When Aldridge walked out of Old Trafford and hailed a taxi to the train station, his phone rang.
Out of habit, he took it out to switch off silent mode and noticed several unread text messages and two missed calls. Just as he did, the phone rang again.
The caller ID flashed: Melanie.
"Hi."
"Aldridge, where are you? You were crazy today!"
"I'm heading back to London."
"Huh? You're still in Manchester?"
"Yes. I just spent a while talking with United's manager in his office."
"What do you even have to talk to him about? You're not from the same era. Anyway, come to my house for dinner. My mother wants to meet you. She said she should see my boyfriend properly."
"Alright, send me the address. I'll grab a taxi."
After hanging up, Aldridge's mood lightened a little, though the cloud over his thoughts remained.
He had neither accepted Ferguson's request nor outright refused.
There was nothing wrong with the transfer fee United had offered. As of now, their bid was reasonable. But Aldridge knew that within three to five years, the value of Larsson and Trezeguet could soar past fifteen million pounds apiece.
The matter, however, wasn't that simple. Any transfer involved three sides: Manchester United, Millwall, and the players themselves.
If United had not made a formal approach, Aldridge could have brushed it aside. But once a club of their stature submitted an offer, everything changed.
He could not rashly accept, not when both players were so vital to Millwall's ambitions. Yet nor could he reject outright. What if Larsson or Trezeguet wanted to go? United's bid was not insulting. It matched their salary expectations, and the chance to join one of Europe's giants could be hard to refuse.
If there was a clash between a player's will and the club's position, forcing them to stay might create bigger problems. Aldridge was also careful about his image as a manager. If he gained a reputation for blocking players' careers, resentment would grow, rumours would spread, and new signings in the future would hesitate. Millwall was not an attractive club by itself; if the manager could not even persuade players to commit to his vision, then the club's future would be bleak.
He wasn't opposed to selling players entirely. After all, he had borrowed £30 million from his brother Barnett. How else was he supposed to repay it? The club's modest income alone would take decades.
That was why he had chosen to pay Millwall's stars wages that rivalled those of established Premier League players. It kept them loyal in the short term, and when the day came to sell, it ensured they would fetch a higher price.
If both Larsson and Trezeguet eventually moved on, Aldridge stood to earn close to £10 million per year from those two sales alone.
But this season was different. Millwall's first year in the Premier League was too important. Selling now would undermine everything. The challenge was not just survival — it was about proving how high they could reach.
As he waited for his taxi, Aldridge called Andrew. When Trezeguet joined Millwall last year, his representation had switched to Andrew. Larsson, too, had renewed his contract in the summer and had signed on with Andrew.
It was awkward. Technically, Aldridge and Andrew were on opposite sides of the table when it came to negotiations. But Andrew was still his brother.
If not for the fact that both Larsson and Trezeguet had signed fresh contracts in the summer — with substantial pay rises — the situation would have been messier. Larsson, in particular, had seen his weekly wage jump from £8,000 to £15,000. Otherwise, Andrew would already be manoeuvring, either pushing for a move to Old Trafford or leveraging United's interest to squeeze another pay rise out of Millwall.
The unspoken understanding between the brothers gave Aldridge reassurance. Agents were usually the most difficult figures to deal with in transfers, but with Andrew involved, he knew at least there would be no knives in the back.
The taxi arrived, and Aldridge asked the driver to take him to Liverpool.
The journey took less than an hour. Despite the short distance, the two cities were worlds apart — in culture, religion, politics, economy, and football.
Aldridge gazed out of the window, his thoughts drifting as the scenery rolled past. Manchester was weighed down by its conservative traditions. Once the "world's factory" during the Industrial Revolution, it had struggled since the post-war decline. Decades of deindustrialisation had scarred the city. Layoffs had been relentless, and the painful shift from manufacturing to service industries left its people nostalgic for lost glory.
Liverpool, by contrast, was a port city with a different spirit. More open, more free. It had produced The Beatles and countless other artists, and in the 1990s it was experiencing a renaissance. Its economy was outpacing even London's growth, and its cultural life made it one of Britain's most vibrant cities.
Aldridge thought of Melanie. A Liverpool girl. Perhaps her musical talent and creativity drew from the character of her city.
He admired talented people, respected those who worked tirelessly. Melanie had both qualities, and that drew him in. He had no interest in women who relied only on beauty. If he had, his youth and fame would already have seen him spend his nights with endless shallow company.
When the taxi stopped outside Melanie's house, Aldridge glanced down at himself and frowned.
His suit was of fine quality, without a wrinkle. But from the knees down the trousers were stained — reminders of the moment he had slid on his knees across the Old Trafford turf in celebration, and of the hugs from his players afterwards.
He slipped off the jacket and draped it over his arm. Standing in front of the door, another thought struck him: he had come empty-handed.
For a man who always valued etiquette, that felt embarrassing.
He should at least have brought a bottle of wine. He almost laughed to himself — he might have borrowed one from Ferguson's office if he had thought ahead.
Aldridge lingered outside the door longer than he should have, only to realise the door was already ajar. Melanie stood there, looking at him curiously.
"Why are you standing outside without ringing the bell? Don't you want to come in?" she asked softly.
Aldridge gave a wry smile. "I was in such a rush I didn't bring any gifts."
Melanie rolled her eyes, tugged him inside by the arm, and kissed him on the lips. "I know you've just finished a match. This is only a simple meal, not some high-society banquet like the ones your family might host. No need to be nervous. My family's very down-to-earth."
High society?
The words made Aldridge laugh inwardly. Had anyone else said it, he would have thought it ironic. In Britain, true high society was out of the Halls' reach. Real aristocrats had tea with ministers on Downing Street or rode with the royal family. The Hall family were simply wealthy upstarts.
Still, the welcome inside Melanie's home warmed him immediately. Her parents were hospitable and kind, and he took to them at once.
Melanie also had a younger brother — a devoted Liverpool supporter, just like her. That afternoon he had been at Anfield, watching Liverpool edge a narrow win on Wednesday night, and returned home delighted to hear that Manchester United had been held to a draw by a newly promoted side. His joy only grew when he sat down to dinner and realised his sister's boyfriend was none other than Aldridge — the young manager of that very team.
Dinner passed in a lively, pleasant atmosphere. Aldridge might not have had an academic background, but his travels and experiences gave him a wide perspective. He spoke easily, telling stories that kept conversation flowing.
The only awkward moment came later when Melanie's brother replayed the highlights and started talking football. He pressed Aldridge on which Millwall players he thought would one day succeed at Liverpool, then shifted into bold predictions, insisting that Liverpool could win the league this season.
Liverpool, a club of immense tradition, had not lifted the title since 1989–90.
Aldridge held his tongue. He knew better than to crush youthful enthusiasm. In his own memories, Liverpool would endure nearly a quarter of a century without a league title. Twenty-four long years, until 2014. United's 26-year drought before Ferguson was the only comparable wait. There was little sign of Liverpool breaking through in the near future, not with the Premier League entering an era dominated by new powers.
After dinner, Aldridge chatted with the family for nearly two hours before rising to leave. Melanie's mother protested:
"It's late already. Stay the night — we've got a guest room."
But Melanie, knowing him too well, gently took his suit and slipped it onto his shoulders. Smiling, she told her family, "You don't understand. He's a workaholic. He'll be back at the club first thing in the morning. Don't make it harder for him."
Her parents laughed softly, reassured. To them, a young man so dedicated to his work was rare, especially in a society where many chased flash and glamour.
Melanie walked him out. On the doorstep, they embraced, kissed, and caught their breath.
"I'll come to London at the weekend to watch your match," she whispered, cheeks flushed. "I'll cheer you on. Even though I believe in you, it makes me angry how the media dismisses Millwall. You'll silence them, won't you?"
She was making time while the Spice Girls' debut album was being finalised, her schedule still flexible.
Aldridge stroked her cheek and smiled. "I don't care what they say."
She frowned at him, clearly dissatisfied. He sighed.
"Think about it. Who has the time to spend hours each day flipping through newspapers, worrying about what people outside are saying? Wouldn't it be exhausting to plan every response? Better to focus on the pitch." He gave a faint smile. "Anyway, I should go. I'll be back in two weeks. By then, though, I suspect your family might not be so pleased to see me."
Melanie laughed, kissed him again, and teased, "If Millwall beat Liverpool at Anfield, don't even think of coming back here. We'll make sure you're stuck in Merseyside forever. Be careful on the road — and call me when you get home."
Aldridge shook his head. "That'll be late. Nothing will happen."
"No!"
"I'll send a text."
"No! Call. Or I'll ring you every ten minutes."
"You win. I'll call when I get in. Goodnight."
He turned and walked towards the street to catch a taxi. Melanie stood at the door until the car disappeared, then skipped back inside, light on her feet.
Inside the taxi, Aldridge leaned back and closed his eyes, fatigue finally pressing down.
United's approach had come at the worst possible time. Millwall were about to enter the grueling run known as the "Devil's schedule." Next week brought the South London derby against Arsenal, and soon after, another trip north — not to Manchester this time, but to Liverpool.
...
When the opening round of the 1995/96 Premier League ended, Millwall's away draw against Manchester United caused a sensation.
Fleet Street moved as one, making the match headline news. Not only the tabloids, but also the broadsheets — The Times, The Daily Telegraph, The Independent, and The Guardian — all carried front-page coverage.
Among them, the Independent's layout pleased Aldridge most.
The page was divided into two striking photographs. On the left was Aldridge, on his knees in celebration, fists clenched, mouth open in triumph. On the right was a shot of Millwall's players walking off together after the final whistle. Nedvěd and Southgate were at the centre, with Larsson, Trezeguet, Makelele, and Pirès on either side. They had thrown their shirts over their shoulders, their upper bodies bare, muscles defined. Female readers across the country went wild.
It was impossible to ignore: Aldridge's Millwall was not just talented, but full of strikingly handsome players.
There was the stern, powerful presence of Nedvěd and Trezeguet; Pirès with his French elegance; Schneider, bright and youthful; Solskjær's boyish features; and waiting in the wings, Pirlo and Shevchenko, who had yet to make their mark.
Manchester United were always at the centre of media attention, but now Millwall had stolen some of that spotlight.
Across the country, people were asking: Was this really Millwall? The notorious, thuggish Millwall?
Those who had watched the match footage found something ironic: it had been United, not Millwall, who played the dirtier football. Roy Keane's challenges were blatant, and yet it was Millwall who had looked like defiant fighters, a pride of lions refusing to yield.
Especially after the controversy surrounding United's penalty, debate raged.
Pundits offered their takes, newspapers ran columns, and the BBC's Match of the Day highlights — the most-watched football programme in the country — invited ex-players and coaches to dissect the match, both tactically and technically.
For Millwall, the effect was instant. Their debut in the Premier League had planted a seed. It was only the beginning, but it was a start of enormous promise.
Aldridge, for his part, quietly thanked the FA. Facing Manchester United in Millwall's first ever Premier League fixture had given them a stage bigger than any he could have imagined.
He had worked to make the team's style simple, quick, and direct — not only to be effective, but to be entertaining. It was part of a larger plan. Aldridge wasn't trying to simply stabilise Millwall in the top flight; he wanted to recreate something akin to Nottingham Forest's miracle under Clough. And to do that, Millwall had to make people look.
A conservative, defensive side might have scraped enough results to survive, perhaps even challenge unexpectedly. But it would not have captured hearts. It would not have made Millwall famous.
He thought of Arsenal. George Graham had won trophies, including a European Cup Winners' Cup, yet his team's style was derided as boring, their matches likened to sitting in a library. Arsène Wenger, by contrast, though he would go on to win only one more league title than Graham, transformed Arsenal's football into something irresistible. Highbury swelled beyond capacity. Neutral fans began tuning in just to watch them play. Even with the most expensive tickets in England, Arsenal's ground was nearly always full.
That was the model. Style mattered. Beautiful football, Aldridge believed, was not incompatible with efficiency. Done right, the two could reinforce each other.
Already, Millwall were seeing signs of growth. Neutral fans were curious. Supporters in East London walked taller. Replica shirt sales were climbing. The club was on the rise.
The morning after the match was a day off. Training would resume in the afternoon with a light recovery session. Around noon, Aldridge left his flat to walk to the training ground, less than fifteen minutes away.
But as soon as he stepped outside, he was startled to find three figures waiting at the door.
Brady, Fred, and Eva. All in casual clothes, standing stiffly. Their expressions were serious.
"What are you doing here?" Aldridge asked, frowning.
Brady spoke first, almost word for word, like he had rehearsed. "Aldridge, why hasn't the club responded? Tell us the truth. Whatever it is, we'll keep it between us. We've been friends since we were kids. We'd never betray you."
Eva, clutching a folded newspaper, held it out. Aldridge glanced down. A Manchester tabloid.
Beneath the headlines about Millwall's dramatic draw at Old Trafford, another story screamed across the page: United to sign Millwall's double star! Larsson and Trezeguet bound for Old Trafford!
Aldridge chuckled dryly. "News travels fast, doesn't it?"
This was classic British press — rumours dressed up as prophecy.
But the report was wrong. Ferguson had sounded him out about Larsson or Trezeguet, not both. Even United couldn't accommodate the two at once. At best, one could replace Andy Cole as Cantona's partner.
"There's nothing to say," Aldridge told them evenly. "Nothing has been decided yet."
Aldridge handed the newspaper back to Eva and noticed she seemed distracted, her bright eyes glancing past him towards the apartment. He frowned inwardly. What's so interesting about my flat?
Fred suddenly burst out, unable to contain himself.
"Aldridge, is that your answer? Do you think we're reporters? What do you mean, 'not decided'? Does that mean you're going to sell the club's hope?"
His voice was sharp with frustration. Though an immigrant, Fred had grown up in East London from a young age. Like Brady, he had followed Millwall since childhood. Now, with Millwall finally back at the top and showing a promising future, it seemed history was about to repeat itself. The fear of seeing their stars sold off — like Sheringham once was — was too much.
Aldridge's expression hardened. He disliked baseless accusations.
"Don't jump to conclusions," he said firmly. "Yes, I have the final say on whether we accept United's offer. But do you think I want to sell? If the players insist on leaving, what should I do? Keep them against their will? Then what? Play them when they no longer care? Leave them to rot on the bench, building resentment? That helps no one."
His tone sharpened as he continued.
"I told you — I haven't decided yet. I'm not some dictator running a club the old-fashioned way. I'll be honest: if Larsson or Trezeguet truly wanted to go to Manchester United, I wouldn't stop them. And why should I? Put yourself in their place. If United offered you a contract, what reason would you have to stay here? Millwall can only give them money and trust. If United can give both of those, plus more, what can Millwall possibly compete with?"
The three fell silent. Heads lowered.
They wanted to believe in loyalty. They wanted to believe players would stay for the badge. But in football, "loyalty" was fragile, easily broken by fame and fortune. Even the brightest superstars struggled to resist the lure.
"Sorry," Brady muttered, embarrassed. He had only lashed out because the rumours had shaken him. And the rumours weren't entirely baseless: that morning, United had formally submitted offers. Seven million pounds for Larsson, five million for Trezeguet.
Whether both transfers could realistically happen was another matter. Ferguson wouldn't refuse if both agreed, but he surely knew only one could partner Cantona while the other might wait his turn. Trezeguet, still so young, could bide his time.
Aldridge sighed inwardly. To him, their reaction was just proof of how deeply they loved Millwall. They followed every scrap of news about the club, and when something negative appeared, they panicked, their emotions running wild.
"Alright," he said more gently. "Leave it. If you really think I'm just out to cash in, why would you come to me at all?" He raised an eyebrow. "Anyway, don't you three have school today?"
Eva glanced at the slim watch on her wrist, cheeks reddening. "It's already late. Forget it. I'll skip class."
"Oh? So even the good girls grow up and start skipping school, eh?" Aldridge teased. "No excuses. Brady, take my car. Drop Eva off first, then get yourself to school. I don't care what you do after."
He opened the garage and tossed Brady the BMW keys.
The boy's eyes lit up when he saw the white BMW. Grinning, he said, "I might not come back once I drive this."
Aldridge shrugged. "Then don't."
The car had once been a flashy purchase by Arthur, back when the Hall family first found success. It hadn't cost more than £40,000 then, and now it was worth maybe half that. To Aldridge, it was little more than a leftover toy. He only drove it occasionally, usually on dates with Melanie or trips across to West London.
Eva hesitated before getting in, then turned back and asked softly, "Are you alright living here alone?"
Aldridge waved it off casually. "I've been used to living alone for years."
She nodded, relief flickering across her face. "Alright then."
He found her behaviour strange, but said nothing more.
When they finally drove away, Aldridge set off on foot towards the training ground.
The community was home to fans, staff, and players' families. As he walked, neighbours greeted him warmly at every corner. He was almost at the exit when a young boy came running past, ball at his feet, muttering a count under his breath.
"136, 137, 138…"
"David!" Aldridge called.
The fourteen-year-old turned, hugging the ball. His face lit up with excitement. He jogged over, blurting out in Spanish, "Boss, I watched the match! Millwall were amazing! Better than Real Madrid or Barcelona!"
Aldridge chuckled, ruffling his hair. "Call me boss, not sir."
Villa grinned. "Boss."
"What are you doing here?"
"The coach said we should nap, but I couldn't sleep, so I came out to practice."
"You should rest," Aldridge told him. "Otherwise you'll struggle in training this afternoon. Come on, time's nearly up anyway. Walk with me, and tell me how you're finding life in London."
"Okay! I train in the day, then study English with my tutor at night. My parents say they're really happy here…"
One tall, one short, they walked together through the streets — more like elder brother and younger brother — heading towards Millwall's training ground.