4.

The following text was posted in the 'short story' section of the website for Gibraltar Lions, the club owned by Aurélie Fragonard, a few days after the events it discusses. It was not promoted on social media, and no links to the post were created on the home page or anywhere else.

***

My favourite movie is My Best Friend's Wedding. I haven't seen it, which is apt, because I shall not be going to my best friend's wedding.

***

My name is Henri Toussaint Voltaire Mathurin Lyons. My life story is simple. I was born, and then I lived. The end is not written, unless you believe in fate. Me? I believe in Serendip, if not serendipity.

***

The previous section breaks one of Kurt Vonnegut's rules, the one that implores the writer to give the reader someone to root for. I have repulsed you with my complicated joke and the fact that my name is better than yours. I asked an important question and left it unanswered. You do not root for me. You think I am a pig.

Oink.

***

You must not root for the antagonist, either. I will simply stop writing if you do. His name is Max and he accused me of being unable to communicate in a manner comprehensible to the common man.

What effrontery!

My clarity is as unto the water in a lake in a cave in an untouched jungle.

I can be pithy. I pithy the fool who says I am not comprehensible.

I can write short, sharp sentences like Hemingway: Max got fewer slaps than he deserved.

I can lift my voice in song. Just listen to this: The hills are alive with the sound of music!

Ah! I feel you are starting to root for me. What was it? My singing voice?

Hanya Yanagihara wrote that friendship is watching another's slow drip of miseries, bouts of boredom, fleeting triumphs, and being present for their most dismal moments.

Max can't be my friend, for he has not been present at my most dismal moments. He was not there when a young goalkeeper let slip that a date had been set for Max's wedding. He was not there when I heard that Max was 'considering his options' for who should be his best man. Best man, remember, means best friend. Who was Max considering for the role of best friend? An actor. An actor with a French name, fluffy hair, and killer cheekbones.

I am an actor with a French name, fluffy hair, and killer cheekbones.

If I am not to be the best man, the best friend, I will be the best enemy.

***

It is Thursday, the 15th of July, in the Year of Our Lord 2027.

We are a football team, a group of strangers bonded by the shirt and the name College 1975. We are competing for the right to play in the Champions League. Perhaps you have heard of it? We have cleared the first hurdle, beating the champions of Armenia both home and away. We have shown that we can play with spirit and togetherness.

Together, we file into our meeting room, our spirits high.

The meeting is to discuss the next obstacle. We will play Saltney Town over two legs, and I will come face-to-face with a person who has spent the past two weeks trying his hardest to ruffle my feathers. When he accused me of not working hard for the team, when he belittled our achievement, he succeeded.

Since receiving his latest message, I have been stewing in a jus of my rawest emotions. I will bring myself to the boil at 7:45 on Tuesday night, but for now I am still in my packaging, in the fridge. Cool next to the cucumbers.

Our head coach is Alby McHugh, who is only 30 years old. He is the real-life embodiment of the phrase, 'it doesn't jump off the page.' He has a youthful, soft face, a nice smile, and is very calm. Too calm. Too young. Too wishy-washy. Too milquetoast.

On day one of camp, I saw my fellow professionals giving each other the same looks. This guy? Really? No. Not this guy.

The second day of training did nothing to change hearts or minds. Nor did the third.

McHugh did himself no favours on the fourth day when he announced the team for the first leg. It seemed correct. It seemed right. Perhaps we had misjudged our new manager?

"So that's the starting eleven," he said, in a soft voice that retained much of his Liverpool accent. "And Max has told me how to use the subs, too."

If he thought to impress us by letting us know how closely he was following orders, he was mistaken.

But then came the match. 4,400 kilometres from home, an energy-sapping flight, pushing through time zones like holding an umbrella into the wind. We struggled to match the home team's intensity so McHugh threw his orders out of the window and had us defend in a low block while we grew into the game. Little by little, he coaxed us back into our intended shape, made small but useful changes, and while he erred on the cautious side, in knock-out football that is no bad thing.

At half time, his calmness was welcomed and his tactical insight impressed us. This was a man who saw uncommonly much of the action. This was a man who understood the game better than most. Hardened pros sat up straighter, and listened.

In the second half, McHugh's substitutions were positive and well-timed. At full time, with the win secured, he broke out the beers and said we had earned a fucking pint. Even the Germans partook.

McHugh took everyone aside and gave quiet feedback. "Captain," he said to me, "do that again and we'll win again. That was sound, lad."

The second leg was easier. More of the same from us, but this time it was the Armenians who were tired. It was they who didn't have the legs or the nous to break down our structures.

His overall record as a manager is abysmal, but someone has seen something in him, and we are starting to see it too; McHugh will do.

"Okay, lads," he says, back in the present moment. "Great job on Tuesday night. Up next it's the champions of Wales. Saltney Town. Never heard of 'em."

Most of the guys laugh. The leader of the opposition has hand-picked the entire College squad, including McHugh.

"So far Max has had them doing 4-3-3 and 4-4-2. He gave me a detailed tactical plan on how to deal with Noah but for some reason, he hasn't done the same this time round." More laughs. "You know him better than me. Which formation is he more likely to go with?"

Andrew Harrison says, "4-3-3."

McHugh says, "Even though the first leg is away?"

Andrew is confident. "At Chester we don't care much about home or away. At the Deva, teams sit deep against us but when we go away, in front of the other lot's fans, they have to come at us more and we get more space. But anyway, in this fixture neither club has any fans so it won't come into his thinking at all. He's got a flat in our stadium so he'll be thinking it's more his home than ours."

More laughter. The laughter is grating on my very soul. Don't they realise what is happening? We are sacrificial lambs bleating our way towards the altar. We are being nudged into position so that others may climb on our back.

Fitzroy Hall, another Chester player on loan to College, pipes up. "He only did 4-4-2 in the second leg to throw on his old mates and to use his full squad. What he did in the first leg shows what he thinks his best line-up is. I reckon he'll do that. In a way, though, it doesn't matter because there's so much flex in his squad. Max can play anywhere and so can Magnus Evergreen. Wibbers has played six positions. Okay but if you want to know how I think they will start, 4-3-3 is the most likely. He's absolutely raving about his full-backs. He won't want to put anyone in front of them. He'll just let them run riot up and down the wings. Don't you think, Henri?"

While McHugh moves magnets around the tactics board, I count to five. There is a lid on my rage. I am in the fridge.

I stare at the magnets. They are wrong. They are wrong! But if they are wrong, what is right?

I gasp.

Marauding full backs. The composition of Saltney's squad. The arrogance of the leader of the opposition.

I see the light.

I rise.

***

As a child I wanted to be a detective, a warrior, an actor, a poet, a footballer.

I turn first to McHugh. By rank, at least, he is our leader. I am a team player and this is no mutiny. "May I speak?"

"Course."

I begin to pace around. Vonnegut's rules of writing, number 8. Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as possible. To hell with suspense. "We are a Frankenstein's monster of a team," I say. Normally, the big reveal of a detective story comes at the end, but I have never been one to stick blindly to tradition. Why not solve the mystery on page one instead of waiting? "We have two players on loan from Chester. Three from Bayern Munich. Four so-called League Two Legends, plus the most promising men from the Gibraltarian national team. It is an unholy assemblage of parts indeed."

"Charming," says Andrew.

"But think about it!" I demand. "Li Anjie is the twinkling toes. Jaylyn is the legs. Tyler is the hips. Snakey is the hands, Andrew is the lungs, Till is the forehead, and I, naturally, am the heart and the brain. And the loins."

"What the fuck," says Ethan, our reserve left-back.

"But Saltney, too, are a collection of parts that are intended to fit one way and one way only. Fitzroy," I say, slowly, "has solved the case. The leader of the opposition - "

Lee Hudson says, "Are you seriously refusing to speak Max's name for the next two weeks?"

"Yes."

"Can you tighten it up? It's too long."

I frown. "By all means. Communication is abbreviation. I shall name him LOTO."

"How about LOTOPP?" says McHugh.

I don't like being edited, but I can't deny his version is easier on the ear. "In his brief career, LOTOPP has been able to call on good full backs, but he is enchanted by Danny Prince and Cheb Alloula. He will use a narrow formation and allow them to run free. Ah, but not 4-3-3, no."

"No?" says Andrew.

I rush to the tactics board and move the pieces around. I step back in triumph! "4-2-3-1!"

"You think he'll play DM alongside Vincent Addo?"

"No. He will play as a centre back and move Magnus Evergreen to DM."

Andrew tries to hide his scepticism under a polite mask. "I mean, it's possible."

"No!" I said, excited. "It is certain. He told me! He's so arrogant he actually told me his intention but I was too angry to take it in. It's here in this text message!" I swipe through my recent chat history with LOTOPP, and get more and more aggravated the more I am reminded of his boorish behaviour. "Here. Let me read it out loud. This is from after the first leg. In the preamble, he accuses me of not being excited enough, as though one can detect another's emotional state through text. Then the meat. Quote, you know what this means, right? We're one good result away from setting up the Match of the Century. End quote. Some gibberish follows, then he predicts the newspaper headlines that will follow our encounter. All very childish. And then this. Quote. I'm thinking of playing centre back. Do you know any shops that sell big pockets? Brackets, I'm going to put you in my pocket, close brackets, end quote."

I look up, triumphant, but almost everyone else is sniggering. Jesse Picardo, a talented local striker, moves his hand away from his mouth and says, "Henri, that's not exactly definitive."

"It is! I assure you it is. He will play centre back and he will mark me and he will spend the entire match taunting me. This I guarantee."

Lee Hudson shakes his head. "I don't see it. 4-2-3-1? They don't have three central attacking midfielders, unless you think he's going to use that 15-year-old against us. We're not that bad, are we?"

"No," I say. "We are very good. My girlfriend, who I will ask to marry me whenever I please, has overheard conversations in which an unguarded LOTOPP said the teams are very similar in quality. Very similar. No, he will not use the Welsh boy, nor will we see Aff or Sam Topps."

I stare at the three magnets that sit just behind the striker, and experience a moment of doubt. I was so certain, but that moment is receding into the rear-view mirror...

Another flash of inspiration! "He does not need much creativity from the middle! The full backs will provide more than half their attacking thrust, and Wibbers will be one of the CAMs. Probably Tom Westwood will be another, just for the nuisance factor. The third will be either the new Welsh player or Omari Naysmith. Very possibly it will be Toquinho, the Brazilian winger. He is tidy on the ball and will keep it moving. But the other two will simply be cover for Wibbers. He's the danger."

I slide the three key magnets around. The left back, the right back, and the central of the central attacking midfielders.

"Yes. This is correct." I turn my focus to what we professionals call the rest defence, the players who do not rush forward when their team is attacking. "The full backs will be able to attack non-stop since Saltney will always have four covering: the two centre backs and the two DMs. And none of us in this room can outpace LOTOPP, so they will probably play a high line and force us to pass through them." I push the magnets high, leaving a massive gap between the defenders and the goalkeeper. A massive, enticing gap that we lack the ability to cross. "It's not a gap, it's an abyss." I see a vision of my future in which I am repeatedly losing out in sprints against LOTOPP, in which he doesn't even contest headers against me because what would be the difference if I won? "My God. He means to torment me."

McHugh smiles and puts his hands on my arm and back, gently pushing me towards my seat. "Let's not throw in the towel just yet, eh? As it happens, Max told me a lot about how this squad, our squad, was assembled, and we have multiple players he wanted to bring to Saltney. We have multiple players who were his first choice. He promised to work hard to give me a starting eleven who could go deep in the qualifiers and from what I saw in the matches against Noah, that's exactly what he did." I agree with that analysis so passionately I flop to the chair, but my eyes are blazing. McHugh says, "We can win a one-off game against anyone in the draw. Anyone! Saltney Town included." He closes his eyes and chuckles, a soft, soothing sound. "Listen to us blaring on about the new bogeyman! Saltney Town? Are you kidding me?" He chuckles some more. "Course they've got good players, but so 'ave we. Watch this." He plucks a green magnet from his stock and points it at one of our players.

***

Li Anjie is from Singapore but his registration is held by Bayern Munich. Why have the German giants agreed to send five of their players on loan to LOTOPP's projects? To help them develop as players. They will get up to eight matches in the qualifiers, fitness, new experiences, and they will remain free to play in any European competition for any other clubs. The fact that Bayern's fringe players were so keen to do it spoke volumes about how they viewed the opportunity.

My new best friend Till Rehder informed me that in Munich, Anjie rarely spoke. They had been waiting for him to come out of his shell but when he had, it had simply been to show off a new shell he had been growing.

One can speak without using one's mouth. Anjie let his feet do the talking. He had wowed against Noah - in both legs. Twinkletoes, the English players had called him.

A blade by any other name would cut as deep.

***

McHugh holds the magnet up as if imbuing it with all the verve and menace of our star player. "Anjie," he says, before placing it on what would be our left wing. "If you're there, Cheb Alloula ain't bombing forward the whole match, not without leaving a massive fucking abyss behind him. That's one problem solved. Right? These guys are gonna duel it out for the whole 90."

He picks up another magnet and because Andrew Harrison is near him, he places it on Andrew's forehead, where his third eye would go if he were in any way spiritual. He's not; he's from Bolton. "Hommmmm," says Andrew, which is funny.

McHugh laughs along with everyone else, and places the magnet on the right of our formation. "Andrew versus Danny Prince. No offence, Andrew, but that's like sacrificing a bishop to take a rook."

"None taken," says Andrew. "I don't play snooker."

He gets more laughs! He's on fire!

Despite my mood, I laugh, too, but then suddenly I shoot to my feet, arm outstretched, pointing at the tactics board. "But that's perfect! We have a chance!"

McHugh looks down at the carpeted floor, rubs his chin in a rueful way, and his face softens as he looks at me. "I suppose I'll take the compliment, lad, but I'm not here on work experience. I have a couple of decent ideas, from time to time."

I feel awful, so I stride over and hug him. "I will follow you, McHugh."

"McHugh," he says, which is a strange tic he has where he repeats his name just after I have said it.

I smile at him, at the room, at the world, and pick up another magnet. I place it against my lips before using it to knock out one of Saltney's central defenders. "The leader of the opposition must be opposed." I crick my neck left and right. "Leave him to me."

***

We train in a 4-4-2 shape. I lead the line along with Till Rehder. He is more physically imposing than me, and better in the air, but I have better movement and finishing. He jokes that together we would be the best striker in the world. I do not laugh for the simple reason that it is true.

Andrew and Anjie will be our wide players, and much will depend on their impact.

Our defence is solid. Jaylyn Cook is a very good left back. Lee Hudson is doughty on the right. Both can play centrally, too, if we wish to change our structure. Fitzroy Hall is Championship quality, and he is a stylistic fit with Dan Del Rio, a local centre back. Dan appears to have the basic skills but not the experience of high-level competition. He might be the best centre back in Gibraltar, but that is not necessarily enough. Still, in the first two matches he stuck to his duties well.

Our goalkeeper is probably better than Saltney's. Peter 'Snakey' Schnakenberg is tall, a good shot-stopper, but is capable with his feet, too. We practise moves where he kicks it hard and straight towards Till, who flicks the ball on for me to chase. It's very effective... against mannequins.

Observant readers will notice that I skipped an entire portion of the pitch - the centre of midfield. Saving the decisive area for last?

Our CM duo will be Tyler Jansen, my fellow League Two Legend, and Bobby Pons, one of the most talented local players. Pons was poached from the Lincoln Red Imps, formerly the best team in Gibraltar, in a transfer that rocked the football world around these parts. Talk about a statement of intent! Neymar to Paris, Isak to Liverpool, Pons to College. He is normally a right-sided midfielder, but he is technical and can follow instructions. If I am right about their intended formation, Saltney will not have any player stationed in the central zone, and Pons will have enough time to control the ball and move it on before he is challenged. All he has to do on the defensive side is stand in front of the centre backs and be an extra body.

The more we train, the more my spirits rise. If half of us win our duels, we can compete. If Anjie wins his duels, we can threaten! If I win my duels, we can win!

***

Winning comes with perks.

Fame, pride, self-actualisation, a chance to continue testing ourselves against the best in our profession.

Money.

Vonnegut's rules of short story writing, number 3. Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water. I want to beat LOTOPP, but we all want money.

As a squad, we will receive 10% of the club's prize money as it stands at the end of the playoff round, which will be distributed according to a complicated but fair formula that favours those who play without ignoring those who don't.

The total prize for progressing into the Europa League will be just under 5 million pounds. That means half a million to be shared out, with the majority going to the 15 players who are expected to play the majority of our minutes. Do not shed tears for those who barely appear in the qualifiers - if College make it to the league stage, most of the key players will have returned to their normal clubs, leaving the poor backups the chance to scoop up some of UEFA's riches.

Suffice to say, progression through to the Europa League is worth around 30,000 pounds per senior player. Not much for the world's superstars, but a tangible incentive for the players at College 1975.

Making it to the Champions League? Call it 120 grand each.

As Lee Hudson says, "Think how many self-portraits you could buy with that, Henri."

***

On the weekend, the squad of College and another local club, Bruno's Magpies, get together for a special training session. Watching closely is Mateo, the owner of College, and Sebastian Weaver, the co-owner of the Magpies. For the briefest moment in time, I wonder if they would feed information to LOTOPP, but it's a foolish notion. They are incentivised to want the teams from Gibraltar to win. Indeed, when it comes to the European competitions, we're all supporting each other, which is why the captain of the Magpies turns up and offers to help with our defensive shape. Glenn Ryder led his team to a 0-0 draw in their second leg to progress in their competition. He knows a thing or two about this sport, and about our opponent.

We tell the owners that we want to train against the other team in preparation for our upcoming games. They could not be more enthusiastic. "Yes! Amazing! That sounds like something he would do!"

The Magpies line up in a 4-2-3-1 formation and we practise against them. They give us feedback, and their feedback is interesting. McHugh absorbs it, makes changes, and we go again.

In order to test one of our plans, we ask Wes Hayward, a lightning-fast winger, to play as a central defender for five minutes. Snakey hits long passes to Till, who flicks the ball into my path. I sprint, but Hayward beats me to the ball every single time.

After the fifth failed sprint, I lie flat on my back like an upturned turtle. I beg the sun to burn me to a crisp. Out, out, brief candle, my race is run.

My old friend Glenn Ryder picks me up. "Max is fantastic," he says. "But he loses concentration. That's why he doesn't normally play in defence, remember! He doesn't trust himself, and no-one's a better judge of a player than him. If you're right about him playing in defence, keep plugging away and you'll get your chance. You'll get your chance, mate, that's a fact. And hey." He gives me an intense look and I remember why he was Chester's captain for so long. His next words are some of the most motivational I've ever heard. "Everybody slips."

***

Rule 5. Start as close to the end as possible.

I choose not to.

But in conjunction with Rule 1: don't waste a stranger's time...

We move on.

***

The new stadium in Gibraltar is beautiful.

Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

No, really.

It is a thing of beauty.

To one side is the runway for the airport. You cannot build a tall building there. In all seriousness, you shouldn't build any buildings there, but the place is so tiny that every inch must be used. So on the runway side you start low and you curve your stadium up, and you do it so tastefully it appears to be not a product of restriction but an homage to your geography, since the eye is drawn to the mountain that makes the place famous.

The stadium's capacity is 8,000, and tonight, on the 20th of July, it appears to be one-third full. That is impressive, even if many of those in attendance are footballers and coaches hoping to learn from LOTOPP.

Ha.

They will learn from me.

***

We line up for the pomp and ceremony and as always the authorities don't realise or don't care that one team is a player short. LOTOPP is in the dugout pretending to study graphs and charts.

The first I see of him up close is when the match is about to kick off. He is strolling towards his slot, jauntily swinging a parasol. The referee intervenes.

LOTOPP pretends to have forgotten he was carrying it.

My eyes narrow.

So it begins.

***

The match kicks off at high speed, a frenzy of activity.

I was right about the 4-2-3-1, which makes my spirits ascend to the heavens. Till Rehder, a man I greatly respect, sees what Saltney are doing and lets out a grunt. In German, he says, "Smashed it, mate."

I have rarely been happier.

The ball bounces around. Andrew Harrison collides with Danny Prince. Pons loses out to Davey Barnes. Vincent Addo rolls the ball to LOTOPP, who kicks it long, full of side spin, and watches it go out for a throw-in, twenty yards from our goal line.

Tom Westwood zooms to the spot where the ball crossed the line, making it clear that he will hunt down the ball when it is thrown back into play.

LOTOPP laughs and gives himself a high-five.

I am already struggling to contain my annoyance.

***

Till and I are playing against a Welsh defender called Henry Dunston and a Mancunian called LOTOPP.

Till is fairly quiet during matches, so most of the chat comes from the away team's centre back pairing. And most of the chat, predictably, comes from the one with the flappiest gob.

After about five minutes, when the match has settled into its rhythm, LOTOPP settles into his role, which is to wind me up.

"Dunners, did I tell you what my favourite film was?"

"Yes, twice."

"It's neither of those, really. I actually only really love French cinema, which means my favourite film is Amélie. You know, the French film."

"Right," says Dunston, who would like to focus on his job. Till Rehder is a handful. The ball is sent forward and Till wins the header.

I sprint, head down, propelling myself faster than I have ever moved before. Adrenaline is coursing through my veins! This is it! The moment we dreamed of.

When I look up, LOTOPP is four metres ahead of me. He feints to pass the ball back to Sticky, the goalkeeper, before turning to his right and clipping a pass left-footed to Danny Prince.

"Yeah, I love French cinema," says LOTOPP, as though nothing has happened. "All the French movies. Amélie. That's the best one but there are others. Amélie 2, maybe? Amélie 2: Arrondissement Zero. Wait, there was one about a guy in a wheelchair."

I will never forgive myself, but I find my lips are moving. "Intouchables," I say.

"No, silly, not The Untouchables. Kevin Costner isn't French! If he was he'd be called Kevin Cost. Is Kevin worth the Cost? Nah." He laughs hard. "Cost? Nah," he repeats.

I feel one of my eyelids start to twitch.

The match is already hard. Grown men fight for territory. Duels are won and lost and won again. Over there, a battle ends with a throw-in and a roar from Andrew Harrison. On the other side, a throw-in taken from the exact same position represents failure for Li Anjie. We are in the middle of a grind, a battle, we are a roaring fire covered - for now - with a blanket. There are moments where William Roberts appears ready to immolate us, but he can't find the spark. Insuperable defence is backed up by clean, crisp handling from Snakey. We are resolute, but we are being suffocated, pushed further back and back into our own half. A grim, cloying spectacle, an oppressive atmosphere, almost liquid tension.

"Hey Dunners," calls out LOTOPP. "See this guy? Yeah, the slow one. The one who's moving like he's the first player ever to retire in the middle of a match. I know why his ex-girlfriend broke up with him."

Despite himself, Dunston is interested. "Why was that?"

"Well, he's French, see, and he calls his little Monsieur his baguette."

"No," splutters Dunston.

"He does! And every morning he stands there and he goes, do you want some baguette? And long story short, she was putting on weight."

Dunston laughs as hard as I laughed at Starship Troopers as a child. "You're pulling my leg. It doesn't even make sense. Why would she put on weight if it's his - ?"

"Stop," I say.

LOTOPP smiles at me. "What? Did I cross the line? You'll let me know if I cross the line, won't you, mate? I wouldn't want to cross the line."

There's a pause as Li Anjie scoots past Cheb Alloula. He knows he doesn't have time to think twice so he plays it in my direction.

I'm away! I'm free!

I bear down on goal but see from Sticky's body language that the game has stopped. That's an old goalie's trick but if I shoot I might pick up a yellow card for timewasting. I glance behind me and see the rest of the players are motionless and the linesman has his flag up. In the split-second before Anjie passed the ball, as I rushed ahead, Saltney's defenders made the opposite move.

Without contraries, there is no progression, but in this particular case, I'm offside.

I trudge backwards. LOTOPP shakes his head, sadly. "You crossed the line." He can't keep that level of seriousness up, so he cracks into laughter. He turns to his new best friend. "Hey Dunners, I need a ham guy for my wedding. Do you know a ham guy?"

Both my eyes are twitching.

***

Vonnegut's sixth rule of writing a short story is to be a sadist. Make awful things happen to your characters.

Awful things are happening to me.

Saltney have been pushing closer and closer to the halfway line and are now stationed there. If we play a ball over the top of the defence, it either bounces all the way through to Sticky or is swallowed up by one of the three fast defenders. If we try to build slowly, passing the ball around methodically, we run into Vincent Addo or Magnus Evergreen. We are unable to poke a hole in Saltney's defensive shape.

What it all means is that I'm a passenger. My existence is futile. I do not create threat, I do not contribute, I do not even merit continued taunting. LOTOPP hurts me the most by forgetting I exist. I stink therefore I am left alone.

The captain's armband weighs heavy.

The other captain picks up a loose ball and wellies it downfield, again putting needless side spin on it. It goes out for a throw-in near the corner flag. Gabby stands near our goalkeeper. Wibbers picks up one defender. Tom Westwood is jogging around waiting to sprint at whoever this ball is thrown to.

We're locked in. We must dig our way out of our cell with tiny spoons, must distribute the soil all around the prison yard so the guards don't notice. We work diligently and well, but when we finally declare our freedom and enter Saltney's half, LOTOPP snatches the ball from us and sends it back whence it came.

The antagonist is delighted. "Haha, another failed pass from the boy Best! Suck on that, nerds. I'm back down to 5 out of 10, Dunners! I'm shit. Stick your Le Monde Team of the Week where the sun don't shine. I'm garbage, mate."

I open my mouth to clap back, as the common man puts it, but what can I say? He's right that his rugby-style 'touch kicks' will be recorded as mistakes in the football world's data models, but those kicks threaten to crush our spirit.

I am in Shawshank, but there will be no redemption.

***

What hope is there? Bob Hope or no hope, and Bob's not here.

The armband catches the light. It gleams.

I am the leader. I must show leadership.

I inform Till that he is doing great. I make eye contact with Anjie and slap my fist into my palm. I pump my fist at Andrew Harrison. They are exceeding expectations. They are giving us a platform from which we might compete.

I drop ten yards so that I can encourage more people, but the change in position achieves far more than that.

Vincent Addo and Magnus Evergreen aren't sure what to do with me. They become more conservative, don't make as many forward runs, cut off the support to their forward players. Saltney's engine splutters.

Then, from my new angle, I have an epiphany.

Andrew and Anjie are doing so well against Saltney's full backs that our own full backs are short on work. As it happens, both can play in the centre. So...

At the next stoppage, I rush to the touchline and babble at McHugh. He asks me to slow down.

"Three at the back!" I say. "Move Jaylyn and Lee inside. They're not doing much and it will free up a player. Send Dan to be a third striker."

"Dan Del Rio, a striker?"

"He only needs to win headers! We will have three against two up there. They will be forced to bring someone else back! If it looks good you can switch to Jesse Picardo in the second half, or try another midfielder. Three at the back, that's the key to the cell!"

McHugh thinks for a moment. "You've got brass balls, mate. Let's give it a whirl."

We make the changes, and all my senses are heightened as the action resumes. As a child, I always wanted to be an acrobat. Now I'm doing the high wire act. My concept is beautiful, elegant, but only if our wide players can continue to contain Saltney's.

Do I trust Anjie? I know that Cheb Alloula does.

Do I trust Andrew Harrison? I know he will never stop running.

No, the design is too perfect. It must work. It has to work.

This is going to work!

Hope dies last.

***

Snakey is about to pump the ball long. He has three targets now. Three big lumps to aim for.

He aims for Dan, perhaps because it's such a novelty.

I feel behind me, backing into LOTOPP the way I have been doing.

He isn't there.

Dan jumps for the header, and wins it.

I glance behind. LOTOPP is five yards further to the right than in the rest of the match.

He has lost concentration!

Everyone slips!

But he sprints, collects the ball, and turns to his left, demanding that the right back come short to offer him a pass.

The right back obeys.

The right back should be Cheb Alloula.

I see Vincent Addo there instead.

Time stops as I fall into a black hole. Why does seeing one young man instead of another prompt such dread?

I already know. My eyes have seen everything without processing it - until now.

Saltney have switched to 4-2-4. Vincent Addo is playing right back because Cheb Alloula has gone to right wing. Wibbers is left wing. Gabby and Tom are the strikers. Four forward players against our back three.

Anjie pushes towards Addo, doing his defensive duties, working hard for the team. Anjie is a brilliant player but he's not hot on tactics. He doesn't realise he's falling into the trap.

LOTOPP ignores Addo and fires the ball twenty metres to the feet of Magnus Evergreen. He in turn moves it wide to Cheb, who dribbles ahead, looks up, sees three teammates haring towards the six-yard box, crosses, and as Gabriel slaps the ball into the net, Cheb wheels around, celebrating with some men who are waving an Algerian flag in that section.

Snakey has both hands stretched out. What the hell just happened?

I just happened.

I just happened to get my pants pulled down in public.

McHugh changes our formation to how it was.

The horse has bolted.

As a child, I always wanted to be a vet.

***

How did that happen? More importantly, when did that happen?

We changed our formation. Saltney changed theirs. How can you respond to a change that hasn't even happened yet?

I feel a cold shiver as I realise my foe is not human.

***

In which manner is he presently mocking me?

He's staring ahead. Staring into the next round, wondering which club Saltney will play. He has a financial interest in College progressing through the Europa League qualifiers. My intervention, my ham-fisted attempt at playing chess on a football pitch, must be giving him pause.

I open one door for him, but close another.

He glances towards the dugouts. McHugh! He will blame McHugh for my mistake!

I do not wish to speak to him, but I must.

"That was my idea," I say, standing in front of the he-demon.

"I know. It was mint. Are we talking now?"

We are not. I swap places with Till.

Saltney's centre backs swap places. We must face our demons.

***

The next time the ball comes in my direction, I don't just back into my marker, but also give him a jab in the ribs with my elbow.

He grunts in pain.

He's human after all.

The referee awards a free kick and warns me about my future conduct.

I reply, "Vonnegut wants him to suffer."

"Ref!" calls out a voice. The ref looks down, where LOTOPP is being examined by a physio. "Ref, check his palms."

"Pardon me?"

"Check his palms! He's got poems written."

I erupt. "I do not!"

The referee looks from one of us to the other, wearily. He is free to leave the scene. I am not.

***

I spend the rest of the half getting close enough to grapple, to wrestle, to let him know he has been in a contest.

We win a corner, and despite what the new guidelines say about not holding onto opponents, everyone knows you can get away with murder.

Li Anjie goes to take it. I try to get close to my target in order to wrap him up and put him in my pocket, but he hides behind Till, cackling like a child as he pokes his head out to the left, to the right. As Anjie hits the cross, LOTOPP grabs hold of Till, locking him in place. The ref blows his whistle.

Penalty!

No. He has given a free kick against me.

When I peel my hands off LOTOPP, he pinches his shirt and pulls it away from his skin. Dusting himself down. He says, "Unlucky."

***

He beats me to a header.

"Unlucky."

I try to intercept a pass of his.

"Unlucky."

Any second now, I'm going to snap.

And I'm going to snap him.

***

He makes it to half-time in one piece, but he has not finished provoking me.

As we head down the tunnel, we pass a young boy dressed as a Victorian newspaper seller. "Extra! Extra!" cries the boy, as he waves a rolled-up newspaper over his head. "Read all about it! French striker goes missing in the biggest game of his life! Extra!"

I glare at the child and look to his sandwich board. The headline scrawled there reads: Max Tames the Lyons.

***

I collapse onto the dressing room bench, breathing hard, sweating furiously, ashamed, embarrassed, feeling dismal.

McHugh comes in. "Well played, lads. Great half, that. Fucking work rate or what?"

I don't have the energy to stand. "I resign!"

"What's that?"

"I must stand down. For the good of the team, you must replace me."

"Are you injured?"

"Only my pride."

Andrew Harrison frowns. "What are you talking about? You're doing great. We know he's pecking your head and how you haven't ripped it off yet I don't know."

Fitzroy agrees. "And you're keeping him back in their half. That's a win as far as I'm concerned. Keep him far away from me and that's job done."

I let my forehead drop into my hand. "How long must I suffer?"

Till says, "45 minutes. The same as we all."

My gaze sweeps the room. The defenders are frazzled from the concentration, the constant probing of Wibbers, the demented pressing of Tom Westwood. The midfielders have a similar story. We have young players and inexperienced players. They need a leader.

Fortunately, we have one in the dressing room.

Glenn Ryder, who was my captain at Chester and at College, is now the captain of Bruno's Magpies. He has been watching and listening. "Can I say something?"

"Sure," says McHugh.

"I'm really enjoying this game. There are battles everywhere you look and it's tight and the stakes are high and I'm into it. I'd say you're doing well but there's one thing I don't think's helping you. You're going on about Max being the opposition but he's not. He's the government."

Jaylyn grabs his junk. "Max might be the government but I'm a hung parliament. You get me?"

Glenn's eyes pop, but he laughs. "I don't want to hear about your lower chamber."

Li Anjie plays in front of Jaylyn and has gotten to know him a little. It's still astonishing that the diminutive winger dares to say, "Jay, I didn't know you were bicameral."

Jaylyn snorts. "I'm just saying that I represent my proportions."

Lee Hudson says, "When's the next general erection?"

McHugh has been happy to let the banter continue but he draws the line there. "Okay, dat's enough of dat." To Glenn he says, "How is Max the government?"

Glenn says, "He's got the ministers, the dossiers. He sets the taxes." He holds up a copy of the fake newspaper and I see that it is called Le Mon Dieu. "He controls the media. Not being funny but the only thing you did wrong in that half was try to set the agenda and you can't do that with him. Not here, anyway. He knows every player inside out. I'm not saying it was wrong to try but it did play into his hands, didn't it? You've got to think like he's in charge."

McHugh says, "So what do we do?"

"Oh, I don't know. That's not my thing, really. All I know is what I heard before kick off and what I saw and it didn't match up. I think you have to know what you are and what you're not before you can be a success. I liked it when you were scrapping and fighting. You nearly broke out a couple of times. Max was mopping up but you can only mop up after a spillage. Don't say anything, Jaylyn." The two men laugh. Glenn continues. "It's only one-nil, right? Yeah, they look dangerous and they're on top, more or less, but you're not making it easy and while there's only one goal in it, anything can happen. Just keep fighting, I reckon."

"Resist!" I say, shooting to my feet. "Civil disobedience! General strikes!"

"You what?" says Andrew.

"We win our duels, my friend. We scrap. We fight. We make it a game of inches."

"That's what we've been doing, isn't it?"

"Yes, but let's make a virtue of it. Every tackle is an act of resistance! Every blocked shot a banner. If we scrap, if we fight, if we oppose them every step of the way, they will overreach. You know how impatient they are. If we can make them go five minutes without putting together a pretty passing move, it is their eyes that will twitch!"

"Um..." says Tyler.

"We must oppose our own instincts. We are young and we are beautiful but we must play ugly. This government's PM is in opposition with himself!"

McHugh holds up his fist. "Vive la révolution!"

***

We start the second half and that feeling of suffocation returns. We are in a vice and the PM is cranking the handle. It's alarming how quickly Saltney take control of the territory.

Li Anjie dances past Cheb and plays the ball to my feet. I shift left then spin right. The PM can read my mind - he's blocking the path. No matter. I turn left again and play the ball towards the far corner flag.

Danny Prince sprints after it.

So does Andrew Harrison.

Prince is faster, gets there first, but Andrew gets there second, tackles, clatters both ball and opponent over the line.

We rush to the area to stop Saltney from taking a quick throw-in. Prince hurls the ball along the sideline. Lee Hudson wins the header. Prince has another chance to throw it. He doesn't like his options so he tries to send it infield to Barnes. My fellow Legend Tyler Jansen snaps at the Welshman's heels and comes away with the ball. Barnes tries to recover but fouls Jansen.

I cry out in triumph.

It's a small win, but it's a win.

We start winning.

***

One of our moves breaks down and we sprint back into position. I drop deep to affect the game, which puts me in contact with Magnus Evergreen. Many a time he has treated my injuries, nursed me, motivated me to push through pain on my road to recovery.

He's a wonderful person.

I dump him on his arse.

***

Vincent Addo is a young player with great potential. He is a young man finding his way in the world, learning the game, trying to be brave even though he is far from home. He misses his mother's cooking. He finds comfort in familiar texts, songs, even in the rituals of the Sunday morning church service that used to drive him mad.

He's a great kid.

I dump him on his arse.

***

How is the PM reacting to this attack on his sovereignty?

He is amused.

***

McHugh makes the first change of the match. Bobby Pons is replaced by another local player, Jamie Lopez. Jamie is a more natural central midfielder. I get excited.

Half a minute later, the PM removes Tom Westwood and sends on Carl Carlile in his place. That's even more exciting! Anjie against Carl!

The PM slides himself over to the right to give more backup to Carlile, but the overall defence is much weaker! And he has lost the frantic, disruptive running of Westwood.

Ah, but what did he gain? Cheb Alloula is no longer worrying about his defensive duties, and has slotted himself next to Wibbers.

What if you were sweating, but it was cold?

***

As the game enters its final phase, time speeds up.

There is more action, almost all of it in our defensive third. The chances are starting to come with more regularity. Quarter chances become half chances. How much longer can we hold out?

We replace Dan Del Rio with a left back, Ethan de Castille, and move Jaylyn into the centre.

The PM reshuffles his cabinet, replacing Davey Barnes with Aff, the Irish left-winger. Aff has played in a 4-2-3-1 before, but he's not a natural fit.

I look around. Carl Carlile. Aff. Vincent Addo.

We can do this!

***

I run faster, and harder. My mates sense what I sense, or they feel that I feel it's on.

Meanwhile, a few Saltney players lose a level. It's natural - they have had no pre-season. Wibbers miscontrols a pass. Cheb tries a shot from distance that has the PM screaming at him. Danny Prince, sick of being harried by Andrew, plays a safe pass inside instead of racing down the line.

Ten glorious minutes follow.

Andrew surprises Danny Prince with a surge down the right and sends in a cross that's perfect for Till.

Till leaps, the ball smacks the X on his forehead... and it crashes against the bar!

A minute later, Tyler and Lopez combine before sending the ball to Anjie. His first touch annihilates Carl Carlile. He drives towards Saltney's box. The PM is on him like a flash, and our winger seems to shrink. He does a frankly hopeless toe-poke that crashes into the PM's shins... and goes out for a corner!

For the first time in the match, even our shit moments are working in our favour.

Anjie takes the corner and there's the usual wrestling matches and tugs-of-war. Sticky punches clear and the PM shouts for everyone to get out. As one, Saltney's defenders stream away. We have to rush, too, or any pass or rebound that comes our way will be met with the offside flag. My legs tangle with Vincent Addo's and we both crash to the ground. An accidental collision - as far as the referee knows - but one that means we will all be onside if the ball comes back into the box.

The PM spots what I have done, assesses the risk, and calls for the defenders to drop back.

Ethan de Castille, our left back, who is in position to slap the ball back towards goal, now finds himself with enough time to get a clean strike.

He hits it to his left. It's going first past the post for sure, but Sticky dives just in case.

It hits the PM on his arse.

The ball deflects and travels in slow motion towards the bottom right of the goal. It crosses the line. It nestles into the back of the net.

We have scored. We are level!

The goal is the reward for brutally hard work, for pushing back against a fearsome and cruel opponent, for resisting with every fibre of our being. Now I know how it feels to topple a government. We are suffocated no more. We breathe the air of free men.

It is one of the most exhilarating moments of my life. My body quivers.

As I rush off to celebrate, my path takes me past the PM. I shout in his face. "Unlucky!"

As a child, I always wanted to be a diplomat.

***

The government restores order. That's what it does, until it doesn't.

They push us back and set up a border crossing on the halfway line. This time, incursions are met with even swifter responses, but otherwise the general patterns of play are similar.

Similar, but not the same. The passes go quicker. The interplay is slicker.

We are breathing hard. Panting. Out of gas.

McHugh subs me off, sends on Jesse Picardo. The PM instantly switches places with Carl Carlile, and puts Li Anjie in his pocket. It's like watching a child place a glass jar over an insect.

Wibbers takes over. He's all flicks and layoffs and angles and we're too tired to shut him down. He moves us around, exchanges passes with Cheb, and one mazy dribble draws our defenders to him. At the last second, the young Englishman sends it wide to Aff, who thunders after it like a herd of wild horses and thrashes the ball square.

Gabriel applies the finish.

The match ends 2-1.

***

The mood in training is strangely euphoric. We know we can score. We know what we need to work on.

We graft, we chatter, we plot, we scheme, we laugh in the shower.

We don't have barrels of explosives to take down the Houses of Parliament, but we do have blood, sweat, and tears. We can storm the Bastille.

On the 27th of July, we fly to Liverpool and drive down to North Wales for the second leg. The rematch.

There's only one goal in it.

Everyone slips.

***

Saltney line up in the same 4-2-3-1. We line up in the same 4-4-2.

The first half is incredibly intense. All of last week's duels are refought. This time, Danny Prince gets the better of Andrew Harrison and Cheb dominates Anjie, but Till Rehder has spent the week working out Henry Dunston's weaknesses. Till wins us free kicks in Saltney's half where we can regroup, reset, restructure.

As for the PM, he is quiet. He half-heartedly declares that French cheese is only the fifth best in Europe and wonders why our only contribution to civilisation is the guillotine, but mostly he is quiet. He runs, he passes, he does his job. I am struck by the fact that in the two legs, he has barely crossed the halfway line. He hasn't taken free kicks or corners.

I'm not complaining - we're one goal away from taking this into extra time.

Two late goals and we win!

I try not to think about it, try not to think about him, and focus on the spacing between me and my mates, on my first touch, and when the ball is under my spell I focus on playing the right pass. We get some momentum, but as we pour forward I realise it's a trap. I put my foot on the ball and push my palms towards the turf. Calm, guys. We have a long night ahead of us.

The PM smiles for the first time. He glances to his right, at Cheb, who smiles back and shrugs. What can you do?

I have foiled a plan, probably saved a goal. I'm even for the tie.

My chest swells.

***

It's half time in the second leg. The aggregate score is 2-1 to Saltney. If either team had fans, they would be biting their nails.

***

As I ingest energy gel, I think of the money. If we can turn it around in the second half, it could be worth a hundred thousand pounds per man.

It's motivational, but not really.

Why am I striving so hard? Why am I putting this much energy into this particular match?

Because I was not informed of the date of my best friend's wedding.

Because I was not asked to be his best man.

Because he made it into a joke.

I think back to the day we met. He was interesting. He talked about creating football, dared me to take part in something revolutionary. He was a guerrilla in those days, but now he is the government. He has too much power and he must be usurped.

***

We restart and once more, the break has broken the patterns, allowing new rhythms to emerge. Dunston wins his duels against Till, Harrison draws level with Prince, Li Anjie breaks clear of Cheb.

Once more, my coalition earn ourselves ten magical minutes. Sticky makes a good save from a Till Rehder snapshot. Dunston throws himself at a Tyler Jansen shot. But the PM raises his levels past anyone else in the stadium. He is fast, clean, decisive, and once he has snuffed out our attacks, he sends passes anywhere he chooses. We find ourselves on the back foot just as our moves are culminating. It is exhausting to be rebuffed, rejected, denied, again and again.

Time counts down. Half an hour to go. Twenty minutes to go. The game is being played in our half and our half only. Wibbers is frenetic in trying to grab a goal - he's two behind Gabby in the scoring charts. Our efforts to deny him are getting more frantic, more desperate, more last-ditch.

But just as all hope for us seems lost, the PM slips. Not literally, sadly, but he simply isn't cut out to defend for two complete matches. He loses concentration, gets caught up in Wibbers' attempts to score. The PM drifts forward, combines with his central attacking midfielders in scintillating style, and plays the ball behind Jaylyn for Cheb to run onto. If Cheb gets to that ball and hits a decent cross, we are done for.

Cheb gets to the ball, hits a decent cross... but Snakey rushes from his line to pluck it from the air. He throws it early to Till, who is stronger than Dunston. Till shapes to play it wide to Harrison, but checks onto his left foot and plays a surprise pass to Anjie.

His marker is nowhere near him and the PM is on a foreign trip!

We're streaming towards Saltney's goal, four against two. I'm pumping my legs, catching up to Till but not the Singaporean winger.

The PM is, though. He's terrifyingly fast, eyes blazing, steam coming out of his ears.

Anjie doesn't seem to realise he's about to be redacted, and I pray that he doesn't check onto his right foot to shoot.

He does just that, which gives the PM the time needed to slide in and block the shot. The PM continues to slide another five metres on the artificial turf, such was his speed. But the ball breaks to me! I don't have time to think, which is ideal, because in these moments, instinct brings clarity.

I'm outside the penalty area and I flick the ball to my right and run left. Till understands what I want. He shapes to shoot but scoops the ball up and over the defensive line so that I can strike it left-footed.

As a child, I always wanted to be a striker.

The ball drops. I form my body into the correct shape, and strike like a cobra.

I kick the PM hard in his nuts.

***

Later, when I see the replays, I realise that what seemed to be a thrilling, incredible opportunity to score was no such thing, certainly not after Anjie took a split-second too long to shoot. After making the initial block, the PM sprang to his feet, moved to my right towards Till, but as soon as the ball touched the German's foot, the PM was already moving to my left. He knew what we were going to do before we did.

He chested the ball away and was looking downfield for a passing option while I continued my striking motion.

I maintain that it would have been a goal, had I kicked the right ball.

***

Peeeeeep!

The referee sprints towards the scene of the incident. The PM is doubled up, his eyes bulging. I have toppled the government.

The ref is going to send me off. The delay is him remembering into which pocket he has placed the red card. The back? I moved it to the breast, didn't I?

"Ref," croaks the PM.

The ref postpones the card to check on the patient. "Do you need the physio?"

"No, it's just a scratch. Ref, mate, listen." The PM tries to get up but fails. He tries to stop holding his groin but that's not currently possible. "It's not a red card."

For a second, I wear a cloak of hope, but then I realise what's happening. The PM doesn't want me to be suspended for the first leg in the next round.

"Of course it is a red card," says the referee. "He kicked you in your bits!"

"He was shooting, ref. Yeah, okay, it was a bit - " Time out while he rides a wave of agony. "Bit reckless. Yellow card, yeah? But he didn't mean it. He's my mate."

The ref scowls at me. "He's your friend?" he says, dubiously.

"Best friend," says the PM.

My mouth goes dry. What have I done?

As a child, all I ever wanted was a friend.

"He has been kicking you to bits the whole day!"

"It's just coz he's shit," says the PM. "And old. His reflexes are crap. No hand-eye co-ordination. He is trying to kick the ball."

"Well, he managed that this time."

The PM cackles. "Don't make me laugh, bro! Listen, ref, please don't send him off. Please. At the final whistle I'm gonna get down on one knee and ask him to be the best man at my wedding."

"Really?" says the ref.

"Really."

The ref slips his hand into a pocket and pulls out a card. It's red. My heart sinks and my head drops. The ref looks at me, then at the PM. "You had better do it now."

The man on the ground flops to his back and looks up. So I was right - it was all about avoiding the suspension.

But then he steels himself and rolls - a complete roll! - and clings onto my shin. "Henri," he wheezes. "Will you be my best man?"

I wonder how this looks on TV. There is no doubt about one thing - we have created some more football. But my wounds will not heal so quickly. "I cannot. I have booked a holiday for that week. I did not know your wedding would be then."

"I told Luisa, dude. She knew. She kept it clear."

"She knew? She kept it clear?"

The referee is not having fun. Or perhaps he is. "Hurry up and accept or I'll recommend a two-match ban."

"I accept," I say. "I will be your best man and I will write a short story to prove that I can write clearly and comprehensibly. You will know where to find it."

"Top," grunts my friend. He is not always present for my most dismal moments, but he is usually there for my highest ones.

The ref shows me the red card. I depart the pitch in disgrace, smiling from ear to ear.

***

My mistake kills the game as a contest. Max is so sure we are no threat that he even throws on a young man who has never played a minute of professional football. Lucas Hussein takes to the pitch for his debut. Where will his career take him? I have no idea, but I know that he is in good hands.

The Best hands.

At the final whistle, Till Rehder is disappointed to lose the tie, but simultaneously upbeat. "We ended his record!"

It takes me a moment to understand, but we have done something no team has ever done before. With this draw, we are the first team who ever stopped Max Best from winning a Champions League match.

People stop what they're doing to look up to the sky. There's a drone show happening over the stadium. Colourful lights dance and form shapes and when everyone's wondering why this whimsical display has been arranged, the lights morph into the words: HENRI, BEST MAN Y/N?

***

Kurt Vonnegut's final rule for writing short stories is: write to please just one person. If you attempt to write something everyone will enjoy, you will please no-one.

This short story was written to please one person: me.

And in that regard, it has succeeded.

But Max, if you have found this, and I suspect you will, know this: even though you don't always deserve it, I am rooting for you.

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