We followed the guy - I could never remember his name - through the turnstiles and out. Briggy said, "Do you always use the same exit?"
"No, miss," said our escort. "We change it up."
"This Brig of yours isn't completely stupid, then."
"Him? Never. He knows his business, miss. You mark my words: he knows his onions."
Briggy had annoyed another member of the football community. What was she trying to do? Break my record for riling up the most people on their first day of work? She wasn't going to get out of this assignment that easily.
"Thar she blows," said the steward. Why couldn't I remember his name? He was a great guy. He was rightly proud of my new car. An all-electric Mini Cooper that I'd bought because the sales blurb said it drove like a go-kart. It was plain blue for now but I was thinking of adding a couple of stripes to make it look like the Minis from the seminal heist movie The Italian Job. My new motor was in Sandra Lane's spot because she had arrived before me and cheekily parked in mine, which was now empty, along with about eighty percent of the car park.
The Mini wasn't everyone's idea of a giant leap forward in the life of Max Best. Some wanted me to buy something more flash, more sporty. What this car meant to me was that I was on the right track. Three and a half years of grinding was paying off. I had a million pounds in the bank and a fuckton more was on the way. For Steve... Simon? For those who really loved the club, my Mini was another Harry McNally stand. The manager's growth was the club's growth. The two went hand-in-hand, hand-in-glove -
"The fuck?" I said, rushing towards the car.
There was glass all over the asphalt. Someone had smashed the rear window.
My body went mental. Throat dry, chest pounding, fists clenching, and I could feel a massive vein threatening to burst out of my forehead. The fuckers! The absolute fuckers! My new car. My beautiful, pristine new go-kart. I hadn't even let Emma eat a sandwich. I wanted to kick the living shit out of whoever did this.
They'd be long gone, though. I began what I knew would be a long process of calming down.
Heavy footsteps made me turn.
To my left, a dude. Behind me, another. They had balaclavas pulled over their faces, wore military boots, and were carrying heavy little sticks. The place was lit up well and there were cameras everywhere. To smash the window, not find what they were looking for, and wait for me to turn up was reckless in the extreme.
My rage turned cold.
Reckless unless they were so sure of themselves - and their training - that they could meet any challenge. The analytical part of me - there wasn't much still operating - noted that the men weren't breathing hard, showed no signs of stress, were not worried about a stray police officer coming along. They looked the way I had done last Saturday down in Plymouth when stepping forward to take a game-winning penalty.
Ice cold and deadly.
"The fuck?" I mumbled. Something about being attacked for a second time in my own car park wound me up. I clenched my hands back into fists. I could take one of them down with me. Fuck his day all the way up. I'd been trained to punch by two champion boxers. I remembered the steward's name. "Simon, stay back. That's an order. If it kicks off, run. If I die, tell Sandra her sick leave got canceled."
One of the guys held his arms out in a friendly way. The gesture made sure I spotted his cudgel, though. Cudgel? Or was it a cosh? He spoke in an Irish accent. "No need for all dat, Best. Give us the laptop and we'll be on our way."
"What?" I turned to the Mini. They'd seen a backpack on the back seat, smashed the window, and when they'd opened it, they'd found some spare kit I always carried with me. Four tops so I could join in any match - or be a referee. They had found that and a spare pair of boots, but they had been looking -
"The laptop, Best. Hurry the fuck up."
The adrenaline was messing me up. The laptop was worthless. A few spreadsheets that I wouldn't want anyone seeing, but nothing worth dying over. Nothing worth these guys going to prison for. "You looking for cheat codes for Soccer Supremo? Just buy Wibbers and Youngster, mate. It's no secret."
I licked my lips. One guy was blocking my route to the side of the main stand. If I could get clear, I could sprint around. No way was this guy faster than me. That would take me past the exact spot of the last attack, though. No bueno. The other way was equally blocked. I could run the way we had come, but that would put Simon in danger. The poor guy was frozen. Briggy was giving me a strange look, like I was stupid. She made a chopping gesture with her palm. She thought I should go to the rear of the car. That seemed absolutely mental but my feet were already obeying.