When the meeting ended, Dr. Thompson excused himself and left, while Adam remained seated.
"Adam, if this is still about the matter we discussed earlier, I'm not going to argue with you. Some expenses can be reduced, but others simply cannot be cut," Aldridge said firmly. His stance on building up Millwall's medical department would not be swayed by financial concerns. On that matter, he would not compromise.
Adam shook his head. "No, it's not that. The builder, Roder, has been coming by every day since the day before yesterday. He's pressing us to fulfill the stadium contract. He even threatened that if we continue delaying, he'll sue for breach of contract."
Aldridge leaned back in his chair, silently digesting the situation. After a moment, he pulled a file from his drawer and handed it across the desk. "This is a proposal I asked Andrew to commission a few months ago. The land originally intended for the new stadium will instead be used to build a youth training base. Once complete, it will be formally listed as a youth academy, and I want it named Leo."
Adam unfolded the plans. There was a detailed bird's-eye rendering, with every facility clearly marked around the training pitches.
"Leo… Leo," he murmured. "Lion Youth Training Base. It fits with Millwall's tradition."
Closing the folder, he looked up at Aldridge with concern. "Boss, the problem is that the land was contractually designated for a stadium project worth nearly twenty million pounds. Now you want to turn it into a training base? The contractors won't agree. They'll see this as perfunctory at best, and certainly not as profitable as building a stadium."
Aldridge understood the situation well. The stadium plan had been signed off, but the club alone was responsible for funding. Since Millwall had yet to pay out, the project had been stalled.
Now, with the delays dragging on, contractors were becoming desperate. Rising material costs were eating into their margins, and the longer it lingered, the more they stood to lose.
Calmly, Aldridge drew out another file and handed it over. "This is the blueprint for the new stadium. It's not finalized, but the scale is set. Tell the contractors this: help us complete the youth base now, and they will have priority when Millwall builds the stadium in the future. That project will be even larger than the original one. We'll sign contracts with them in advance. When the time comes, they will stand to make far more money than they ever expected."
Adam flipped through the pages and froze. The renderings depicted a grand, modern stadium—65,000 seats, with state-of-the-art facilities.
But his mind immediately returned to the club's finances. Millwall's account balance was under twenty million pounds. To build a stadium of that magnitude would cost at least one hundred million, perhaps much more if construction dragged into the future.
Still, Aldridge was the owner. He didn't have to answer to shareholders or placate a board of directors. Adam's job was far simpler: execute the boss's decisions.
With the two proposals in hand, Adam rose to leave. Before stepping out, he cautioned quietly: "Boss, even with Millwall's influence in East London, a 65,000-seater stadium may never be filled. At best, it might reach half capacity."
Aldridge only smiled faintly. He had no intention of building the new stadium immediately. For now, it was just long-term planning.
Having finalized Millwall's coaching structure and laid the foundations for a proper medical system, Aldridge remained in London. He was preparing for the evening banquet organized by the English Football Coaches Association, where he was to receive an award.
That same weekend, the First Division playoffs took place. Aldridge followed the news, though he had little interest. Middlesbrough and Bolton both advanced to the playoff final, while the Premier League closed its season with high drama.
At Anfield, Kenny Dalglish's Blackburn side arrived needing a win to secure the title. They led early, but Liverpool came back late to overturn the score. The Reds had no intention of gifting Dalglish a farewell triumph.
As Blackburn players anxiously waited at Anfield for news, all eyes turned to Upton Park, where Manchester United faced West Ham. A victory for Ferguson's men would snatch the trophy away. But United stumbled. They could not overturn a 1–0 deficit, and the final whistle confirmed it: Blackburn Rovers were champions of England.
West Ham's players and fans celebrated wildly. Denying United the title seemed almost as sweet as winning a trophy themselves.
The curtain fell on the season. Blackburn had won their first Premier League crown, Dalglish bowed out at the peak of glory, and owner Jack Walker declared afterwards: "This title has put Blackburn back on the map of England."
The strike partnership of Alan Shearer and Chris Sutton—the feared "SAS"—had been unstoppable. Shearer scored 34 goals to claim the Golden Boot, while Sutton added 15, proving his worth beyond doubt.
Manchester United, meanwhile, were left ruing their shortcomings. The absence of Eric Cantona, and a lack of cutting edge up front, had cost them dearly. Even the Manchester press admitted bitterly: if Cantona had been there, if they had a stronger striker, would West Ham really have stopped them?
Their misery deepened in the FA Cup final, where they lost to Everton. After two seasons of dominance, Ferguson's United finished the campaign empty-handed.
Elsewhere, Arsenal collapsed midway through the league campaign but made a deep run in Europe. In the Cup Winners' Cup final, however, they were beaten in extra time by Real Zaragoza.
Italian football continued to shine: Parma lifted the UEFA Cup, while AC Milan reached the Champions League final. But in Vienna, they were stunned by the youngest of challengers—Ajax.
When Louis van Gaal's Ajax lifted the trophy, Europe acknowledged the arrival of a new dynasty.
The lineup spoke for itself:– Edwin van der Sar, 25.– Michael Reiziger, 22.– The De Boer twins, 25.– Clarence Seedorf, 19.– Edgar Davids, 22.– Marc Overmars, 22.– Jari Litmanen, 24.
A team brimming with youthful brilliance had conquered Europe.
...
Speculation across Europe was rife: how long could this Ajax side dominate the continent? With their abundance of young Dutch talent, every player seemed to represent hard currency in the transfer market. Ajax's seemingly endless ability to produce world-class footballers made the idea of a dynasty feel inevitable.
But Rome was not built in a day—and it takes only one day to begin its ruin.
Ajax could not have imagined that within a year, their dynasty would already be crumbling. The Bosman ruling would soon shatter the closed era of European transfers, ushering in a new age of player freedom and rapid circulation. The dynasty would dissolve almost as quickly as it had appeared.
At the annual English Football Coaches Association banquet, Aldridge arrived in a sharp suit and polished leather shoes. Before the awards ceremony began, he was easily the most sought-after coach by the press, drawing more interviews than anyone else.
Richard of the Daily Mail pressed him relentlessly for details on Millwall's summer transfer plans. Thomson of the Sun strayed further, prodding at personal matters—mentioning paparazzi photos of Aldridge with a young woman on the street—and even questioned the stalled stadium project.
But one question caught Aldridge by surprise.
"Mr. Hall, Millwall's outstanding performance last season has earned you a nickname: the Coach Killer. What's your view on that?"
"Coach Killer?" Aldridge raised an eyebrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"
The reporter explained: "According to statistics, last season your Millwall faced 28 different head coaches. After those matches, four of them were dismissed: Derby County, Watford, Arsenal, and Swindon Town."
Aldridge laughed helplessly.
Derby County had started poorly, and after being thrashed at The Den, their manager was sacked.Watford's playoff hopes collapsed after their defeat to Millwall, and their manager too was shown the door.Arsenal's situation was more complex. Millwall had eliminated them from the FA Cup in the third round, but George Graham's dismissal stemmed from the infamous "bung scandal," which also led to his one-year ban from management. Pure coincidence.As for Swindon, relegated for a second successive season and mired in dressing-room conflicts, their coach was dismissed regardless of Millwall's involvement.
Still, the "Coach Killer" tag stuck, leaving Aldridge both amused and exasperated. He downplayed it in front of the press, calling it coincidence, before slipping into the banquet hall.
There, the spotlight shifted elsewhere. The reason was obvious: Sir Alex Ferguson had arrived, face like thunder.
Aldridge couldn't help but feel slightly awkward. The championship had been lost by United themselves, not stolen by anyone else. Dalglish's Blackburn had seized the moment, but United's failures had cost them. Even so, Ferguson's scowl was directed squarely at him.
"Look at that circus," Ferguson muttered darkly, nodding towards Dalglish—glowing like a king among admirers—and Kevin Keegan, another Liverpool man basking in the glow.
Aldridge stifled a smile. Success always attracted flattery. With the trophy in hand, Dalglish would never be short of sycophants.
But Ferguson quickly cut through his bitterness. Pulling Aldridge aside, he came straight to the point:
"Larsson. Name your price. I've always treated you as a friend."
Aldridge didn't dismiss him. Instead, he countered calmly: "How much can Manchester United pay?"
Ferguson's eyes sharpened. He was preparing for sweeping changes that summer—Hughes, Ince, and Kanchelskis were all likely to depart. Money was available.
"Five million pounds. That's fair. You'd make a profit of nearly four million in one year. And remember, Larsson hasn't been tested in the Premier League yet."
Aldridge shook his head. "I'm not asking about transfer fees, Sir Alex. I'm asking about wages. How much would United be willing to pay Larsson weekly?"
Caught off guard, Ferguson hesitated, then said, "Ten thousand."
Aldridge shrugged. "Then you'll have to convince Larsson to take a pay cut."
Ferguson blinked. "How much is he on at Millwall?"
"The highest in the squad. Fifteen thousand a week."
Ferguson nearly choked. "You're mad!"
At United, only Eric Cantona earned £20,000 weekly. Next came Schmeichel at £18,000. The tier below sat around £13,000. Rising stars like Beckham, Scholes, and Giggs were still on academy wages under £4,000. Even Roy Keane and Andy Cole, both marquee signings, were only on £10,000 a week.
For Ferguson, it wasn't about affordability—United could certainly match £15,000—but about hierarchy. Salaries at Old Trafford reflected seniority and status. If Larsson arrived on such terms, others would demand raises immediately, destabilizing the structure.
Aldridge hadn't refused outright, but by naming wages, he had effectively killed the deal. Ferguson recognized the ploy and realized there was no way forward.
Still, curiosity lingered. Who was this young man who negotiated with such composure?
"Aldridge," he asked quietly, "what's Millwall's total wage budget for next season?"
Aldridge smiled. "I'll give you the figure directly. Between ten and fifteen million pounds."
Ferguson froze, his eyes widening. Even Premier League giants weren't committing such sums entirely to wages.
"How many of your players earn over £10,000 a week?"
"Not many," Aldridge replied casually. "Just about the entire starting eleven."
Ferguson shook his head in disbelief. "Millwall must be swimming in money. Do you even make £10 million in revenue a year?"
"Last season's net income was under ten million. This year should be higher. Of course, the club's still losing money. But that doesn't matter to me. I'm not concerned."
Ferguson fell silent. His initial plan had been to poach not just Larsson but perhaps several Millwall players. Now he saw the futility. To ask players to leave Millwall while taking pay cuts, even to join Manchester United, would be humiliating.
He withdrew, disappointed—and quietly convinced that Aldridge's reckless wage policy would one day bring Millwall crashing down.
...
...
At the English Football Coaches Association banquet, Aldridge received the award for First Division Manager of the Year, second only in attention to Nottingham Forest's Frank Clark.
Clark, a disciple of Brian Clough, had led Forest back into the Premier League last season and, in their first year back, guided them to a remarkable third-place finish. It was hailed as another small miracle in Nottingham.
During the evening, Aldridge exchanged a few words with several Premier League managers. Many clubs were already circling Millwall players, probing Aldridge's tone for any sign of weakness. But to the wealthier clubs, he was clear: not a single member of his squad was for sale.
With the season officially concluded—Middlesbrough having secured the final Premier League promotion spot—Aldridge shifted his focus to the summer transfer market.
Sponsorship negotiations were left in Adam's hands: Barclays Bank, Puma, and stadium advertising. Together, these deals were expected to bring in roughly three million pounds, a valuable cushion at the start of the new campaign.
One morning, after breakfast, Aldridge called his brother Andrew and asked to meet at the street corner. At ten o'clock sharp, a white BMW pulled up. Andrew was behind the wheel, dressed casually, shirt untucked, and in the passenger seat sat a striking young woman in a light summer dress.
Aldridge greeted them with a smile. "So, what are you dragging me out for this morning?"
Andrew climbed out, lighting a cigarette and offering one to his younger brother. Aldridge took it, lit up, and exhaled before speaking.
"I had something for you to handle. But it looks like you're busy. Forget it—just assign me one of your assistants. Over the next few months I'll be running around the country, maybe even abroad. What I need is someone for intelligence gathering."
Andrew blew out a smoke ring, then leaned toward the car. "Baby, get out and head home. I've got work."
"What? I thought we were going on holiday in France?" she snapped.
"Darling, I've got business. Go home first. We'll go when the time comes."
"Andrew! Your promises are worthless!"
"Maybe. Now drive off—and don't call me again. Goodbye."
The angry beauty stormed away, and Andrew, unbothered, slung an arm around Aldridge's shoulder. As another car was summoned from his company, he chuckled, "She thought she was a princess. I can only apologize, but her prince won't bend to her whims."
Aldridge laughed, shaking his head. Despite Andrew's playboy reputation, he knew his brother's priorities were always in order.
"You know," Aldridge said as they crouched by the roadside, "you don't really need to tag along. I only need some intelligence."
Andrew flicked his cigarette and grinned. "Don't joke. Our family's money isn't blown in by the wind. If I don't pay attention to where it's going, what's the point of me running a brokerage? You want information, you'll get it. And if I show up myself, it shows sincerity. Money won't just walk into my pocket—I have to drag it there."
Aldridge smiled and nodded. "Fine. Let's go together."
Soon after, Andrew's assistant arrived in an Audi. Andrew took a tie from him, tucked in his shirt, smoothed his hair, and within minutes had transformed into a sharply dressed businessman. He slid into the car looking every bit the polished company boss. Aldridge, watching the transformation, could only marvel.
"So," Andrew said as the Audi pulled away, "where to?"
"Check four names in your company's files for me," Aldridge replied. "Joe Cole, Ashley Cole, Rio Ferdinand, Frank Lampard."
Andrew raised an eyebrow but said nothing, immediately calling the office. His company's scouting network rivaled, if not surpassed, that of top clubs. Every year, dozens of so-called prodigies were hyped by the English press, but few made it to the highest stage. Joe Cole, however, was one of the rare exceptions—already widely regarded as a generational talent.
For Aldridge, money was his only real weapon. But money itself was often enough. Few people in the world could resist it; the only question was how much.
Andrew finished his call and reported back. "Neither of the Coles has signed with a club yet. Ferdinand and Lampard are more complicated. West Ham are planning to offer them professional contracts this summer."
Aldridge closed his eyes briefly, thinking. Then, with a faint smile, he said, "All the better. Let's start with those two. There's nothing more satisfying than poaching talent from your deadliest rivals. How much will West Ham offer them weekly?"
"Six hundred quid. Maybe six-fifty."
"I'll give them three thousand."
Andrew burst out laughing. "Ha! You're insane. Throwing money away like that."
Aldridge's eyes gleamed with certainty. "Time will tell who the fool really is."
Andrew drove Aldridge straight to Rio Ferdinand's house.
Aldridge went to the door himself. He never saw it as beneath his status. Some transfers required the manager's personal touch; nothing impressed a young player more than seeing the head coach at their doorstep.
He remembered well how Ferguson had once snatched Giggs. Manchester City's manager had sat in his office waiting for the youngster to sign, only to find out the next day that Ferguson had gone to Giggs's home and persuaded him personally. That one act had secured United two decades of brilliance on the left wing.
In London, Aldridge carried weight. He had been the standout coach of the First Division last season, and Millwall's imminent promotion to the Premier League had only amplified his profile. The media hype around him and Millwall meant that, within football circles, everyone already knew his name.
The Ferdinand household was naturally curious when Aldridge arrived with Andrew at his side. Relatives crowded in to see the visitors. Aldridge spoke with sincerity, laid down Millwall's plan for the future, and most importantly, presented a contract that offered wages no other club would match. Ferdinand was impressed.
Frank Lampard's situation was more delicate. His father still held a role at West Ham United, though relations with the club were strained. Aldridge not only put forward a lucrative offer for young Frank but also promised the elder Lampard a position within Millwall. With that, and the higher salary, Lampard too was persuaded.
At West Ham, anger soon followed. They had planned to offer professional contracts to both Lampard and Ferdinand in July, only to see their brightest hopes poached by their fiercest enemy across the Thames.
What gave Aldridge such pulling power was not just money. It was Millwall's reputation. The previous season's "youth army" had been the talk of the division, every teenager under his guidance showing remarkable progress. Even without Premier League credentials, Aldridge was already seen as a coach who could unlock potential.
That night, Aldridge and Andrew drove out to the suburbs. They parked the Audi by the roadside, ate greasy fast food, drank cheap beer, and leaned against the car as the day wound down. Four players had signed: Joe Cole, just 13, Ashley Cole, 15, and two older, more polished talents—Lampard and Ferdinand, both 17. In two or three years, those two would be ready to anchor his team.
The success of the first day filled Aldridge with confidence. But the following morning, on Merseyside, he ran into hard reality.
United had their famous Class of '92. Liverpool, not to be outdone, had their Class of '96, and the brightest jewels among them were Michael Owen, Jamie Carragher, and Steven Gerrard.
At Carragher's home, Aldridge was politely turned away. At Owen's, his parents showed him the door without hesitation. That left only Gerrard.
They met in a café. The teenager sat in casual clothes, awkwardly trying to act older than he was. His restless eyes betrayed the mischief and sharpness of youth.
"Reject me? Why?" Aldridge leaned forward. "Steven, if you've got concerns, just say so. Wages? Two thousand too little? I can raise it to twenty-five hundred. Worried about living arrangements? The club will give you an apartment."
Gerrard fidgeted, lowering his head. "Sir, thank you, but… I don't want to sign for any team other than Liverpool."
Aldridge blinked. "Then why bother with trial sessions at other clubs? Why agree to meet me? You could've refused over the phone."
Before the trip, he had been full of hope. Gerrard had trialed at several clubs without earning a contract. To Aldridge, it was madness. How could others be so blind? Couldn't they see the diamond right in front of them?
But Gerrard answered softly, almost sheepishly. "I was just… putting pressure on Liverpool. To make them offer me a contract sooner."
Aldridge sat back, stunned.
Bloody hell.
He'd been played. The boy had used him as a bargaining chip.
And sure enough, the story of Millwall trying to lure Gerrard would spread quickly—if the press didn't uncover it, Gerrard himself would make sure Liverpool heard.
Leaving Merseyside, Aldridge felt the sting of humiliation. The wall he tried to dig had slammed back into his face.
On the drive south, he managed a bitter smile. He should have known better. Did he really think the brightest stars of Liverpool's future could be so easily stolen? If they were willing to wander, they would never have been Liverpool's heart in the first place.
Only at clubs like West Ham, which lacked ambition and history, could players be pulled away so easily. Paul Ince was proof enough.
But Aldridge didn't wallow for long. With a deep sigh, he shook off the setback. There were plenty of unpolished gems across the country, hidden in unexpected places. The key was knowing where to dig.
And that was where he had the edge.