Player Manager - A Sports Progression Fantasy - 10.10 - The Rock

 

10.

Thursday, March 20

A 7 a.m. flight on EasyJet is not my idea of how mornings should start. We weren’t using the low-cost airline to save money; they ran the only flights to Gibraltar from Manchester Airport. The route was only busy enough to justify having a flight every two days, and there wasn’t one departing on Friday, so we had to go a day early. Emma didn’t mind one bit.

The ordeal could have been worse. Money smooths the edges – we stayed in an airport hotel in scenic Manchester, got a wake-up call, took a shuttle bus, paid all the extras that sped things up at the gate. EasyJet doesn’t have first class but the flight time to Gib is only three hours. Once airborne I was able to relax and get my head straight.

We were going to spend a day and a half being tourists, followed by a weekend of scouting the entire Gibraltish league system. If I liked what I saw, Mateo was going to buy a Gibraltararian team and we were going to turn it into a local powerhouse and use it to milk UEFA. Since it had been allowed into pan-European tournaments, the Gibbish FA had been investing and apparently the place was football-mad anyway. The authorities wanted to build a new national stadium and the project looked mint. It was a place where things were happening, a place undergoing a progression fantasy of its own. I was getting excited by the thought of what the weekend might bring – creating another club monopoly with the help of the millionaire owner of Tranmere Rovers was a long way from Moss Side, call centres, and not being able to afford onions in my kebabs.

“I wonder what hotel Matty picked for us?” wondered Emma, for the tenth time in an hour.

I popped my MaxPods Max off. “Pardon me what?”

“What’s the hotel going to be?” She glared at my iPad. “How many times are you going to watch that stupid movie?”

I smiled. “There’s nothing stupid about The Rock. Sean Connery plays a former spy who isn’t called James Bond but we all know he’s James Bond. Nicholas Cage plays a chemical weapons superfreak and Beatlemaniac but the most important song in the movie is Rocket Man by Elton John. Why? You can’t understand it all in one sitting, babes. It requires careful re-watching. Why does he buy a Beatles album at the start? Why not Elton John? It’s a riddle wrapped in an enigma wrapped in tight action sequences and awesome hero shots.” She was patiently waiting for me to finish. I grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “You had a coffee and you’re waking up and you want a chat? Okay. I don’t know which hotel he chose. One near the stadium, probably.”

“Everything’s near the stadium. The entire place is tiny.”

“It’s one hundred times bigger than Alcatraz island.”

“One hundred? Is that hyperbole or…?”

“No! I got it from a website. Guam is 79 times bigger. Jersey is 17 times bigger. Staten Island is 22 times bigger. We are basically heading to a landing strip with ten houses attached.”

“And a red British letterbox.”

“Yes,” I said.

She made a frustrated gesture. “I just wish I knew where we were going so I could plan the day. You don’t think he’ll put us up down the coast to save money?” One of the issues with sending players on loan to Gibraltar was going to be accommodation and one solution was to find them a place to live in Spain itself. Every day, twenty thousand people made the journey into Gib to work.

“What, so that we get the full footballer experience? Maybe if it was just me but he knows you’re coming. He wants to make a good impression because this could be a million a year in profit for him.”

“A million?” said Emma. “A year? Profit?”

“I think so. Running costs a million. Prize money three million. Why not?”

Emma’s eyebrows flickered upwards. “I didn’t realise it was going to be so much. He’d better choose a place with two sinks, that’s all I’m saying. And a view.”

“What do you want a view of?”

“The Rock of Gibraltar, obvs.”

I smiled. Checkmate. I angled my iPad at her. “Views of The Rock are guaranteed.”

She slid a pair of sunglasses from the top of her head over her eyes in an attempt to be dismissive, but she knew I’d won the conversation.

***

Mateo’s version of the Brig, John Driver, met us at the airport. Before whizzing us to our hotel, he let us take a detour to visit a key tourist attraction – the red postbox outside the airport. It was thinner than the ones I was used to seeing, and the metalwork was more ornate. Old!

“It’s weird,” said Emma, touching it to check it was real. “We’re thousands of miles away but it’s still Britain. That’s messing with my tiny mind.”

“It’s Britain,” I agreed, “but they’re driving on the right. What the actual.”

“If you want weird,” said John. “To get into the town, you have to walk across the runway you just landed on.” I looked around to check it was going to be safe to cross the asphalt and sure enough, there was only one plane in view. Gib wasn’t exactly a hub like Manchester, but at least you knew which plane you were taking.

“This place is crazy bonkers,” said Emma. She put her big, floppy hat on, for it was twenty-five celsius, which, pleasingly but stupidly, is 77 in American numbers. Perfect summer holiday weather. She hugged the post box and took a selfie. “Lead the way!” John coughed and after a moment of hesitation, indicated that he wanted to take Emma’s little suitcase. She gave it up. “Ooh, makes me feel all ladylike.” She grabbed my arm and fell into step beside me. I had to push my own case. Why didn’t I get to feel ladylike?

John’s car wasn’t far and he drove us for a couple of minutes. He pulled up in front of our hotel. Emma got out before he could open her door; she said ‘wow’ so hard she dropped her hat. She was absolutely gobsmacked. I was probably pulling a similar face.

“You’re joking,” I said. “We’re staying here?”

“Yes, sir. The suite is booked under the name Emma Weaver.”

“Why not mine?” I said. “Oh, so I don’t get mobbed.”

“Mateo thought Emma was the less likely to forget her own name.”

Emma snorted. “John,” she complained, but went back to taking photos of the hotel.

“Well, it’s amazing,” I said. “It’s beautiful. Is this just for the first night?”

“All four nights, sir.”

I shook my head. The hotel was a ship. A massive, fuck-off cruise liner thing with Hotel Casino written at the top. The entrance said Yacht Hotel. “I’ve never stayed on a superyacht before. I have become that which I despise.”

“You have to pay for your own dinner, sir, if that makes you feel better.”

I laughed. “It does, actually.”

“I can’t wait to get inside,” said Emma. “What’s the plan, John?”

“No plan for today. Mateo is flying from London tomorrow – he doesn’t trust EasyJet – and we’ll meet up at the first match tomorrow night. Until then, your time is yours.”

“What about you?” said Emma. “Are you on your own? You’ll come for a drink with us tonight?”

John blinked. “I couldn’t possibly – “

“Oh, don’t be like that,” said Emma. “I won’t be able to relax knowing you’re here being miserable while we’re having fun.”

“It’s my job, miss.”

“Fuck that,” I said. “Emma has spoken. I think we’ll have sep dins, though. I don’t like being judged for what I order. So what if I want spag bol? Why’s that a topic of discussion?”

Emma groaned. “Mum was surprised you ordered something so basic, Max. Let it go.”

“Separate dinners is fine with me, sir. I also have peculiar habits.”

“What’s peculiar about eating spaghetti in an Italian restaurant?” I demanded.

“Because you can make it at home!” said Emma, sounding just like her mother.

“John, I’ve changed my mind. Have dinner with us. We’ll do outrageous things like order the food we want to eat while Emma eats frog’s legs covered in squid ink served on a fluff of mushroom foam.”

“John, I’m dying to check out our room! We’ll text you later.”

“Babes, he needs to know if he’s eating with us otherwise he’ll have a night out on the cheese.”

“Yes, let’s eat together. It’ll be nice. Max is going to be pretending to be Nicholas Cage all day.”

“Oh?” said John. “Does that make me Sean Connery?”

I jumped at him and gave him a big squeeze. “Babes, I love him! Can I keep him?”

Emma grinned. “I’m going in. You two have fun.”

“Urgh,” I said, and scampered after her, dragging both suitcases behind me.

***

Emma wouldn’t do anything as undignified as run to the check-in desk, but I would. I got there first and immediately took control of the sitch. There was a nice, Spanish-looking woman smiling at me.

“Hi. I’m Dwayne Johnson,” I said.

“No, he’s not. He’s Emma Weaver,” said Emma, who was too stunned by the grandeur of the lobby to stop me burning off some of my nervous energy.

The woman – Luisa, according to her nametag – clacked on her keyboard while I looked around. “Jesus,” I said. The place was swanky! Above my head was a big blue orb, something like a planet-themed disco ball. There was calm blue lighting, a nautical vibe, and every surface was absolutely gleaming. Shipshape and Bristol fashion. “Is this actually a superyacht?”

“Does it go to Tangier?”

“No, Mrs Weaver. It’s stationary.”

“A stationary boat? Isn’t that a shipwreck?”

Luisa smiled. Not her first time fielding such questions. “It’s an innovative, carbon-friendly concept,” she said. “Instead of building a big hotel where land is scarce, you can sail a yacht to the coast. Just like that you have 189 more hotel rooms. There’s one in London, too and that’s already on the second version.”

“It’s dead nice,” said Emma.

I slapped myself in the forehead. “I can’t believe this. No-one’s said it yet.”

“Said what?”

“Luisa, can you do me a favour?”

“Yes, Mr. Weaver.”

“Can you say, in a gruff Scottish accent, ‘Welcome to the Rock’?”

“Welcome to the rock, Mr. Weaver.” She made no attempt to do the accent. I later learned this was a five-star hotel. Huh. More like 4.71 stars.

I moved straight past my disappointment. “Luisa, Emma. We have to establish comms.”

“Pardon me, sir?”

“I want comms up by sixteen hundred! Let’s move it. Systems up!”

“Max,” said Emma, somewhat annoyed. “Stop being weird. What are you doing?”

“Asking for the wifi password,” I said.

Luisa kept a blank face and wrote it out for me. She handed it over with a couple of plastic keycards. “You’re on the sixth floor,” she said. I gave her a big smile and she decided she was amused by my antics. The superyacht wasn’t busy in March and the place was well-staffed. She had time to indulge me. “What was that you were saying?”

“It’s from this amazing movie called The Rock,” I said. “Have you seen it?” She shook her head. “It’s about a hotshot young megabrain and his banging hot girlfriend and this grumpy old guy who maybe used to be sexy who knows and at the start the hotshot is in danger from some poison and he has to take an injection to save himself but the needle is enormous and he’s scared of it so he’s going to die and the scene is mad intense but he defuses the bomb! Did I mention there was a bomb, too? Anyway, he doesn’t want to take the injection because it’s administered through the heart.”

“Through the heart?”

“I know, it’s mad! It’s all popping off and the tension’s crazy and we’re learning about the breakup of the former Yugoslavia while watching a chemicals expert investigate a suspicious package and then the cockroaches die and the acid is melting the suit and then his boss is like inject it into your heart right now and you’re thinking what the hell what even is that? It’s absolutely wild and bonkers and it’s so vivid you’re like hang on let me pause this and go watch an hour-long documentary about whether that’s real science or not but you can’t because pausing would be a crime against cinema so you’re basically a prisoner. And all that’s the first two minutes!”

“It sounds like a lot of fun,” said Luisa, with five-star diplomacy.

Emma kicked me in the ankle; she was ready to go. I stared at Luisa. “Don’t go to San Francisco until I steal the guidance chips. Promise me.”

“I promise,” she said.

***

Our suite was, to say the least, opulent. The living room – yes, it had a living room – was big, the TV was bigger, and they had left us a plate of hams (two types), pumpkin seeds, crackers, jam, cheese, and a bottle of cold champagne.

“Bagsy,” said Emma.

“The alk? I’m not drinking until the season’s over.”

“Stop!” she said. I froze, guilty as a child, with my fingers squeezing some ham, pre-lift off. Emma said, “I want to take a photo. Wait a minute.”

I continued the tour. The bedroom was spacious, the bed huge, the balcony small. It had a view over a marina with lots of teeny tiny baby yachts bobbing around. A control panel allowed us to close the blinds from the comfort of the bed. The bathroom, where it wasn’t marble, was elegantly tiled with large cream rectangles dotted with lots of small golden squares. It had a separate toilet and bath area, while a small closet could be accessed from the bedroom or bathroom. Smart design.

And two sinks!

“Wow,” said Emma, for the tenth time. “Wow. I need to film all this for my Insta. Let’s go back out and pretend to come in for the first time.”

“Erm,” I said.

“What?”

“I’m missing the Maidstone game to be here. I think the fans will tolerate it because it’s better than missing the whole end of the season like last time and we can say I’m off scouting, which is true. But half of them follow you on the socials so if you’re like hey fellas guess what, we’re living it up on a five-star superyacht instead of getting a vital three points…”

“You don’t want me to film it?”

“I mean… Not really, tbh. Is that all right?”

She leaned up to kiss me. “Course it is, babes. I wasn’t thinking. Radio silence! Engage the silent drive!” She blinked at me a few times. “Was that good?”

“Close enough,” I said, eyeing the bed, and at this point I will metaphorically press the ‘close curtains’ button on the scene.

***

We toured the other decks and I realised I’d never really thought about what a superyacht looked like. I imagined a dude in lightweight white linen lounging on his phone while two bored models worked on their tan, same as any yacht, but with a deck fifty times longer. I had given zero thought to the beast’s innards.

I realised my imagination was sorely lacking. The yacht hotel was all mirrored ceilings, chrome fixtures, tasteful recessed lighting, views of the Med, doors that shush closed, handles that click open in a satisfying way, embossed towels, a huge ballroom with a dozen oversized disco balls, a sundeck, and a cute little infinity pool.

A b-boy would have laughed, saying something like ‘it’s not the Baur au Lac, is it?’ But it was definitely the nicest place I’d ever been, and Emma’s seventy-seventh ‘wow’ brought actual tears to my eyes.

I pointed her at Gibraltar’s main landmark – the Rock – with its distinctive peak. I wrapped my arms around her, nestled my head against hers, and allowed my imagination to run riot.

This soft Mancunian rock had absorbed enough nutrients to grow a hard shell, evolve some teeth, and now I was working on some fucking wings, mate.

The superyacht lifestyle. I wanted to give this to Emma, every day. Not on a ship, but in Cheshire. We would buy some land and build our dream home. We would have two cinema rooms. One that would show any movie ever made, and one that would only show The Rock. And maybe Casablanca. We would have embossed towels. I would use the ones that said Emma sometimes because the Max ones were all in the wash and we would bicker about that. We would have a guest room with three taps just in case Mr. Yalley ever came to stay.

Emma sighed herself deeper into my arms. “What are you thinking?”

“It’s like a dream,” I murmured.

“I was thinking the same. It’s a long way from the Tyne.”

I held my girl on a superyacht as I looked at one of the Pillars of Hercules. That dude achieved a thing or twelve, but could he do it on a cold, wet, windy night in Stoke? Could he fuck. My heart pounded as I thought about how hard I would need to work to create the life I wanted to create. Hard. Insanely hard.

So let’s get going!

“Max?”

“It’s okay, babes. I’m just thinking about which Greek gods I could beat in a fight.”

“Oh.” She did a one-eighty and gave me a dazzling blast of her eyes. “Me too.”

We kissed, and in my self-image, I edited my Ambition score from 20 to 21. Chester. West Didsbury. Wales. Gibraltar.

I bared my teeth and swept my gaze from Africa to Spain to Britain, then up into the sky.

What else you got?

***

We did Gibraltar things. That means going up the Rock or going inside the Rock.

Emma and I bickered about whether to take a taxi tour for 40 Euro while a friendly Moroccan explained everything that we were seeing and protected us from the very very naughty monkeys the place is famous for, or whether to pay 38 pounds to take an impersonal cable car to the top and be simultaneously bored to death and mortally afraid.

Emma accused me of having an irrational fear of cable cars but when I started to argue the extreme rationality of my case she said, “You know what? A taxi will be fine.” But while she pretended to be annoyed, she later agreed that Amir was lovely and his narration of the scene was far nicer than plunging to our doom in a literal death trap.

We got to the peak, where some fucking cretin has installed a glass-bottomed viewing platform so you can check out the amazing view while being mortally afraid. You can see Morocco, and of course, you’re surrounded by Spain. Out on the Med there are all kinds of ships being refuelled without paying tax, the scamps. The view is pretty awesome, and whenever you’re not on a flimsy glass platform thinking about all the glass platforms that have collapsed around the world, you’re thinking about the British sailors who lived in Gibraltar and fought the Spanish or the French or the Spanish and the French. Their lives must have been both boring and terrifying.

Since we were trying to cram the hits into the first day, we went into the tunnels. These were created by the British army to move cannons from one side of the Rock to the other to help lift a siege. An impressive feat for the 18 men assigned to the initial task – they dug or blasted an 80-foot tunnel in under five weeks to help the Brits win an unlikely victory. There were waxwork figures of men chucking gunpowder at the wall; these tunnels seemed an obvious place to bring a football squad, to tell them that if they worked together they could even move mountains. Maybe not such a good talk if there were any Spaniards in the squad. I could just imagine the messages the curse would throw up after I gave that particular speech:

Demands his manager show a more subtle understanding of the history of Spanish territory.
Believes his manager’s ethnocentricity is affecting dressing room harmony.
Wants to stop being offered a Full English breakfast.

The tunnels were impressive, especially the St. Michael’s Cave section with its stalagmites and stalactites all lit up while music echoed around the chamber. The best part was running around, throwing myself against walls and looking over my shoulder while yelling dramatic things. “We got a rodent problem. Flush the pipes. There’s probably a maze of tunnels on this goddamn island. Check the access points.”

Emma loved my performance and said as much, but then it was back to the superyacht to get ready for dinner.

***

The restaurant got several more wows out of Emma, especially the wine room, which looked like the kind of glass prison cell that would normally house a supervillain.

John Driver was waiting for us on a stool by the bar – I guessed he thought it would be rude to sit before Emma or something old-school like that. He was wearing a jacket over a shirt and he’d picked up a bit of a tan that really suited him.

My worries about not having lobster money evaporated when I saw the prices; the restaurant had a kind of tasting menu for a crazily cheap thirty-six pounds. The idea was you’d get small versions of their main courses so you could try things one at a time until you tapped out. I knew the trick was that the time between courses would help to make you feel full, but I was trying to get away from the scarcity mindset. I was on decent money and it was going to rise quickly. I didn’t want to become a dick and I didn’t want to forget my roots, but I did want to stop being anxious about money. Surely I could buy something that cost under fifty quid without doing a whole cost benefit analysis about it?

Emma jabbed me in the ribs. “What? What?”

“John asked you a question.”

“Shit, sorry. I was miles away.”

“Not a problem, Max.”

“Pass the bread,” I said. He lifted the bread basket and offered it across. I recoiled. “Not like that! It’s a classy joint. The bread has to go anti-clockwise.”

“That is anti-clockwise, babes.”

“Well, not at an oblique angle, then.”

“Babes. Don’t be obtuse.”

John was uncertain about how to react to our little performance, but he relaxed and smiled. Better this than fish and chips for one. He was very like the Brig, but not as formal. I liked the guy a lot, but like the Brig he wasn’t a football specialist. “I was saying that I saw your goal.”

“Which one? There have been so many.”

“You know which one, babes. Stop being smug.”

I laughed. “Grimsby. Yeah, that was special. We had been practising these rapid side-to-side moves and I always had the aim of someone breaking into the space that was created. It really wasn’t supposed to be me.”

“It was beautiful,” said John.

I nodded. “It probably sounds a bit poncy but the beauty is the point. I wanted to knock the stuffing out of Grimsby, really rub their noses in it. This is what I can do and you’ve never seen anything like it. Give up. I wanted it to be like… You know in tennis where you make a guy run all over the place, torment him, and then all he can do is hit a high lob and hope you make a mistake? And you can smash the shit out of the ball or do a tiny little drop shot? Either way is demoralising.”

“You didn’t want to merely win. You wanted to make a statement.”

I nodded with an element of head shaking. “I mean, yeah. But it’s… it wasn’t a choice. It wasn’t what I wanted. We had to do that. Even after that result we were miles behind. The league was in their hands. If I was the Grimsby manager and I’d lost I would have shaken it off, dusted myself down, built the lads back up. Win the next three games and it’s just a blip, right? You’re allowed a blip. But if a guy absolutely smokes you like I did, that’s… It was mental disintegration. It might have looked like a joyous expression of all that is good and holy about the sport, but it wasn’t that. It was a cold, hard calculation. It was mathematical.”

John had paused in the act of buttering some freshly-made artisanal bread. He glanced at Emma and smiled. “Bullshit.” He tensed. “I apologise.”

I smiled back. “John, you’re all right. Speak your mind! We’re not gonna tell on you. The only thing I won’t accept,” I said, tearing up my slice of bread, “is if you say Con Air is better than The Rock. Those are fighting words. As for my tale of bravery and skill, is it bullshit? Or is what I said the god’s honest truth?” I popped a tiny chunk of bread into my mouth. “It’s impossible to know.” I chuckled.

“Can I ask about it?”

“About what? Actually, never mind. Ask what you want.”

“So… you score that goal. Everyone goes er… I think the appropriate word would be loco. How… oh my God.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

I ripped another piece of bread off. “You wanted to ask how it feels.”

“It’s so insipid and you must get it all the time.”

“Er… yeah. I never answer it, though. I say yeah it’s top. Most people don’t want to really talk, do you know what I mean? It’s just like asking about the weather while you’re waiting for the bus. It’s placeholder text. How do I become a footballer? Who’s the best opponent you’ve faced? What’s it like scoring a goal? No-one ever asks me the question they should be asking.”

John was agog. “What’s that?”

“Where do you get your hair done?”

He tipped his head back. “Let’s drop it. I’m sorry it even popped into my head.”

“Nah, mate. I’m happy to answer it. That’s what I’m saying, I never get the chance to really think about it, do you know what I mean? People just want to get a selfie and tell their mates oh I met Max Best and he was nice or I met Max Best and he was a dick. They don’t actually give a shit what makes me tick.” I chewed for a minute. “The Grimsby match was very, very strange. As you know, I recently managed Grimsby so I knew almost all the players pretty well and I watched loads of videos to make sure I was up to date with their new sound. I spent maybe ten hours watching footage with Sandra. That’s my assistant manager. Another thirty hours on my own. I prepared to an extent that is actually moronic but it’s like I said, I didn’t want to just nullify them and show other teams how to nullify them, I wanted to break their spirit.” I shook my head. “But when I’d done it, I felt sorry for them.”

Emma rubbed my arm. “He’s a big softie.”

“I mean, a bit. It’s my job to do it and to work yourself up into that kind of state you need to feel the spite, do you know what I mean? You need to hate them for ninety minutes. But then it was over and I’ve got enough grudges. Let it go. Okay it’s good if they implode but you’ve got another match in a few days so you need to switch modes and fast. You’ve got to be overwhelmingly powerful like a battleship but then as nimble as a destroyer. Get into position for the next fight. It’s hard, but it’s easy. The tricky part is these changes give people around you whiplash and you risk looking like an idiot. I’ve got one player who thinks I’m a clown.”

“Just talk to him, babes.”

“No, thanks. John, look.” I pointed behind him to where the sky was darkening and turning red.

He drank it in. “Beautiful.” He thought about what I’d said. I think he was most interested in the team dynamics. “So, if I was one of your players and I’d just seen you do what you did, what would I be thinking? It’s one thing to work for Jimmy Mustard and follow his instructions, but with you, you don’t just tell them what to do, you do it. And you do it so spectacularly. That must be… strange.”

I took a sip of my water. “Strange. Hmm. Most of the squad were there before my murder and let me tell you, I was ten times better then. A few times this season I’ve saved the day but mostly I’ve been playing twenty minutes here or there. I’ve been the icing on the cake, sort of thing, doing something creative against tired teams. I would say I’ve been worth a fair few points, but it’s not like when I played for Darlington. Henri, Pascal, Aff, Carl, they know I can do some magic if the conditions are right, which they haven’t been for a while. I think that goal wasn’t oh, I didn’t know he could do that! It was like, oh we could do this!”

“Could we?” mumbled Emma.

“I don’t know that it mattered that it was me who did it. Maybe it did. Yeah, okay, when I think about it, it’s better if it’s me because it gives them more belief in me as a manager, too.” I rubbed my eyebrow. “There was a strong feeling that night that we could do something special. The mood in the dressing room was, just, euphoric. There aren’t many nights like that.”

“I bet.”

Our first course arrived and we were quiet for a minute while we tucked in and described what we’d got. We fell into sharing dishes, which was fun. The break gave me time to put my thoughts into some kind of order.

“I know everyone was freaking out about the goal and it gave us a boost but honestly, what I did in the dressing room after was even better. Not for the fans, but for the squad, and that’s the important thing.”

“What did you do?”

“Okay, so did you ever play the FIFA games?”

“No.”

“They are ubiquitous. FIFA used to get 170 million dollars a year for the right to use the name. I hate FIFA but one thing they do is distribute money to all their member nations. The money from this game – free money, they didn’t lift a finger to code it or design it – that’s like a million dollars for San Marino, for Gibraltar, for Wales. But the president of FIFA, fucking Infantino…” It was astonishing how much this story made me seethe. “FIFA decided they deserved more money, right? How about we double the fee? After all, we’re the stars. Kids all around the world only buy the game because it says FIFA on the box. That’s how beloved we are.”

“Oh, boy,” said Emma. “Where’s his off switch?” She pulled at my ear.

“The games company said, you know what? How about no? How about fuck you all the way home? So they made a new game. It’s called Beefer. Beefer 26 will be the next version. It’s exactly the same in every way, except they keep the 170 million. Pretty sweet deal. Now, it might surprise you that Beefer 26 is just as successful as the old FIFA games and the much-anticipated rival game coded by Gianni Infantino himself has, er, failed to materialise.”

“Oh, the plan was to make a rival game?”

“No, it was extortion and the games company called their bluff. Okay, but what’s all this got to do with my wondergoal against Grimsby? Patience, dear grasshopper, patience. So Beefer 26 features all the Premier League players in 3D rendered glory. Ditto the Championship, League One… and League Two. It’s possible Mateo is in the game somewhere! Maybe as DLC. If we get promoted, I’ll be in the game.”

“Oh, I see!”

I shook my head. “You don’t see, because I don’t want to be in it. I will tolerate being in the game because sick kids in hospital say they can’t wait to be Max Best in Beefer. The game will give me bad stats anyway, so it’s fine.” Would The Sentinel squash me flat if I was good in a video game? I had a feeling that one day we would find out. “But guess who does want to be in the game?”

John tried to guess. “Emma?”

“All the other players,” said Emma. “They’re loco about it. It’s like they don’t exist if they’re not in the game.”

“The young players are especially obsessed,” I said. “As it happened, the Monday after the Grimsby match was the birthday of our best young player. Best young English player. William B. Roberts was going to turn 17. That’s the background. Now imagine we’re in Grimsby and the lads are all bouncing around, singing, dancing, never-mind-I’ll-find-someone-like-you-ing, and I turn the music all the way down and say I’ve got an announcement. That win puts us right in with a shot of getting promoted, lads – big cheer – so it’s a good time to reveal that I’ve been talking to the makers of Beefer. If we’re in League Two we’ll be in Beefer 26. Another big cheer. And because it’s Wibbers’ birthday, I’ve got him a surprise! His player card! I expected another cheer but it was this deathly hush. I brought out a big piece of cardboard covered with a tea towel. I said I’d been negotiating what Wibbers’ numbers should say and after a big fight, I won! There’s still almost no sound because the revelation of this card will provoke joy and jealousy in equal measure. Like, for normal people like us it’s impossible to understand what this means but there are only maybe four players in the room who have ever been in the game. This is a massive, massive moment.”

“Shit,” said John, who was very much enjoying the tale.

“I whip off the tea towel and there are actual gasps. I do my biggest, most handsome smile as I read out the numbers. Hang on, I took a photo. Check it.” I showed John a pic. There was a photo of Wibbers on a dull bronze background. Beneath were some numbers. “Pace 16, Shooting 16, Passing 17, Dribbling 15, Defence 5, Physical 15.”

“Is that good?” said John.

I smirked until Emma jabbed me. “Ow! Well, I made out like it was wonderful, brilliant, amazing. William looked sort of crestfallen but defiant while I kept ranting about how hard I’d fought to get him such good numbers. Eventually, when he thought his mate couldn’t stand any more, Pascal stepped in. Boss, what do you think the numbers are out of? Why, twenty, of course, I said. Just like Soccer Supremo. Everyone looked at Wibbers. They’re out of a hundred, boss, he said. Oh, shit, I said. I kind of looked worried for a while, but then there was too much giggling and smirking and I couldn’t keep a straight face. Wibbers realised he was being pranked and he went fuuuck and everyone laughed.”

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

“This is Max’s version of a prank-free workplace.”

I laughed. “Yeah, okay, I’m not completely congruent. Sue me. It was fun, though, and he asked if he could keep the card. I said yes but I’ve got you a proper birthday present. He gets all suspicious but I’m like no mate this one’s real. Honest. Let me find it. So I rummage in my bag and come up with an envelope. He takes it, there are more smirks and sniggers and all that, and he opens it and it’s a gift token. ‘One free soft drink with any meal order in Nando’s,’ he says. I say yes but not Coke I don’t want you drinking Coke it’s bad for your teeth. And everyone’s trying not to laugh and he goes okay what the shit is going on. So Glenn Ryder says, ‘we’re all going to Nando’s for your birthday’. I can’t really explain it but the next part of the scene was supposed to be everyone jumping for joy like we’d just won the World Cup.”

“So what happened instead?”

“No, that’s what we did. But it was supposed to be ironic. Like, we’re going to Nando’s! Lol. But once we started jumping around it wasn’t ironic. It was fucking intense. I’ve never experienced anything like that, I don’t think. We’re going to Nando’s! We’re going to Nando’s! It was one of those mass delusion things.”

“What do you think caused it?”

“No clue. This, er, this sense of progress, maybe. This sense that, like, we can go to a restaurant together and not drink and it’ll be best night of our fucking lives because we’re all together. I don’t know but I do know that all the players in that room totally maxed on morale.”

“Wow.”

More food came and once again there was a quiet bit. “The next few days were absolute perfection. Oh, but stop me if I’m being boring.”

“I’m riveted,” said John.

I turned to Emma. “Me too,” she said, resting her head on my shoulder for a second. “Keep going.”

“The day after Grimsby the women played their main league rivals, Cheadle Town Stingers.”

“Awesome name.”

“I know, right? If we beat them it would more or less sew up the league, complacency aside. I’d suggested to Jackie, the manager, that they start with a 4-1-4-1 formation and make Cheadle do all the running. And he did!” Cheadle started the match with CA 37, we had CA 41.6. “That formation gave Jackie a very slightly more mature team and they were brilliant. I was all mashed up from the Grimsby game but I kept, like, jumping to do headers and kicking every ball. Bloody hurt! But they were brilliant, and in the second half Jackie turned the screw. He brought on Kisi and Angel, went to 4-4-2, and they ran riot.” The increase in CA only took the women to 43, but they played with much more speed and intensity and the final score could have been a hell of a lot more than 3-0. Cheadle did rolling subs but couldn’t cope with our slick passing. “It wasn’t over at that point because they still had to play West Didsbury, who beat them earlier in the season.”

“That’s the team you own?”

“No. I don’t own a team in England. I’m not allowed.”

“Did you just wink at me?”

“I never wink in England.”

“You’re not in England.”

I looked out of the window. “That is a mindfuck. Everyone speaks English and the menu’s in pounds. I forgot where I was!”

Emma said, “And then there was the birthday party.”

“Yeah, Glenn Ryder rented the whole place. He’s got quite a lot of money from our cup run and it’s actually hard to spend it all if there’s no alcohol involved! I decided not to go, though.”

“Oh.”

I pulled one cheek up and made a clicking noise. “It’s an odd one. You can’t have proper fun if the boss is there, right? So… But they wanted me there. I’m the boss but I’m one of the lads, too. Sort of. But not really. It’s hard. I think it’s better not to go so they can get silly.”

“Didn’t you have a match the next day?”

“Yep. Down in Kidderminster. Former home of Christian Fierce, current home to Steve Alton. That was another odd one because we’d been having these huge, ding-dong battles. One of Jackie Reaper’s first matches as manager was against Kiddies and Bob Horseman did a number on him. Then they gave me a hard time, gave me a good slapping. But this time it was like, yeah, we’ve taken your rock and we’ve evolved miles past you. I was physically ruined so I didn’t want to play if I didn’t have to.”

“And you didn’t have to.”

“Right. Our morale is a crazy weapon right now. I put out pretty much our best team to keep the pressure on Grimsby. They were in a state. There was my goal, some injuries, their fans turning on them. I had a feeling that they would struggle that night, and they did. We won two-nil, they only drew. Oh, Barnet won as well. Four-one. That was worrying – they’re not supposed to score freely like that. So that was Grimsby on 78 points, Barnet 75. We had 70 with two games in hand. Okay so we win those and we’re two points behind Grimsby. I mean, what the fuck. That’s outrageous, really after the season we’ve had. So again, we were all bouncing. But that wasn’t even the best thing.”

“No?”

I shook my head. “Have you heard we’ve got a player at AFCON?”

“No, sorry. Not too sure what that means, either. Sounds like a Bond villain organisation, or a fringe political party.”

“It’s the African Cup of Nations. Like the Euros but for Africa. This is the under 20s version and my dude Youngster is in the Ghana squad. The match was in Togo at 7 p.m.”

“I feel like you’re asking me to do maths and time zones.”

“I was, a bit. 7 in Togo is 10 p.m. UK time. I’d have loved nothing more than to go to Youngster’s church and watch it with his people. My players would have loved to watch all together.”

“At a Nando’s,” said John.

“You joke but yes. That would be a massive hit. Only problem is, we’re playing down near Birmingham until nigh on ten o’clock, right? So I call Bob Horseman.”

“The Kidderminster manager,” says Emma, helpfully.

“Yeah and I ask if we can use a room in the stadium or something like that and sorry in advance for thrashing his team. He says he’ll get it shown in the Harriers Arms and sorry in advance for ending your title charge. I say wow that’s above and beyond you’re a ledge and sorry for coming on with ten minutes to go and doing a madness and by the way I haven’t scored from the halfway line yet. He says it’s my pleasure, I think a lot of our lads will be keen to stay and watch and hang out with their former captain and sorry in advance for ruining the party mood.”

“Is that how you talk?” said Emma.

“Erm, with him, yeah. He’s ace. After the match we went to their version of the Blues Bar and mingled with their players and staff. Sandra and me sat with Bob and his assistants and chatted shit about the match and the rest of the league.”

“How did the match go?” said John.

“I mean, in a way it didn’t matter,” I said. “It was the semi-final and the four teams would get invited to the World Cup this summer, so they’d all achieved the main objective. Ghana had Senegal, which was a tough game. The other semi was Tunisia v South Sudan and they were both very lucky to get to that point. The winner of the game we were watching were likely to win the whole thing. Senegal had brilliant attackers and they were in the mood to slap. It was two-nil after about twenty minutes but then their coach said okay let’s defend for seventy minutes. That’s nuts. I hate that. Ghana were too conservative, though. They didn’t want to commit too many bodies forward in case Senegal got a third on a counter. I mean, yeah, that’s fair, but you’re two-nil down. You’ve got to go for it.”

“How was your player doing?”

“He wasn’t on the pitch. He played a few minutes in one of the group games, but he plays in the fifth division in England. He’s not, like, obviously a megastar to anyone but me.” I sighed. “He came on with ten minutes to go, and I got the sense from the manager it was very much like, ah, you’re a good lad and I like you so go and run around. You know, tossing a stick in the park for a dog to chase but you’re on your phone and not even enjoying his happy little face. What happens? Youngster fucking slaps. He’s been on the pitch for ten seconds, he does an interception. He surges forward. Why? Because he’s a Max Best player and his team’s losing. Ghana get right up the pitch and build an attack. A minute later he intercepts again, runs again. I’m screaming at the TV down in Kidderminster, doing a FaceTime with Pastor Yaw and the Yalleys, and it’s so much fun. The Ghanaian players have been training with Youngster and they know he’s freakishly good at interceptions and being in the right spot to snuff out danger and they get more adventurous even if their manager has more or less thrown the towel in. They attack, Senegal counter, a centre back goes way out of his zone to deal with the break because he knows Youngster’s got his six. The game’s wide open, like when they smash the reds in snooker and the balls go everywhere. Ghana put together a good move. Goal! Two-one! The last five minutes are crazy. I think a lot of the Kidderminster players were bored to death watching the game because they didn’t really give a shit who won but even they got into it, big time. We thought Ghana equalised and there were limbs. Absolute scenes. But the shot had hit the adverts behind the goal and rippled into the net. Senegal won. I think a good time was had by all and there’s a chance my dude will go to the World Cup!”

“Oh, hang on,” said Emma. “I just thought of something. Why didn’t he fly back after that match?”

“The third place playoff was a few days later. Ghana beat South Sudan but Youngster didn’t get on the pitch. I think the entire squad stayed in town to watch the final, then flew back after.”

“So he couldn’t have played against Wealdstone.”

“No. He wasn’t in the country.”

“Will he play on Saturday against Maidstone?”

“He could but we don’t need him. He gets a rest and to spend time with his family. He’ll go to church on Sunday and tell them all about it.”

Emma frowned as she spooned something into her mouth. “You’re here. He’s resting. If Maidstone goes wrong, there will be a lot of complaints.”

“Yeah, from gammons. That’s the point of being a gammon. You have to complain non-stop otherwise you just give up the ghost. Your body turns to ash and is blown out to sea. I thought about it a lot and the thing is, Maidstone is an easy game. It shouldn’t matter that the league got exciting. I have to trust Sandra and I have to trust my players. Sandra is going to pick Chipper and let him loose, so there’s a risk. There’s one player in the line up who gets my stomach acid dancing, but we should be able to win even with ten. John, what are you thinking?”

“I was trying to piece things together. Emma mentioned Wealdstone. Forgive me but that result passed me by.”

“It passed everyone by. Our pitch is looking much better but it’s still heavy so we put out a beefier team with a couple of young players and went back to a more grindy style. Bit more direct. The away lads were hyped up because last time we played them we got all kinds of lucky with a WibRob equaliser. They’re also down the foot of the table and they need points even more than we do. It was tight and I was thinking I might need to go on and play – I still wasn’t fully recovered from Grimsby, if I’m being honest – but Aff scored two goals. I’d asked him to shoot more so I could sell him for a higher price and he came through. Two-nil, pretty diabolical match, but the fans loved it. They’re on board with this season, big time. One guy put up a big banner – you know, the ones they dangle from the stands – that said ‘Don’t sell out the club, sell out the stadium’. We got over three thousand for that one, and okay it was a Saturday and the weather was nice but Wealdstone aren’t a big draw. If we keep winning, we might finally fill the bastard stadium. Oh! And that one was our fourth two-nil in a row. We’re keeping so many clean sheets these days. Fieeerrrccce!”

“What did Grimsby do?”

I closed my eyes and rubbed my brow. “They won two-nil, too. Barnet drew. We are eight points behind Grimsby and their goal difference is eight better. We could catch them – “

“Could we?” murmured Emma.

“But games are running out. Grimsby only have seven left! If they win all seven, that’s that.”

“Is that likely?”

“No, but we’ll drop points, too. We’ll win this weekend but the key will be on Tuesday when we play Aldershot – very, very tough match – and Grimsby play Barnet. It’s our chance to put our destiny in our own hands. God,” I said, shaking my head. I looked out onto the marina and once again realised I wasn’t in Chester any more. “It’s like a dream.”

***

Friday, March 21

We had a wonderful lie-in that briefly turned into a curtain war as Emma used her control panel to open the curtains and I used mine to close them. I won the pillow fight that ensued, and we decided to compromise on leaving the curtains closed but I would spend the day not quoting The Rock or telling people about The Rock.

Five minutes later I was ready for them to be open anyway, so I’m not sure I really got the better end of that deal.

We took another stroll around the boat – still amazing, still so many wow moments – and took a languid walk towards Main Street where Emma bought a bathing costume from Marks and Spencer (fifteen hundred miles from the next-nearest branch!), after which we had a full English breakfast at a pub. That was followed by a shuttle bus to Europa Point, a lighthouse on the southernmost point of Gibraltar where there’s a big cannon and a big mosque, which sounds sinister when I say it like that. The cannon faces out to sea, guys. Then we went to the Botanic Gardens and back to Main Street, where we walked past jewellers, shops doing permanent ‘closing-down sales’, and some staples of the British high street – Marks, Costa, betting shops, fish and chips, Burger King, Natwest bank.

It was all nice but when Emma and I sat down in a big square to drink coffee, I found some thoughts had been germinating.

“300 days of sunshine a year,” I said.

Emma nodded. “I was talking to the locals and they said yes that’s true but it isn’t always, like, proper warm.”

“You were talking to the locals? When?”

“When you were rolling around in the tunnels.”

“That obviously never happened.” I looked around. “Okay it’s a nice place. First two days, wow. I’m thinking of what it’s going to be like if I send, for example, Josh Owens here. He’d like the weather. He’d like that it’s a big adventure. It’s all in English so he gets that exotic feeling but he’s not going to have a breakdown because he can’t order a sandwich.”

“Uno bocadillo, por favor.”

“But, like, we’ve been here a day and a half and I feel like we’ve seen ninety percent of the tourist stuff. And eighty percent of the entire island.”

“Stop saying island. It’s not an island. We’ve seen eighty percent of the peninsula.”

“There’s quite a lot of old people here. Do you get the feeling it’s like a massive retirement home?”

“No. Sort of. Maybe? The young people you see tend to be the Moroccans and Spaniards, not the Gibraltarians.”

“They’re formally known as Gibbers.”

“They’re not.”

“Well, they should be.” I scratched my head. “It’s quite a specific place to come, isn’t it? You’re going to do the same things every day, which doesn’t suit everyone, and I’ve seen that rents are really expensive so my loan players are going to be in a tiny flat. I think I’d need to be careful about who I sent.”

Emma licked her lips. “Babes, I like it when you take care of your players. You should stop micro-managing them. You’ve got a big heart.”

I tilted my head as I regarded her. My instant reaction to what she said was delight but I realised there had been a complaint in the middle of the two compliments. “Babes! Did you just sandwich me?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Compliment, complaint, compliment. You bloody sandwiched me!”

“I bocadilloed you.” She shook her head. “You don’t know how people will react. You think Josh would hate it but it’s not Alcatraz, is it? He’s young and it’d be his first time being really independent. So he’s got a tiny flat? Less space to clean. So Gib is small. Spain’s right there. He goes out clubbing one day, goes to Cadiz the next. Falls for a brown-eyed lass and they have romantic moped rides along the coast. They go skinny dipping in private beaches, take a pedalo while they talk about their hopes and dreams, and after a perfect day, they go back to his more-than-big-enough flat and she presses the close curtains button.”

“What movie have you been watching?”

“It’s called Stop Worrying and Let People Have Experiences.”

“Right. That’s by David Fincher.”

She checked the time. “We’ve got a couple of hours before dinner. Let’s go back to the superyacht. I want a go in the pool. Are you coming?”

“I’m taller than the pool is long. It’s Emma-sized.”

“It’s not for exercise. It’s to be in an infinity pool with a view of the Rock.”

I wasn’t really in the mood, to be honest. “I’ll go over my notes for the teams we’re going to be watching.”

“If you come in the pool with me I’ll say ‘Welcome to The Rock’ in a Scottish accent.”

I shot to my feet. “I want you underwater by 1600! Let’s move it!”

***

Matchday 20 of 22 – Lions Gibraltar FC vs Lincoln Red Imps

We ate on the superyacht again, then strolled towards the stadium. The Friday night game had a 9 p.m. kick off and, as luck would have it, was a match involving the best team in Gib, the Lincoln Red Imps. As Gib’s most successful side, Mateo wouldn’t be able to afford to buy them, but then again, what was the fun in buying the best team? I was hoping he bought the worst, which on current form was a side called College 1975. But one minute into the match I would pretty much know if this project would work or not because I’d have the Imps in my sniper scope.

We got to the stadium in good time. It was right next to the runway, which was strange, but we had amazing views of the Rock, and that was the moment where I realised the badge of the Gibraltarararian FA was a stylised version of the mountain. Ohhhh!

“Where do we pay?” said Emma.

“Don’t know,” I said. “Let’s ask inside.” We pottered straight through. There were two small stands on either side of the pitch with a total capacity of about two thousand. Around the pitch was a running track, possibly installed for a very optimistic Olympics bid. There was no sign of a ticket booth or money changing hands. “Maybe it’s free?”

“There’s John,” said Emma, who waved and headed to a spot at halfway – pretty much the best seats in the house, apart from the dugouts.

“I’m gonna find a toilet,” I said. I did so, and as I was drying my hands, I got a text from Ems.

Emma: I’m with John. Matty’s popped out to take an important call. There’s a guy from the Gibraltarian FA here, sent to schmooze Matty but he has decided to schmooze me. Why don’t you sit in front of us so you can listen?

Me: Do I need to be worried?

Emma: Er, no. He is trying to woo me by chatting about football. I mean, how could that ever work?

Me: If he mentions expertise, athleticism, and moments of surprise I’m going to intervene. I don’t care if he works for the Gibbish FA.

I ambled along the rows and sat down somewhere random. I made a big show of not being happy with the view and went more centrally, until I was sitting in front of John, one seat to the right. He was too discreet to say anything, and I got the chance to scout the players while listening to a different kind of player.

His accent sounded Spanish with some vowels coming all the way from Burnley, and his flirting technique was astonishingly bad.

“The pitch is 4G and is in constant use. The men’s teams play their league here, as do the women and the various age groups. Lincoln, in red, are the champions. They got to the Europa League group stages!” To Emma, this was as impressive as boasting that he could tie his own shoelaces. “Lions are in their away kit, the grey. They’re struggling. Second to bottom of the league.” To a colour-blind person, I was sure the kits would clash. Red looked like grey, didn’t it? There was an immediate 8% performance boost if I took over one of these teams. Low-hanging fruit. Love it. “That’s the Rock over there.”

“Welcome to The Rock,” said Emma, Scottishly, and I got another one of those full-body surges of affection.

“And the airport’s right there. Bet you’ve never seen a runway next to a football pitch before!”

“No, but I’ve seen a man who walks around Newcastle doing loud phone calls but when you get close, he’s talking into a pineapple.”

I nearly stopped breathing, and I was sure I had turned bright red. I angled my face away and tried to look like just another Imps fan come to see his team. Mateo came back just then and hugged Emma. “Where’s – “

I didn’t hear Emma say anything, but I assume she put her fingers over her lips or something like that. Mateo wasn’t a natural prankster, but he went along with it. They did some small talk about the trip. Emma cut me out of the retelling with alarming ease, but then the match kicked off and I gave the first ten minutes my complete attention.

The curse was giving me 2 XP per minute, which put the league on a par with the National League North, England’s sixth tier.

The Red Imps normally won the league and most years, the cup to boot. They competed in European matches and had the biggest budget of around 400,000 a year. Now that I was seeing them live I was getting more granular data, including player wages.

The average CA of their starting eleven was 50.

The Lions were 28.

It was like a team of Glenn Ryders playing a team of Trick Williamses. No real contest.

The averages didn’t tell the full tale, though. The Imps had a very strong right side, with a CA 65 right back, a CA 66 right mid, and a CA 59 right-sided striker. The opposite flank was much weaker, with the equivalent players on 33, 37, and 41. The goalie was very good, with 55, but the centre backs and central midfielders were uninspiring. I immediately believed I could put out a better balanced team and I could start by signing two of the better players from the Lions. Their right back was CA 20 but PA 66. They had a striker with CA 35, PA 62. Could we convince them to move across to the team we bought? Why not? Their wages were underwhelming and they were already in the country so presumably they liked living here. I guessed it’d be easy enough to get half a squad of such players from the other clubs. The tricky part would be giving them good training and making sure we had a couple of stars, too. Maybe we would go strong on the left so that we would win the head to heads against the Imps.

God, this was fun! Building an entire squad from scratch!

I started making notes. Plans A, B, and C.

Captain Gibby was still trying to impress Emma. “Eight thousand seats. The designs are absolutely beautiful. It’s going to slope up away from the runway – the landing strip makes building things there tricky but in the end it’ll actually be safer because we’ll take down those floodlights.”

“What’s wrong with this stadium?” said Emma. “It’s nowhere near full and you don’t even get ticket income. Why bother?”

“We can’t host international matches here at the Victoria Stadium, or European ones. We play our home games in Portugal and if we ever want to host a UEFA tournament, we need to upgrade. We’re excited about it; it’ll be the biggest step in our development since we joined UEFA. The stadium will be mixed use, with shops and apartments. It’s going to be amazing. I can’t wait for it. It’ll kick us up to the next level.”

That sounded really fucking cool. I texted Mateo.

Sounds like a good time to get involved. Before that stadium is built and more people see the place as viable.

Then I hit my fly honey.

Ask about the flats, please. Say if you were going to buy a football club in Gib it’d be useful to own flats in the stadium. Do a wide-eyed, unblinking stare at Matty when you say that.

While Emma asked about property, my phone beeped.

 

Mateo: You think we can do this, then?

Me: I’m 80% sure. I’ll tell you on Sunday night when I’ve seen the last two teams. Mostly it will depend on if you give me complete control over football decisions.

Mateo: You’re not the only one who knows the game. I used to play, you know.

 

I scanned the pitch and texted Mateo the word Chino.

Then I sent Emma a question to ask.

“Which player here has the most international caps?”

The guy from the FA looked around. “Not totally sure, but I think it’s got to be Chino. He’s there. The goalie for the Imps.”

I texted Mateo another name – Chipolina – and Emma another question.

“Were any of these guys considered, like, a hot prospect when they were kids?”

He blew air from his cheeks. “Hot prospect? What a question. I suppose… Yes, there was a lot of hype about Chipolina when he was coming through. To be honest, I think he needed to move abroad to develop more.”

 

Me: I could keep showing off or I could get back to work.

Mateo: I have access to Wikipedia, too.

Me: Can we agree a minimum length of time you hold onto the club for? I’m thinking like five years. I’ll know more on Sunday night but there will be a slightly random factor to how far we get in Europe each year which would be smoothed out over a long enough timeline.

Mateo: I’m not looking to buy it and flip it. Can we beat the Imps?

Me: The Imps are fit, good on the ball, and have good togetherness, but imps live in fear of demons.

Mateo: Were you out in the sun too much?

 

I was about to reply when I heard Emma had changed the topic. I glanced over my shoulder and saw she was giving the Gibber a big, unhealthy dose of attention. “Is it true that people come to Gib to get married? It’s, like, one of the places you can go and marry pretty much anyone whenever you like?”

The guy nearly choked. “You only need to stay one night, then you can, er… do it.”

“Wow! You don’t need to be a resident or anything?”

“No.”

“I watched this movie,” said Emma, “called The Rock. It was the first ever action blockbuster where the hero’s girlfriend proposed to him. Funny to think they could have gone to Gib the next day and just got married right then and there!”

I texted her:

Ask him if foreign players count as residents after three years.

Emma seemed to glare at her phone. “Excuse me,” she said, and flounced out of the scene.

A moment later, John Driver did something of a Brig impression. He spoke to his boss. “I was just thinking, sir, that if one wants it, one had better put a ring on it.”

“I was thinking the same thing, John.”

***

Saturday, March 22

There were two men’s games on the Saturday. The first was St. Joseph’s (CA 45) vs Europa Point (40). The second was Europa FC (34) vs Mons Calpe (43). These kicked off at 4:30 and 9, but in between there were almost non-stop women’s and youth games. I spent most of the day in the stadium, then, leaving only to eat meals with Ems, where I found it hard to focus.

The matches themselves weren’t very exciting, and there was a fair amount of dross in the players. Some older guys whose legs had gone, some young guys who weren’t as good as they thought they were. Here and there were nuggets, though, and it was very possible to imagine assembling a team from the ten lesser clubs that would eventually be better than the Red Imps. If I imagined them spending a month of pre-season training at Tranmere, with Tranmere’s coaches, against Tranmere’s players. That would be a hell of a boost. If I could add 5 to the CAs of the players I was interested in, that opened up a lot of possibilities. How about plus 5 this summer, plus 5 the one after?

I spent a lot of the day doodling, drafting first elevens from the players I’d seen. Imagining how they would match up against the Imps.

Emma spent the day sunbathing, going in the pool, and sometimes popping in to chat to me.

It was a pretty great day with only one stressful moment – Chester FC’s match at home to Maidstone. I knew that Maidstone were around CA 52 – about on par with the Red Imps – and nine times out of ten we would crush them even without two important players. But that’s the reason we love sport – you never know what’s going to happen. I had an abysmal stop-start stream that made it look like Chipper was launching into two-footed tackles every thirty seconds – we would need to sort out the club’s website before we got to League Two.

I tried to keep my eyes on the 4G pitch in front of me so that I would at least get some XP from the torture, but I needn’t have worried. Aff scored. Chipper scored. Chipper scored again. Three-nil and Sandra was able to rest Aff, Pascal, and Ryan Jack for the last half an hour. That on top of a full rest for Henri. Idyllic!

Barnet won, too. But get this – Grimsby drew. In their last five games, they had taken 6 points from a possible 15! And they had to play Barnet on Tuesday night!

The league table was so beautiful I nearly went on a lap of the pitch, but settled on some jumps and fist clenches instead.

Six points behind, and suddenly there were only five goals in it! If we won our games in hand two-nil and three-nil, we would go top of the league on goals scored.

Our destiny was in our own hands!

I doubted there was ever a moment in the history of Gibraltar where one phone received so many messages from Chester. I was so hyper I went back to the yacht, changed into the closest thing I had to sportswear, and went for a run.

If we beat Aldershot, we would be nailed on for the title. Absolutely nailed on!

I ran faster.

***

Sunday, March 23

I spent the morning with Emma being a grade A boyfriend, then settled into the stadium being a grade A scout.

The men’s matches were worth 2 XP per minute but almost everything else was giving me 1 XP per minute so the gains were fairly abysmal. But gains were gains and I was also filling up a pretty comprehensive database of Gibraltese football. I got a rare achievement worth mentioning – 1 XP for scouting more than half of a country’s active players. One of the eleven teams wasn’t playing that weekend, but I saw ten-elevenths of the men, most of the women, and a lot of the kids.

At 4:30, Lynx played Glacis. That was a CA 37 vs CA 31 match up and a match of staggeringly little excitement. A team with good technique would crush this league simply by being able to retain possession. If any match had been exciting, I wish it had been that one, for I was stressed off my tits waiting for updates from Chester Women vs West Didsbury. A big test for Jackie! I didn’t want to think about it, really, but if he lost that one I would probably have had to sack him.

The thought made me feel pretty sick.

I tried to distract myself by reworking my fantasy draft based on the thirty new Gibraltesers I had in my database, but it was no good. We needed to get streams of the women’s team, too, but that was going to be hard while they were based in Flint.

I picked up my phone to see if I’d briefly lost signal – why else was no-one sending me updates? As I peered at the network strength meter, the phone vibrated and I nearly had a heart attack.

It vibrated again. And again. The same message from different sources.

Chester 1 West 0 – Angel

I let out a full-body grunt of pleasure and relief. Jackie would switch to a 3-5-2 and control the ball. Keep possession, make West work, maybe hit them on counters in the last ten.

From what I heard later, that’s what he did, but the nerves kicked in. The women played quite well but rushed the last pass, overhit their crosses, snatched at shots. They knew full well what that particular result would mean.

There were no more score updates for an agonising twenty minutes. Until…

Chester 1 West 0 – Full Time

That was it! Bosh! The women were almost certain to win the title. There were five more games to play, including a slightly tricky one against Tranmere, but basically it was done and dusted. The last episode of the documentary would be a rapid-fire series of cuts of the winning goals against Crewe, Darwen, and Salford. Lots of cheering and running around, arms aloft. Victory!

When the full time whistle blew in the Victoria Stadium, I put my backpack on, hit Playdar, and was led to a side street where some kids were playing. One had over 100 PA, but he was eight. I gave him the nickname ‘Gib Street Urchin’ and made some notes on his player profile but left without talking to him.

The late kick off was the final match of my stay, College vs Manchester, 25 vs 42, and for that one I sat next to Mateo and got serious.

“Watching these teams,” I said, “is like watching a yellow Ferrari chase a black Humvee through the streets of San Francisco.”

“Is it?” said Mateo. “In what way?”

“In no way,” said Emma. “He’s been in the sun too long. His brain’s addled.”

“Have you seen The Rock? There’s a high-speed car chase where they wreck the city and crash into anything and everything but then suddenly there’s an old woman crossing the road and they have to avoid her, which causes more chaos, and just as you’re thinking hmm that was a bit on the nose to show that neither of the guys are bad really, sort of a high-speed save the cat moment, suddenly there’s a whole disabled basketball team crossing the road! And that’s the moment you’ve got to realise this isn’t an action blockbuster, it’s an action blockbuster comedy, and it’s absolutely taking cinema to strange new heights.”

“I think I’ve seen it,” said Mateo. “Is it the one where Sean Connery does a Russian accent? No, wait. It’s the one with the plane full of prisoners.”

“You know what?” I said. “Never mind. Okay, here’s where I’m at. I’ve seen the league. I know the standards. Which club are you most likely to buy?”

He made a face which hinted that all the prices he’d been told were substantially higher than he had expected. “The cheapest, Max, since you’re a generational talent.” For some reason, he high-fived Emma. Baffling. “They share the stadium, have the same training facilities. What are you actually buying? The Imps have some trophies. Some teams have better websites. You’re buying the registrations of some players but none of them are on long-term contracts. No, what you’re really buying is a seat in the league. A shot at finishing in the top three and getting some UEFA prize money. For that reason, it’s a sellers’ market. Apart from the Imps and the teams that finish second and third this year, they are much of a muchness.”

I nodded. “We should buy one of these two teams that are playing right now.”

“Oh, why?”

“This one, Manchester 1962. In the 60s they used to be called Manchester United. They got special permission from Sir Matt Busby. That was before football became a soulless cash grab.”

“Hang on,” said Emma. “We’re here for a soulless cash grab, aren’t we?”

“No,” I said.

“Yes,” said Mateo.

“Okay fine. But if we buy that team we’re basically buying Manchester United. The Red Devils.”

Mateo sighed as he looked up. “I’m not especially motivated by the idea, Max. I’d rather buy Sharks Ate My Face FC.”

“Devils beat Imps, remember. It’s funny there’s a Manchester United here,” I mused. “The reason the Glazer family were able to buy Man United, the real one, was because of a racehorse.”

“What?” said Emma.

“Yeah, it’s a long story, but basically Alex Ferguson, the manager, fell out with these Irish billionaires over a horse called Rock of Gibraltar. That falling out led directly to the Glazers.”

“Jesus. That’s random.”

“I know. Okay so College 1975. They’re the worst team in the league, comfortably. You buy them and I give you a list of all the players you should try to sign from Gibraltar itself. I have an AI computer that can estimate their wages and I reckon if you offer a couple of hundred pounds or Euro more and a summer of training in England and Tenerife, most will be happy to switch. Plus we’ll try to get the best young boys into our system to start a pipeline. I’ve seen quite a lot today but I might need to come again to get the ones who weren’t here today. The Imps have the highest budget of 400 grand a year for the players. We need to do 800.”

“Eight hundred thousand?” said Mateo, aghast.

I nodded. “We need to be absolutely sure of winning the league. We get the best local players, a quality manager, the loan players we send from Chester and Tranmere, and we need one or two absolute game changers. Match winners. If we win the league the next five years and get into the group stage of the Conference League, we’ll be rolling in cash. If we ever get to the Champions League group stage, holy actual shit. That’s, like, fifteen million guaranteed and if we win just one match it’s like 750,000 Euro. That’s break-even for the year in ninety minutes. We should aim at the top of what’s possible because okay the first two years you might make a loss but at some point it will click.”

“What are the limiting factors, in your view?”

“Yeah, okay, the quality of the league. If we take the worst team and make them the best, that kind of automatically raises the standards, but it’s still bad. If we brought Lucas Cook, for example, he would only develop to the level of the best player here, more or less. He still wouldn’t be good enough to get in Tranmere’s team. Even Chester are evolving beyond that. So we need to find a way to keep these players in the green. One advantage is that any good local players can get in the national team and they play against big nations sometimes. I’m not sure losing 14-0 to France does a lot for their development, but it’s better than not playing France, if you get me. So we try to get local players with as much upside as poss. There are some. You could fly the team out to your place on Tenerife – that would be good. And Tranmere – even better. Plus when they are there I can go and tell the manager what I want, face to face. But they need to compete against better teams. I’m thinking it’d be a good investment to take them to the mainland and play against Cadiz or Seville. You might have to give those clubs ten thousand Euro or something, but it’d be worth it a couple of times a year. The biggest challenge, I think, will be keeping the motivation high when they’re winning every week and there are only a few meaningful matches per year. Yeah, the manager needs to be someone with good man management skills as well as tactical know-how. A good manager and a great coach. Look, if you want to do this and you’re really giving me half the profits, adding to the cost base is bad for me, right? But it’s not a cost, it’s an investment. You get huge cash money for winning matches in Europe and that has to be the aim. We’ll make more money by doing it right.”

“So we could spend four hundred thousand to definitely win the league, or eight hundred thousand to possibly get through the qualifying rounds in Europe.”

“Right. Sometimes you get drawn against the champions of Malta, then it’s always Dinamo Zagreb, somehow, and then it’s someone like Gothenburg or Celtic. Lincoln actually beat Celtic here a few years ago. We will be playing clubs who are barely back from their pre-season and the match will be a nuisance for them. Their players will be complacent. But that match is the entire focus of our entire year! It’ll be like when the Beth Heads beat Man City.”

“That famous night,” said Mateo.

I laughed. “It was a famous night, actually. Okay and one more thing. If I send three players here on loan I want them to get a helper. Someone awesome in the vein of John or Brooke or Ryan Jack who knows how everything works here and has fucking sky-high emotional intelligence. They’ll meet my lads at the airport, get them settled in, take them to dinner the first couple of nights. They’ll be on call if there’s any shit going on or my dudes need someone to talk to.”

Mateo nodded. “Sounds doable.”

“And let’s put them up in the superyacht the first night.”

“The first two nights,” said Emma.

“Yeah!”

Mateo nodded again. “You approve?”

“It’s like a dream.”

He smiled. “I’m glad. So they come and have a memorable start to their adventure. Yes, understood. I think we can stretch to that.”

“Cool. I’m in.”

“Pardon me?”

“I’m in, Mateo. Let’s do it. Let’s class this place up. Five years, half the profits, Max knows best.”

He smiled and as he imagined getting an oversized cheque from UEFA for three million dollars, the smile turned into a full-on beam. “Shake on it?”

I offered my hand and we sealed the deal. I would be a silent partner in this venture. “Bosh!” I cried, silently. I took a minute to exult. He shoots, he scores! Football’s coming home! Are you sure you want three taps, sir? “Oh, man. Oh, man,” I said, a few times. “Whoo!” I laughed at how relieved and excited I was. “Whoo,” I said again, but this time as a kind of cleansing sigh. I got calm, sat, fished in my pocket, and handed over some fairly crumpled pieces of paper. “Here you go. My part of the deal.”

He took the sheets with a hint of distaste and peered at their contents. “What’s this?”

“The players you should sign and what you should pay them.”

His eyes widened and he scanned and re-scanned the names and numbers. “You’re joking.”

“Nope. Here’s Plan A. That’s a title-winning team. Pretty much the best, most technical players from every team except the Imps. Mostly they’re selected for technique and passing, but there’s some speed, too. Kind of copy paste of Chester. Plan B here is a backup in every position. Here I’ve noted that this right-winger isn’t fast but is super technical. See the symbols? Self-explanatory, really. Section C, here, are players under 22 with a lot of upside. If you’re willing to fly them to Tranmere to get them trained up and all that, they’re worth a punt. These guys would be cheaper in wages but would cost more in training. You’ve already got the facilities so it’s just are you willing to fly them out and give them somewhere to stay. You can decide for yourself if they’re cheaper. This box here has the local players who could break into the Gibber national team – that’s going to be a big boost to their development. If you have to pay them a bit more in wages it’s probably worth it because the national FA will be investing heavily in them. The ones in that box there are Imps players who are out of contract this summer. If you can sign them that’s a double whammy – we get stronger, they get weaker. What japes! This page,” I said, “is a potential line-up if you get everyone from the first list. 4-4-2, but we have to see which manager we can get.”

Mateo was pretty stunned by the amount of work I’d done. “Is there no-one local?”

“No. We’ll have to import. And a good DM if the manager wants to do 4-1-4-1 or whatever because I didn’t see one.”

“This says Glenn Ryder.”

“Yeah. I think he’d love it. The captain of the team and our defensive rock.”

“Welcome to the Rock,” mumbled Emma.

“He’s not technical but he knows how to work with players who are. Knows his role in the build-up and he’ll be that warrior who leads the others through the, like, sieges or whatever. Now that I know the levels, we can look at free agents from the English leagues. I’ve got some ideas about guys who are talented enough but you’ll have to do background checks on them and all that. And, er, it’ll be easier to negotiate once you’ve actually bought a club.”

“Yes, that might help,” he said, smiling. “College 1975 is going to be the easiest, cheapest, quickest deal. Are you sure we can turn them around?”

I smiled, but didn’t say anything.

“I’d better get busy if we’re going to do all these deals before next season starts. And I should take that guy from the FA out to dinner and wine and dine him.”

“He’s just a minion,” I said. I reached out and grabbed my new business partner with both hands. I leaned forward and croaked, “Get me the president!”

He laughed and did a lop-sided grin. “Emma, am I making a mistake?”

“Check the league table, Matty.”

“Ouch. That was a good point. Hit me right in the wallet.”

Emma rubbed her hand through my hair. “Babes, are we done?”

“Yeah. Check complete, good process.”

“Do you need to stay for the second half?”

“No, we can leave early if you want.”

“I want to go up the mountain and watch the sunset.”

I nodded, thoughtfully. “If we hurry, maybe we can buy some green flares.”

“It’s too hot for long trousers.”

“That’s not – ” I stopped. She was deadpan, but I knew she was absolutely rinsing me. I got up and was about to say goodbye to Mateo when I sat down again. “Mateo, I’m not sure that I ever properly thanked you for your generosity in Tenerife. I was low and you helped me so much. I’m happy to be doing this with you.”

He smiled. “If you want to thank me properly, let Tranmere beat Chester next season.”

“Sorry, I have to wreck you, twice. But don’t worry, it won’t be a regular thing. We’re going straight through to League One.”

“We’ll wipe that smile off your face at Prenton Park.”

I smiled wider. “This smile isn’t going anywhere.”

“Except up the mountain,” said Emma.

“Bye.”

“Bye, Max.”

***

The next morning, our last in Gib, was spent packing and triple-checking the room for anything we might have left. The flight was at 11 but the airport was right there so there was no point going two hours early like I normally did.

Luisa was on reception as we were checking out. “Did you enjoy your stay?”

“Yep. It was sound. The place is mustard. Mustard on toast.”

“I told my boyfriend about the movie you mentioned and he rented it. He loved it.”

I beamed. “It’s good, isn’t it? It’s fun! Your boyfriend is a prince among men. Wait, did you like it?”

“I couldn’t watch past the scene you described. Too intense for me. The needle in the heart? No thanks.”

I nodded. “I get you. But that scene isn’t just dramatic, it’s thematic. The character is afraid of something touching his heart; he’s afraid of getting hurt. That’s what the scene is about, right? His girlfriend proposes to him, he goes and saves the day, and at the end when the poison gets out he doesn’t hesitate – he grabs the needle and jabs it into his heart. Because now he’s got something to live for, right? He’s got his future wife, his future family, and that’s the journey he’s been on. Okay it’s not tender and it’s not romantic but compared to most action movies it’s like The Remains of the Day.”

Luisa hadn’t blinked for a while. She did so now. “I’ll try again.”

“Bosh!” I said, delighted.

“My boyfriend said Con Air is better.”

“Okay dump that guy. Wow.” I put my shades on and gave her one last, dazzling smile. “Mr. Weaver is disembarking the superyacht.”

“Goodbye Mr. and Mrs. Weaver.”

***

We had time for a final, quick tour of the Main Street. A quick taste of home before we went back home.

“Let me pop in here,” said Emma. “See if there’s anything my mum might like.”

I followed in on auto-pilot, thinking variously about Nicholas Cage, a mountain with loads of tunnels inside, a colony of very cheeky monkeys, a very sexy league table, and the millions and millions of pounds I would soon be trousering. Life was, in absolutely every way, perfection.

“May I help you, sir?”

It was a guy in a nice shirt and waistcoat. “Nah, thanks. I’m just browsing. Daydreaming.”

“The engagement rings are in this section,” he said, and I found myself taking a step to the right like I was about to take a free kick.

That’s when the panic set in. Engagement rings? I realised we were in a jewellers. Sparkly diamonds blinded me from their glass display cabinet below, while the whites of Emma’s eyes were like those gigawatt-strength LED headlights that idiots are so fond of. She said, “Buying a rock on the Rock?”

I was a rabbit in the headlights. My mouth was dry and I felt my cheeks burning. I was between the rock and a hard case. How much were these things? There were no prices. If you have to ask, you can’t afford it.

Emma lifted her hand and for a dreadful moment I thought she was going to show me what ring size she was. Instead, she showed me some little dangly earrings. “Think my mum will like these?”

The relief was absurd. “Yes,” I croaked. I fumbled in my pocket like my phone was vibrating, and mumbled something about waiting outside.

Emma came out a few minutes later and we wheeled our little suitcases down the road. I glanced at her – she knew exactly what had just happened and was being sweet about it. Not mentioning it, not putting pressure on me.

I stopped and exhaled.

“Bebs. I…” I licked my lips and tried to psyche myself up. I was the player-manager of the best pound-for-pound team in England. I was a top international b-boy and regularly slept on superyachts. There was nothing I needed to fear, except cable cars and glass-bottomed viewing platforms. And jellyfish. “I have injected you into my heart. You are my rock. You are my minecart chase scene and my gun battles and the eight times I dive into sewer water to escape an explosion.” I shook my head, annoyed that I was spouting such absolute garbage. “What I’m trying to say is that you are the only woman in this movie. I, er… At the end of The Rock they get married. That’s what I want, but I am poor. I am still just a gobby Manc twat. I can’t go round buying rings; I need to keep fifty grand in the bank in case I need it for my mum. I want to wait until I’ve made my first million, then we’ll get engaged and I’ll buy you a rock so big you could fire it at the Oakland Raiders stadium but it wouldn’t cause any casualties because there isn’t a team there any more.”

Through my speech, Emma had remained mostly impassive, causing me to get more and more desperate. She looked me up and down. “How long’s it going to take to make a million pounds?”

“I mean, two years, tops.”

She broke into a grin. “You’re delulu.”

“No, really, listen – “

“Babes,” she said, coming close to me. “I was joking about buying a ring. I thought you’d laugh because you’ve been blabbing about that stupid movie for four days. I didn’t realise you were going to have a meltdown. I’m sorry, okay? Rings, rocks, rollers, fancy towels, who cares? I’ve got you. Come on.”

We walked in a dreamy silence for fifty yards until Emma stopped and turned to me, all dramatic. She was having a Eureka moment.

“Babes,” she said. “You know the way you can’t pronounce Gibraltarian so you say anything else? And you know the way you keep talking shit about injecting things into hearts and telling me I am your minecart?”

“Yes?”

Her face lit up like a sunflower at high noon. “I know you’ll be a big success out here!”

“What? Why?”

She jabbed me in the chest. “Because you talk gibberish!”

What a line. I couldn’t believe it; she was perfection. “Let’s go choose a ring,” I said, and I meant it.

She pulled me close. “Later, babes. Holiday’s over. Next stop, Aldershot.”

We kissed and walked on. When we got to the runway that we had to cross to get to the terminal, I stopped. Emma copied me. “Dude,” I said, looking around.

“What?”

“Dude!” I looked around some more. The Victoria Stadium was where it was supposed to be. So was the Rock. My dream woman was beside me. There was only one thing missing. “Dude! Where’s my plane?”