suspected that something had happened, but I think his tone might have been just as belligerent anyway. He was the first journo to speak German. The press officer translated. "Why are you qualified for this job?"

"Oh, Gunti, mate. Are you trying to do the job interview? I already did that. I'm here."

He switched to English. "My friends call me Gunti."

"Dieter! I made a friend already."

"But do you have a UEFA Pro licence? The club will have to pay a fine for every match you are on the touchline."

"I have an A licence and the German FA are allowing me to take temporary control on compassionate grounds. I will do my Pro licence next year when the sixth tier club I have taken to the second tier is having a well-earned consolidation season."

"Bayern are the autumn champions. They lead the league by one point. How many points behind will they be by the end of your spell?"

I glanced behind me. I was in front of one of those massive sponsor's boards with the same few logos repeated. The brands were some of the biggest in the world. "I'm not an expert in forecasting, unlike the floating megabrains who work for Glendale Logistics. If you want accurate delivery information and superior customer service, you know who to call. But you raise a good point. Dieter, is it three points for a win here?"

"Yes, Max." He slid the paper towards himself and wrote BE CAREFUL.

Gunti was a punchy sort, by which I mean people wanted to punch him. "I must insist on this line of questions. There are two vitally important Champions League matches in the next period. They cannot be left to a rookie manager!"

I chuckled like a jolly old Santa. With the new Champions League format, there was very little danger Bayern wouldn't make it through to the next stage. "Yes, it would be a disaster if Bayern slipped to 12th in the group as they did last year, or even as low as 24th, which is functionally the same as 9th. Don't worry, the system that was designed to protect the big teams protects the big teams. Bayern will be there in the next stage."

Dieter said, "Of course, the aim is not to finish 24th in the league stage. Max took Europe's lowest ranked club into the UEFA Conference league. His record in European competition is slim but unblemished. It is my belief that his tactical acumen will shine on those big European nights."

I said, "Put me down for three points from six in the Champions League. It's unfortunate for me that the hardest match of this run is the second one. Bologna are managed by Evaristo and I went to watch them recently; his team does unbelievable things. I can't guarantee anything in that match because the guy is amazing. Just amazing. I thought I was pretty good at football until I saw him in action. He's a sorcerer and I am but an apprentice. For every other match I take responsibility for the result because on paper Bayern are so much stronger that even - " The urge to say 'even Gunti could win' was almost overwhelming. Dieter felt it and his eyes burned into me. I allowed myself the tiniest moment of mischievous enjoyment before saying, "Bayern are so strong that even an inexperienced guy from Manchester can set up a team that has a chance to win. And that's really all I'm going to be doing. Yes, I'll work hard and I'll study the players and how they train and we'll watch the videos and go through the analysis but in the end Bayern's world-class coaches will still be coaching Bayern's world-class players. My job is literally to write eleven names on a team sheet. People might call me arrogant for saying this but I can write eleven names."

Dieter had relaxed. "You have to name some substitutes, too."

I waved my hand. "I'll delegate that. The manager of Bayern Munich doesn't involve himself in such trivialities."

Dieter chuckled, which was a sign to the room that I was joking. A few people smiled; the press guy chose another woman.

"What is your style?"

"Sports casual. I like a hoodie. I like to feel I could join in a kickabout, you know? I do have a couple of really nice suits but they're a bit too nice, if you know what I mean. They make me look like I'm planning a heist, which is obviously ridiculous. Me? A heist? What?"

She smiled a smile that showed she had met men like me before. "My question is which tactics do you prefer?"

"I'm English so it's a straight 4-4-2 all day long." A tiny noise escaped from Dieter but I didn't want to draw attention to it by looking. I often used 4-4-2 with Chester but there was no question of me doing it with Bayern against top-level managers. I was playing into the stereotypes of how English football used to be perceived; the joke landed well in the room. "After this presser I will meet the players and my plan is to line them all up and take the tallest one and the shortest one and they will be my strikers. Big man and a little man. That's the secret to winning football matches."

The lady was not amused. "I see you are a joker but this is one of the biggest clubs in Germany and the world and we are very serious about football."

I stared at her, unblinking. "Who said I was joking?"

She said, "Do you have an idea of your starting eleven for Friday?"

I turned to Dieter. "Does Thomas Müller still play here?"

Dieter's smile was thin. "No, Max."

"I suppose I'll have to see what I find on the training pitch."

The journo was shaking her head. "Why won't you answer?"

The simple answer was that while I knew everything about the squad it was possible to know from a distance, I didn't have the players in my database and I didn't have the squad screen. Yet. I couldn't say that so I threw up a smokescreen. "From what I hear, everything that happens at Säbener Strasse is leaked to the media, there are moles everywhere, the team news is on social media as soon as it leaves the manager's lips. It's not the style I'm used to. I'm not here to rock the boat. All I want to do is win some matches and act in a non-invasive way. The goal is that Basti can walk his dogs and go to the spa without his phone blowing up because unhappy players have leaked the team. The team news will not escape the dressing room while I am here."

"You can't guarantee that."

"I guarantee that."

A new guy got a turn to ask questions. "What do you think of German football?"

"You'd be surprised how often I think about German football."

"How is your German?"

"I read that the German language absorbs new words from English at the rate of one per day. Meeting, brainstorming, and I just heard Dieter say business as usual. If you think about it, my German gets better every day."

"Is your wife coming?"

"She can visit when she wants but for now she's happy to have the house to herself. She can play Abba really loud and sing into a hairbrush, which is something we normally only do together." That got a good laugh. "I don't eat fish at home because the house smells for days so tonight she's having fish and if I know her, I dare say she might pair it with a glass of white wine." I smiled, and that whole sequence was a hit.

Another dude piped up. He was looking down at his notes. "I'm confused about the appointment. It doesn't quite connect. Reading between the lines, an outsider has been chosen to make Basti feel confident that his position is secure. But surely if you are successful there will be pressure on the board to give you the job. Bastian cannot be so sure that you won't take it."

I nodded a few times. "I know where you're coming from but I have promised to say something stupid and offensive about two weeks from now so that even if I seem to have the skills there's no way the board could give me the job. I apologise in advance for what I say but it's for the benefit of Basti's health. Actually, if you think about it, every time I say something stupid it's actually heroic. Make sure you write that down. Circle it twice so you don't forget later."

The guy was watching me with his mouth open. "I think I see why Basti doesn't need to worry."

I laughed hard. "That's the spirit!"

He flipped his notebook back a page. "What about Chester? It is not normal that you leave for a month."

"Er, it kind of is, actually. Chester have four of the best managers in Europe discussing the Peterborough United match right now; they'll be fine. Hey, Dieter. Was that the first time Peterborough United were ever mentioned at a Bayern Munich press conference?"

"Quite possibly."

The journo had more questions. "But do you have a message for the Chester fans? This must be a big surprise for them."

I laughed. "Not as much as you'd think. My message to Chester fans is, do you want something from Duty Free?"

"You're going back, then?"

"I'm not thinking of going back. I just got here."

"That wasn't an answer."

"You're a real terrier, aren't you? Do you play central midfield?" I finger-gunned the press guy. "Next."

He announced that there would be five more questions because the trainer, sorry Miss Max, the manager - some laughs - had to meet the players and oversee training.

The next question was from a really young guy. Probably some podcast nerd. "Will Peter Bauer be returning to Bavaria?"

"Peter is an employee of Chester Football Club and it would be unprofessional to talk about him."

"You're from Manchester. Are you United or City?"

"The Stone Roses."

Gunti stood and held his phone up. He had just got to the part of my CV that was most directly relevant to my current role. "Why should you manage the biggest club in Germany when you were dismissed by Grimsby Town?"

I smiled. "Dieter, is that the first ever mention of Grimsby Town in this room?"

"Very possibly. Gunti, you know football is a sport with its ups and downs."

"Sorry to interrupt," I said. I stared right into Gunti's shifty little eyes. "I stand by my body of work at Grimsby. I absolutely nailed it and I'm proud of what I achieved in a short time. I don't expect people who weren't there to understand. People will say I tried to change things too fast and I was too hard on the players. People will say I hope he has learned his lesson from that time. Yes, I have. I learned that my mistake was not changing things fast enough and being too soft on the players. There will be no repeat of those mistakes. I'm here to win. If there are players and coaches who are not aligned with that goal, I will deal with them." This little outburst had a big effect on Gunti; he sat and leaned back as though he was holding a cigar and a brandy.

The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

The first woman who had asked questions asked another. She sort of vaguely showed me what was on her phone. "We are all learning about you very quickly. I'm seeing passion, lots of intensity. Is this what we should expect?"

"No. I'm not going to be emotional. My expectation is to be a technocrat. Pick a team, manage the match, and at full-time sit back and let the experts do their jobs."

The nerd guy got to ask the final question and this time I realised he was saying he worked for Kicker, the respected football magazine. "Gary Lineker once said that football is a simple game in which twenty-two men chase a ball for ninety minutes and at the end, the Germans always win. Is that your attitude, too?"

"That question is very charming and asked in a generous spirit but I have to say that I don't respond to questions that involve other players, celebrities, politicians, or whatever. Any news organisation that relies on headlines like Max Best BLASTS so-and-so can get in the dustbin of history. If that's all you've got, you don't deserve to exist. I don't mean Kicker, I'm talking in general terms." I couldn't help but glance at Gunti. "So while I love the question I must on principle politely refuse to go anywhere near it." The press guy tried to wrap things up but I didn't want to end on a low note. I indicated the Kicker guy. "Bro, ask me another question. Something positive so we can end on a high."

Everyone in the room turned to look at him. His eyes darted around but he pulled through like a champ. "You're the manager of Bayern Munich for one month. Are you excited?"

I tried to play it cool but a little smirk escaped. I forced it back inside while squashing my eyes closed. I opened them wide - no smirk - and blinked a few times. A cocky half-grin took over but when I fought against it, it simply moved to the other side of my face. I closed my eyes to try to regain control but all I could think of was the last stage in my heist, what that would look like, how it would feel. how the world would react. I burst into a full grin, twinkling eyes, maximum charisma. I leaned forward and said, "Excitement comes with danger. This is the most dangerous thing I've ever done. What I'm doing is a risk to my entire career but as my good friend Peter Bauer likes to say, no risk, no fun. Hey buddy?"

"Yes?"

"Servus."

He grinned back. "Servus, Max."

***

Dieter led me through to a corridor. Briggy stayed close.

I mimed swinging a baseball bat. "Bosh! I knocked that one out of the park! Briggy, how do you say home run in German?"

"Homerun."

"I love how much German I know." I took another swing. "Max Best mit die home run! Fantastisch!"

Dieter inhaled. "Yes, well, it could have gone worse. You might perhaps have been less spicy with Gunti."

"Can't help it. People like him give off pheromones, you know. If I had an ink sac I'd have squirted it all over him. Also, the furniture in there was too colourful and it got me overstimulated. If you think about it, society's to blame. Where next?"

He pointed down an endless corridor. "Down there, almost as far as Denmark." He made a noise. "I'm getting too old to be walking this much. I keep asking them to install a... what is the name of the thing you get at an airport?"

"Travelator," I said.

"Moving walkway," said Briggy.

Dieter considered that. "I don't much like either name."

"Briggy," I said, resting my hand on Dieter's shoulder to get him to stop. "Carry Dieter to the next room."

Without a word, she walked in front of him, crouched down, and indicated he could get on her shoulders. Dieter laughed worryingly hard, which made Briggy get up and give me a high five. Mission accomplished! He wagged his finger at her. "You've been spending too much time with him."

"That sounds like it would be your fault, sir."

"Ooh, girl got sass!" I said, rewarding her with another high five. "Did you learn the value of a sardonic sir from the Brig?"

She couldn't deny it. "Yes. He's great. I learned a lot from him."

As we went down the corridor, people came out of some doors and went through others. When they saw Dieter they smiled but their eyes slid off him and onto me. The way they looked made me queasy. New kid in school!

"In here," said Dieter, finally.

We went into an office, typical in every way except for the sheer amount of footballing talent it contained. Paul Braun and Karl Lippstadt, the other members of the triumvirate, were waiting. We shook hands and said servus to each other. There was a quick conversation in German before Paul Braun, the most difficult of the three, got up and sighed. "I suppose we are really doing this." He picked up a folder and pulled out my contract, printed in triplicate. Colourful strips of paper allowed him to turn to the right pages quickly. "Please sign here and here and here."

I obeyed in triplicate.

When the last signature was on the last page, I felt the tiniest little pop in my head and when I brought up the curse screen, there it was. Three tiny little words.

Bayern Munich Squad.

Shivers, mate. I wasn't the new boy in school. I was the new headmaster. Fear me! Fear my mighty powers!

What was even better - I still had the other squads available. Chester Men, Chester Women, College 1975 Men. I hadn't really expected to lose those because I was still the co-manager of Chester Men, still the director of football of the women, and I had stumped up the XP to add College to my screens so that was the safest of the lot. I knew that if I kept stretching the curse it would one day break. But who cared? New numbers!

My new screens were bursting with info. I opened the player profile of our starting goalie, Torben Ulrich, and rejoiced. CA 170! From a PA of 170. Still maxed out at the age of 37. So cool. But then again, Bayern were amazing at prolonging the careers of their goalies. What was the secret? Wheat beer and white sausages?

I opened another profile. Adam Adebayo, considered Bayern's best player by most observers. He was my age, a French attacking midfielder who could play all across the width of the pitch, and holy shit! CA 187, PA 193. His wages were almost two hundred and fifty thousand pounds per week. A million a month!

Not for the first time, people were trying to talk to me while I was away in the clouds. Karl Lippstadt looked from one of my eyes to the other. "Are you okay?"

I clapped him on the arm. "Yes, Karl. I'm very okay. I was just overcome with the enormity of what this means. I'm part of the same lineage as you three and many other great names. It means a lot to me. I'll try not to fuck it up." How did I manage to say that in a sombre tone when my new toys included a genuinely top-class keeper and one of the finest players in the world? Inside, I was bouncing.

"Yes, please don't fuck it up," said Paul.

I nearly snapped back at him but that wasn't part of the mission. I intended to keep Paul out of reach - the guy was so moody there was no point getting on his good side because he was like a twenty-sided dice with one face marked 'upbeat' and nineteen marked 'grumpy twat'. In a soft tone, I said, "That's good advice, Paul. Thanks for being supportive on my first day."

Dieter took me by the arm and eased me towards the doorway. "We're just on time, I think. We have the first team squad waiting to meet you."

It was hard not to go through the squad's profiles as I walked. I wanted to devour every juicy nugget of information, but for now I needed to focus. Talk to Dieter like a normal person and yes, maybe start learning the layout of this enormous place.

We got to the end of one airport-length corridor, went through some fire doors, and were right into another endless corridor. "Jesus," I said.

"The building runs alongside the training pitches," said Dieter. "You'll get used to it quickly."

"Have I got an office?"

"Of course. It's upstairs with a view of the training pitches. Peter says you like to loom."

"I do. I love a bit of looming. I like to be ominous."

We turned right suddenly, through some double doors, and then there was a sea of green. Football pitches for miles, or so it looked. One thing that looked like a wall demarcating the boundary of the site was in fact a high fence that surrounded one pitch - I would be able to do private sessions. Not much help when it came to keeping my intentions secret from the coaches, but it was good to have the option.

There were the coaches now. Basti had three assistants. One saw us coming and blew his whistle. Players were scattered around. Most were wearing leggings, gloves, and beanies. I frowned. It wasn't even cold. They shuffled close together with their player profiles over their heads. Numbers, numbers everywhere!

I swept my awareness across the bottom of the profiles, the space where the CAs and the PAs lived. 150! 170! 134! 187!

I looked a little higher and took in the positions. MCR (midfielder, centre or right); AM RLC (attacking midfielder, right left or centre); RB DM (right back or defensive midfielder - a very rare combination); only one S.

Only one striker? Hmm.

I tried not to grin as I looked through the numbers - I was trying to look like a world-class football manager, not a kid in a candy store - and switching to the 'Future' tab, the one that showed me how players were feeling, certainly took away the impulse to do a goofy smile.

This was going to be very, very far from straightforward. According to the infallible information the curse was giving me, there were huge splits in the group. Cliques for days. That player disliked that player. He disliked those two. There were all kinds of other issues, too. That guy wanted to move to Real Madrid. Those six had been told by their agent they could get a better contract elsewhere. That prick was furious he wasn't starting every match. That one was upset he had lost his place in the national team. That one had 'personal problems'. That one was upset he didn't get a birthday cake.

This team didn't need a caretaker manager, it needed an exorcist.

"Servus, gentlemen," said Dieter.

Most of the players responded with the same word. My attention snapped to two players who didn't. They were young and weren't listed in the men's first team squad. The reason was clear - they played for Bayern II, which was basically the club's reserve team. Bayern II played in the third tier of German football, giving young players the chance to get experience against real opponents.

Dieter explained what was happening the way he had in the presser, though with a little more detail and more warmth. The players already knew most of it - a footballer's WhatsApp group can move pretty fast. One of the two reserve players was whispering to the other one and sniggering.

My blood didn't boil, exactly, but let's just say I wouldn't have needed leggings to train.

Dieter was introducing me to Basti's assistant coaches. They were all called by a single name, which was actually helpful, and I knew a few things about them already. Now I knew their curse numbers and they were very good but not superb. "Max," said Dieter. "This is Moses."

"Servus," I said, as I shook hands with a black guy about my height but much rounder. He was in his mid-thirties, Belgian, and had the reputation of being very good with players. The curse rated his man management skills as 13 out of 20, so I wasn't sure what to make of that.

Moses beamed at me. "Servus, Max. Great to have you here. It is wonderful what you are doing."

I smiled back but it faded quickly; the bad boy was still being a dick while Dieter Bauer was talking.

"Vlado," he said.

"Servus," I said, shaking hands with an average-looking guy in his early thirties who had a top Tactics score. 20 out of 20. In theory that would be amazingly helpful, but in practice I wasn't so sure. I was planning to plough my own furrow here, for many reasons. Vlado seemed all right, though. Friendly enough. Too friendly, probably. Based on their profiles, I suspected that Basti hadn't chosen staff who could challenge him or replace him. If Bayern's triumvirate wanted a cold-hearted bastard to come in and sort out the mess in the dressing room, it wouldn't have been Moses or Vlado.

"And finally, Riley."

"Awite?" I said, for this one was English.

He was ten years older than the other two and while he had decent credentials, I knew we weren't going to get along. He had done a lot of coaching with the England national team at various age groups, and one of his allies was the current England manager, the abysmal Alan Turner. I had started a trend of fans mercilessly taunting Turner, a trend which came to an abrupt end when he got the England job. England fans were trying to get behind him in the hope he would deliver a long-awaited trophy, and being behind Alan Turner essentially meant being against me.

No player from Chester had been called up to the England team since Alan Turner ascended to the throne and it was toadies like Riley who were enabling that scandal to happen. I was absolutely certain that Riley would be delighted to see me fail. Well tough shit, mate. Not gonna happen.

"Servus, Max," said Riley, in a Birmingham accent.

"What have you got for me today, lads?"

A look crossed Riley's face, just for a second, but that was enough for me to know he was definitely going to be a dick, same as the coaches at Grimsby Town had been. "Preparations for Elversberg. Basti wants a 4-2-3-1."

The guy was trying to tell me which formation to play! "Cool, cool, well, you can train for that and later in the week I'll say what the actual formation will be." Bosh! Best shoots, and he scores! Some of the players recognised what had just happened. A few of them got wide eyes. I continued. "Elversberg play 4-4-2, right?"

"That's right," said Riley, now slightly more wary. "We'll be doing a presentation about them. They are new to the division so there is less data."

"Yeah," I said, looking around. The place was enormous and the quality of players was intimidating but now that I was getting properly started, I could begin to imagine a time I might actually enjoy this ride. I would get to know the players after the first win - until then I would be the substitute teacher. Until then I wouldn't be able to make inroads no matter how charismatic I was. That win would come on Friday - surely? - but for now, I needed to embody the role of the aloof technocrat. "We'll want to disrupt their build-up from the back, won't we? They're incredibly stubborn and never hit it long. Don't worry, I've got it all worked out. Dieter," I said, giving him a friendly back rub. "I can handle it from here. Thanks and servus."

He smiled, nodded, and with a tiny wave, walked off. I noted that he preferred to go into the building itself and walk down the corridor; I would have gone past the pitches. Maybe when I was as old as he was, I'd want to absorb every joule of warmth.

I turned back to the group and scanned them. Close to thirty players in all. A wary, watchful mass of rivalries, cliques, jealousies, and greed. I suspected if I looked hard enough I would find all seven deadly sins, but there were footballing sins, too. There were two injured guys in the mix, dressed like the others. They were here to train!

I smiled a little. This place had the capacity to drive me absolutely loopy, that much was clear already. I had really, really wanted to coast for the first week of this little adventure. Get an easy win against the worst team in the top division and go to Italy and hope Evaristo didn't pull my pants down. See what worked, what didn't, run some experiments, then start blasting teams to smithereens.

I hadn't really expected the first team I destroyed to be this one, but I was flexible.

"Guys, my name is Max. This place," I said, jabbing a thumb at the building behind me, "was built by Dieter Bauer. When Dieter Bauer talks, you listen. That's called respect. It's very simple and easy to understand. You. What's your name?"

I pointed at the guy who had been getting me worked up. "Stefan Clown," I think he said.

"Weird. I don't have anyone by that name on my squad list."

Riley said, "He's here to add bodies for the drills we want to run."

"Oh? You can use a mannequin instead. I'm sure it'll be just as effective. Stefan, take the rest of the day off." The kid seemed to be wondering how to react. I was basically just an intern, right? He was a top spieler; he could give me shit. I let my face harden. "The fuck is happening?" I paced towards him until I was right in his grille. "I am sending you home, you stupid fucking twat. Do you understand, yes or no? I am giving you the rest of the week off. That means go."

The upgrade from day to week hit him hard but he decided not to risk it getting longer. He spluttered, found no help was coming, and decided to save face by storming off.

"Great," I said, taking a few steps away from the group. "New guy comes in and throws his weight around on the first day to show he's big and tough. Roar. That's not what I planned to do, okay? I'm from Manchester and this is my first time here. Why do I care about your heritage and your history more than you guys who are here every day? Stefan's mate. Why didn't you tell him to shut the fuck up?"

"How?"

"Say shut the fuck up, Dieter Bauer is talking!" The kid squirmed. "Never mind," I said. "What about an experienced player? You're Jost Benn, right?"

I was talking to an Austrian version of Andrew Harrison. A central midfielder who could play on the right. CA 150, PA 154. He was one of a few squad members who seemed out of place based on their CA, but Jost was getting a fraction of the wages of Adam Adebayo, which probably went a long way towards explaining why he was in the squad. Overpay one, underpay one, balance the budget. He said, "I am Jost. I saw what annoyed you and it annoyed me, too. I decided if I said anything it would only draw attention to the impoliteness."

Jost saying he had seen it took the edge off the situation. "That's probably smart," I said. I pinched my nose. "Don't draw attention to it, deal with it when Dieter's gone. Okay, he's gone and I've dealt with it." I turned to the coaches. "I don't want to see Stefan again." I made eye contact with a few of the players; it was hard to know what they were thinking. I thought about what Pedro Porto had told me. On his first day he told the players what he planned to do and what he expected. "You're probably going to read and hear all kinds of crazy shit about me in the next few days but all you need to know is that I'm here to help you win football matches. Every match we win is half a week where Bastian can relax. I know some of you have your own issues going on but I expect you to put them aside for four weeks. One month where we have unity. I set up the team and you do your jobs on the pitch. I don't expect harmony but I do expect alignment. We win for the fans and we win for Bastian. Briggy, can you repeat that in German, please?"

She did. It wasn't a barnstorming speech but I hoped it was clear and simple. Briggy looked at me to show she was done.

The club captain, Fabian Fromm, who had over a hundred caps (appearances) for Germany and was fucking mint, spoke up. "Can we check your role? Are you carrying out Basti's instructions?"

"No. I'm in charge. I'm picking the tactics and the team. I know a lot about you." I pointed to a few players in turn. "Three yellow cards in ten games. 71% passing accuracy so far this season. Two Man of the Match awards. You just got your 50th cap for your country. Well done." I switched to a more wistful tone. "I know everything about you except how much you want to be in the team on Friday. You tell me that in training, don't you? There are no sacred cows for me. How you train will decide who is selected." Fromm looked from me to the three coaches, but kept his mouth shut. I clapped my hands and said, "Show me what you've got, lads. Riley, Moses, Valdo, they're all yours."

***

Training started well, as far as I could see. I had no point of comparison with this particular group but my instinct was that most players were a little more focused than normal. Even if they thought I was a bizarre choice, it was only natural that they wanted to impress me.

Briggy went off to get a hot drink and to check where my office was. I spent ten minutes oscillating between fanboying over the quality of the players and stressing about their internal conflicts. They were the top of the league and doing fine in the Champions League so the logical thing would have been to pick the same team that Basti would and sit back and relax.

The logical thing...

Briggy returned and handed me a hot black tea, no milk. "Thanks," I said.

"They have given you Bastian's office. It's up there," she said, pointing to a window. She took in the scene as twenty-nine players rushed around chasing balls, yelling, shouting, venting their frustration. "What do you think?"

"The levels are unbelievable. I've seen the top teams play but seeing an entire squad of guys this talented is something else. It's like, I don't know, growing up in a town that had a kebab shop and a McDonald's and then you go to a big city and there are five Michelin-starred restaurants side-by-side. Just take the attacking midfielders." I grinned. "I can't tell you how mad this is. There are five top-class wide attacking midfielders right there. You'd normally use two in a match, right? If I were building my absolute dream squad I'd probably want four because then you can rotate but keep everyone involved. Bayern have five. Why? Why not."

"Which one is Adam Adebayo?"

I gave her a quizzical look, but pointed. "Why do you ask?"

"Is he your favourite?"

"I don't have favourites. Everyone gets an equal chance to play."

She blew a raspberry. "Sure. Peter said you rave about Adam Adebayo. He asked me to count how many times you make little cooing noises while watching him train."

"Cooing noises. Clearly Peter isn't busy enough and neither are you." We watched as Adam did the drill. He had a languid style, like nothing mattered, like he wasn't even trying, but that was an illusion. His movements were perfect, efficient, his technique flawless. His Decisions score was 20. This was a player to dream on. I rubbed the back of my skull. "I was that good once."

Briggy eyed me. "People say you're pretty good now."

"Doesn't compare." I stopped feeling sorry for myself and focused on the nationalities. "When I started at Chester, almost everyone was British or Irish. I'm great with French people and amazing with Germans. Aren't I, Briggy? Briggy. Aren't I, Briggy?" I laughed as she tried not to show her irritation. "This is a really international squad and that could be a challenge for me. Loads of Germans, obviously, but we've got Portuguese, French, Korean, Slovenian, Japanese. That guy's from Singapore. He's not really the right level and I'm wondering what's going on. The recruitment seems to be pretty hit and miss. The last four players they signed, it's two future world stars and two guys who shouldn't be here. Oh, and there's an Australian, too. Why would a big club want one of them?"

"You have problems with other nationalities? Surely not." She knew I was joking - I think. She added, "Do you have an idea for Friday's team?"

"Yeah," I said, sipping the tea. "I could name it now but I have to pretend to be thinking about it so they keep training hard until the last minute." My mind decided to torture itself with visions of being on the touchline in the Allianz Arena, two-nil down against the worst team in the league.

"Are you all right? You were quite strange in the press conference. By turns cocky and funny, fighty, humble. You hinted you were a steady hand on the wheel then pretended you didn't know the basics."

"Yeah, it was a mess; I was trying to do ten things at the same time. I won't be able to relax until I get that first win. Not sure if that makes sense to you. Until then I'm a freak show. The plan for Friday night is to keep things incredibly simple. The more simple the match, the more I can absorb the atmosphere, the way the fans are, the way the team react to things. I need to get to know the referees. Half of me expects a frantic tactical battle because this is the Bundesliga, right? Every coach is a tactics nut. I'll get laughed at for being so simple."

"Simplicity is the height of cultivation. Bruce Lee via Max Best."

"Mmm," I said, but I was pulling my bottom lip. There was so much stuff going on. The age mix. It was an old group, wasn't it? Chester's average age was close to 23. This lot averaged 27 and a half. Why was that guy 20 points off his PA? Two players were training with injuries, including the captain. Left back was looking like it would be my biggest headache. (Why was it always the fucking left backs?) Davies, the Canadian superstar who was first choice for that role, had a long-term injury, leaving me with his shitty backup or a left-footed centre back.

Okay, well that's why God invented three at the back, right?

The curse shop had a new formation ready for me to buy. 3-4-2-1 was pretty interesting.

Bayern had loads of centre backs - we were very well-stocked there - so three at the back suited that aspect of the squad. With three at the back, I wouldn't need to use the backup left back or the injured right back. I had that whole fleet of star wide players - one could go to left midfield, one to the right. Two would play in the CAM slots behind the striker. Deploying four amazing creative players was extremely compelling.

On the other hand, Basti liked 4-2-3-1 so we had several excellent DMs. The new formation didn't have a dedicated DM slot.

I mentally selected the best possible eleven that would fit 3-4-2-1. Using attacking wingers on the sides would give us problems defensively but our average CA would be 172.3.

"Can you hold this?"

Briggy took my thermos while I walked in a circle with my hands behind my head, heart slapping against my ribs, blood thundering.

One hundred and seventy two point three!

I wasn't completely convinced I would be able to get Chester to such levels. Bayern had done it through sheer brute force. Five of the players I had mentally selected had been bought for fees in excess of fifty million pounds, while another cost a hundred million.

It was completely possible that the team I named on Friday would be the best one I ever managed. It would be one of the top five sides in Europe this week, which meant top five in the world. Would it be better than the England national team? Possibly. The new formation fit this squad very well but I hadn't bought it yet.

I checked my stash.

XP balance: 9,155

3-4-2-1 was available for 5,000 XP. Buying it and one more would unlock perks that would give me much greater flexibility with the tactics screens - essential for dealing with guys like Evaristo.

Another use for my XP would be to buy a Twilight Zone/Outer Limits-themed perk that would allow me to 'control the horizontal and the vertical'. It was a complicated way of describing something simple. For 7,500 XP I would be able to set invisible boundaries that my players would try to stay within, sort of like moving the margins on a word processor. Those small tweaks would have oversized tactical implications.

I needed both of these as a matter of urgency, but the question was which to buy first.

3-4-2-1 would be awesome to have in the first match, this Friday.

The horizontal/vertical perk could save my arse in Italy on Tuesday.

There was very little prospect of earning XP on the Monday, when we would be travelling to Italy. I expected to get 14 XP per minute when I was managing Bayern, which would get me around 1,300 per match. Could I get about 1,600 during the rest of the week?

"Briggy, I need to go scouting tonight."

"Great. Munich is full of amazing bars and I'm a perfect wingman."

"Funny. Yeah... I think I need to see some football every night this week."

"Every night?" she complained.

"That's right. I, ah, need to get a sense of how football is refereed in this country. Yeah, that's the reason. It's vital to the mission so can you see what matches are going on? Actually, hang fire. I'll probably be faster." I got my phone out and surfed around. "Shit, there's not much. Saturday, though. Stuttgart are at home. That's not far. Get me into that one."

"Not far? That's a long drive. Do you mean to fly?"

"I will fly to play or manage but not to scout. It's not like Chester where I can stay somewhere overnight and skip training. I need to be here every morning without fail." One problem I was going to have when it came to scouting was Munich's location. It was tucked away in the south-east of Germany. You’d find a much higher concentration of top clubs in an equivalent area of England. "Austria’s right there; Salzburg have a good team. Maybe I can check them out. I'll want to go to every Bayern Women's match if that's possible. The more options I can have, the better. I do some of my best thinking while scouting."

"We could have arranged this long in advance."

"But that would have spoiled the surprise. Are you happy to be back home?"

Briggy didn’t hear; she was staring at the latest drill. "What are they doing?"

"That guy messed up so they're all flicking him on the ear."

"I didn't see that at Chester."

"It's not my thing. This is pretty mild. It's like the clubs where the guy who trains the worst has to wear a yellow top the next day, things like that. It's fine. You're trying to insist on certain standards without dipping into full-on bullying. If I was a player here I would go along with the ear flicks, I reckon, but it's about people who aren't typical. If you get punished because you didn't control the ball there's a decent chunk of people who will silently rage because the pass to them was uncontrollable. It's the player who hit the shit pass who should be punished, right? And there are people who will accept criticism from the coaches but not their peers. Do you really want to breed resentment? What's the upside to flicking someone on the ear?" I dismissed the whole conversation with a wave of the hand. "It's not for me."

The players took a break and formed little groups on the turf as they took on water. I wandered around, wondering if it was possible I actually preferred my setup at Chester to this. Was that wishful thinking?

"Max," said Moses. I spotted his smile and mirrored it. The guy was Smiling 20 for sure. He had a ball tucked in between his arm and his body which made him seem even rounder. "What do you think?"

"The quality's unbelievable," I said, which got a pleased reaction from the players within earshot.

"I hear you're a good player," he said. "Want to join in?"

This was interesting. In the past I had established dominance over a group by being far superior at the sport they were paid to play. No chance of that happening here. If I stayed long enough I would join in a few times just to raise my personal ceiling but there wasn't much to gain from showing that I was the worst player here. Not on day one, anyway. I decided to turn it into a joke. "Moses, I'm dogshit. Also, I'm jet lagged."

An English defender called Edgar frowned. "You got jet lagged flying from Manchester to Germany?"

"Yeah. I'm weak and feeble."

Moses laughed. "Something tells me you are joking."

I spread my arms. "My mission this week is to reassure people I'm not here to take their jobs! If I take part in training, morale will collapse. Imagine the looks on their faces when they realise there's a guy who's the best in their position and every other position. No, it would be devastating to these guys to see me in action."

Edgar frowned again. "Can you play centre back?"

I did a cheeky grin and touched him on the shoulder. "I'm not here to take your spot, bro. Hey, listen, you speak Portuguese, right?"

"I grew up there."

"And Rui Santos doesn't speak much English, is that right? I won't have Briggy with me when the match starts so if I need to pass on instructions to him, will you help me? I know it's not your job but, you know, it'd help me out."

"Of course, gaffer."

I smiled. "Top man." I rubbed my lip. "Not sure I've ever been called gaffer by a Champions League finalist before. I could get used to that!"