Aldridge was on fire.
And now that fire was famous.
Because Millwall's weekend fixture had been scheduled for the evening, the team would soon be thrown into the congested grind of the Christmas Devil schedule. Aldridge planned to leave the squad a day later, and in his usual routine he rose early to go jogging for fitness.
But the moment he opened the front door in his tracksuit, he was blinded by flashing bulbs. A cluster of paparazzi stood outside, their cameras already raised, shutters clattering, the harsh bursts of light stabbing into his eyes.
"Mr. Hall, did you host a wild party at the Green Hotel last night?"
"Have you finally dumped the little pop singer?"
"Were any Millwall players involved in that hotel party?"
"Other than Katie Price, who else were you with?"
The British paparazzi were relentless, unmatched anywhere in the world when it came to chasing scandal. They thrived on breaking news, swarming like sharks the instant blood was in the water. They shouted the ugliest questions, goaded their subjects with provocative gestures, and baited them into losing their temper — because the more furious or unhinged the reaction, the better the photograph.
Would Aldridge take the bait? Would he lash out, shout back, or lose control?
He knew the rules of the game. One angry word, even if the stories were baseless, could tarnish his reputation overnight. A physical reaction would give the tabloids exactly the circus they craved.
So he forced a smile, stepped two paces outside, then calmly retreated. He raised his hand and pointed at the threshold of his flat, reminding them that one step beyond was private property. His expression remained pleasant, his voice light.
Then he closed the door — gently, deliberately.
The pack groaned with frustration, a chorus of sighs and mutters. Some shuffled back to their cars, though the long lenses stayed trained on his windows.
Inside, Aldridge sat down heavily on the sofa. He had a computer, but the mid-90s internet carried no instant news, no social feeds to check. Still, he could guess the source. Katie Price had struck back.
As he reached for the phone to make a call, it rang first.
"Hello?"
"Aldridge, where are you?"
"At home."
"Stay there. Don't go anywhere, don't speak to anyone outside. Unplug your landline — I'm on my way now."
"Alright."
It was Andrew.
Aldridge hung up and waited. Reporters soon began calling the flat nonstop, hoping for a quote. He didn't disconnect the line. Instead, he answered each call, said nothing, and immediately hung up — leaving the receiver off the hook so the line stayed busy.
Andrew arrived quickly, sharply dressed in a tailored suit. Two men in their early thirties trailed behind him, most likely junior staff from his firm.
The moment Aldridge opened the door, cameras clicked furiously from outside. But aside from fresh photos, the journalists gained nothing new.
Then, cutting through the noise, a furious voice rang out:"You vultures! The boss had dinner at my house last night — he wasn't at any hotel!"
Aldridge glanced past the crowd and saw David Villa, face flushed with anger, standing defiantly with a football tucked under his arm.
The paparazzi froze, then turned their cameras toward him. Lenses whirred. But before they could snap, Aldridge barked:"David, go home!"
Andrew reacted instantly. He shot a look at one of his assistants, who strode forward and warned the pack:"He's underage. Photograph him and you'll be hearing from us in court."
Villa caught Aldridge's calm smile. Relieved, he sneered at the paparazzi, tossed the ball onto the ground, and dribbled it away down the street.
Aldridge shut the door once more. Back on the sofa, Andrew pulled a bundle of tabloids from his briefcase and handed them over.
The front page of The Sun screamed in bold type, the paper split down the middle: one half a triumphant shot of Aldridge commanding his players from the touchline, the other a glamour photo of Katie Price.
"From Millwall's Lion King… to Green Hotel Shame! Katie Price's Night of Horror!"
Aldridge scowled at the headline, then turned the page. He read the article with detached amusement.
Katie was quoted extensively:
"Everyone knows I admire Aldridge. I thought he was wonderful. When he asked me to meet, I was thrilled. I hoped something romantic might happen. But when I entered the suite at the Green Hotel, my whole image of him collapsed. He was disgusting. There were nearly a dozen men inside, barely dressed, obviously waiting for 'fun.' That's not me. I left immediately, nothing happened. I don't know what they did after I left — maybe they found other girls. But Aldridge? He makes me sick."
He flipped through the rest. Every tabloid carried the same story, each one more sensational, twisting her words into a carnival of scandal.
Andrew waited until Aldridge had finished reading through every newspaper before finally folding his arms across his chest and asking quietly, his tone far more serious than usual:"What happened? Tell me the truth, from beginning to end."
As a lawyer, Andrew rarely resembled a child, but at this moment there was not a trace of frivolity in him.
Aldridge recounted the events in detail. When he finished, Andrew studied him with a puzzled expression. Then he gestured toward the kitchen and murmured, "Let's speak there."
They stepped into the kitchen, lit cigarettes, and leaned against the counter. Andrew exhaled slowly and asked:"Aldridge, what on earth are you doing? You could have refused her, brushed her off, even played along just enough to keep things smooth. But there was no need to turn it into something this dramatic."
"What do you mean?" Aldridge asked, frowning.
"I mean, brother, look at yourself. You're a public figure now. You have money. You're standing here in Armani, you're good-looking, and every weekend thousands cheer your name. Of course women will throw themselves at you. Not just any women either — the best of them. And what do you do? You slam the door and turn them all away. Out of a hundred men, maybe one monk would do that. But you? You don't even follow a religion. I can't understand it."
Andrew stared at him as if he were a strange specimen, but Aldridge simply shook his head."Brother would have do the same."
Andrew snorted. "Big Brother's only ambition is his career. He wants to shape the Hall family into something noble. He'll never escape our upstart background, so he has to polish his image. People can call him an upstart, they can sneer that he's uneducated, but what they can't do is call him a playboy. That would destroy everything he's trying to build. Respect may be thin, but he can still earn it.
"You and I, though, we're different. I've always thought we were alike — living for the moment, enjoying ourselves while we can. There's no need to strap yourself into the discipline of an ascetic monk. Women will come when you're successful, and if you fall, they'll leave. That's just the way the world works."
His eyes were wide with incredulity.
It was true that their eldest brother, Barnett, who once labored in a glass factory before breaking into business, was obsessed with social standing. Even as a rising name in Britain's business circles, he refused to indulge in scandals or excess. Instead, he worked tirelessly to craft an image of refinement, even if he himself could never fully climb to nobility. He believed their family's second or third generation might achieve that long-cherished status if he laid the foundation.
Aldridge smoked in silence for two long minutes before finally saying:"Andrew, let me tell you a story."
Andrew nodded. "Go ahead. We've got time."
"I knew a man once. Very ordinary. He graduated from an unremarkable university, got a regular job, and dated a regular girl. Around the age of thirty, he proposed. But the girl hesitated — her family demanded the man own property first. When he couldn't, she ended the relationship.
"He stayed single after that, confused about love and marriage. Because in his country, you can't simply work a few years and afford a home."
"That's it? That's the end?" Andrew asked.
"That's the end."
"Then the girl's a fool. And so is her family," Andrew muttered.
"My friend was Chinese," Aldridge explained. "The culture there is different. In Europe or America, as long as you have a steady job, you can buy a house or a car with a loan, and as long as you repay it eventually, people consider it yours. In China, it's different. Most can never save enough to buy a home outright. Renting or living with a mortgage brings no sense of security. Without a house, marriage itself feels unstable."
Andrew blinked, too impatient to unravel such cultural differences. He shrugged. "So your travels taught you that feelings and money should stay separate, yes?"
Aldridge thought for a moment, then nodded."When love becomes worthless in the face of money, it leaves a mark. That's why I want to keep things simple. Today it's Katie Price, tomorrow it'll be someone else. There will always be another girl. I'm not boasting, it's just how British entertainment culture works. They'll keep coming."
Andrew finally understood. He patted his brother on the shoulder.
He was self-aware enough to admit his own vices. He had slept with plenty of models and starlets, but he knew the truth: without wealth, those women would never give him a second glance. For him, indulgence was only about pleasure. For Aldridge, it wasn't. And Andrew could not condemn him for that.
"Alright, I understand. Hand me the recording. I'll take care of this, and I'll make sure those professional gold-diggers keep their distance in the future. Better for them too — it saves them the embarrassment."
Aldridge chuckled, bumped his fist against his brother's, and then went upstairs to fetch the tape recorder.
...
When it came to business, Andrew was always resolute.
He did not step into the spotlight himself. Instead, he appointed one of the firm's attorneys to represent Aldridge and personally drove his brother to the courthouse.
The British paparazzi followed in a convoy of cars, hounding them all the way. By the time Aldridge and the lawyer walked through the entrance of the district court, the press had already crowded the pavement outside. Some reporters even tried to sneak in disguised as members of the public to gather news from inside.
Half an hour later, Aldridge emerged. He kept his head down, ignored the barrage of questions, and drove straight home.
It was the lawyer who finally spoke. Facing a wall of microphones, he read out a short, clipped statement.
"On behalf of my client, Mr. Aldridge Hall, I have filed a defamation lawsuit against Miss Katie Price. We have also applied for an injunction. We hold clear evidence that Miss Price has seriously interfered with my client's normal life."
The press immediately pounced with follow-up questions, demanding to know what evidence he had. The lawyer refused to say more.
The mystery only added fuel to the fire.
The evidence, which had been submitted to the court, surfaced later anyway. No one knew who leaked it. Soon, recordings of Aldridge's phone conversations and the "photographs" Katie Price had mailed to him appeared in the tabloids. The story exploded.
Investigations pushed deeper. Surveillance footage from the Green Hotel was released. It showed Katie Price entering the hotel suite, but Aldridge never appeared on the premises. The ten men waiting inside were quickly identified. When questioned, they admitted openly that they had arranged to meet Price and had never even seen Aldridge that night.
The truth was clear: Katie Price had tried to boost her fame and exposure by dragging Aldridge's name into scandal. In one sense she had succeeded. Overnight her name was everywhere, but so was the revelation that she sold herself for £2,000 a night.
Andrew's preparations paid off. All the witnesses were lined up, the paperwork filed promptly, and the court pressed to act quickly.
By the next day, Katie Price was already seeking a private settlement. Through her lawyer, she begged Aldridge to drop the lawsuit and promised never to harass him again.
But Aldridge showed no pity. He refused immediately.
Back at the training ground, as Millwall prepared for their League Cup quarter-final, the mood in the squad felt slightly strained. The players kept sneaking glances at the touchline, curious to see how their young manager would handle the storm.
"Robert, are you slacking? Two laps of the pitch, go!"
Aldridge's sharp voice rang across the field. Pires raised his hands with mock despair, then dutifully jogged off. The rest of the squad chuckled quietly behind him.
It was a reminder to everyone that scandal off the pitch could not be allowed to undermine discipline on it. For seasoned professionals, a manager's private troubles were no trivial matter. If they lost respect for the man leading them, cracks could form in the relationship. Football might be a job, but it was also built on trust, personality, and the bonds between manager and players.
The coach-player relationship worked best when it felt like mentor and apprentice, when there was both authority and camaraderie. If Aldridge failed to carry himself with restraint off the pitch, he would have no standing to demand discipline from his players off it.
The day before the quarter-final at Maine Road, Aldridge faced the press alone.
British journalists had a habit of asking anything but football questions, no matter the occasion.
When his relationship with Melanie had surfaced months earlier, Aldridge had dealt with it briskly, giving a few simple replies. Because the two had kept such a low profile afterward, the story quickly dried up. But today, every question circled back to the defamation case.
Faced with the bombardment, Aldridge raised his hand, cutting them off. His tone was sharp, almost impatient."I will only say this once. She wanted money. I would not hand it out freely, so I gave her a chance to earn it properly. Instead, she spread lies and damaged my reputation. I had no choice but to seek legal resolution. That is the end of the matter. From this moment, I will not answer any further questions on topics outside of football."
Reporters tried again, pushing for details, but Aldridge held his silence.
Only then did the press conference turn back to football.
Manchester City had endured a miserable few seasons. They had narrowly avoided relegation in recent years, and this campaign had been even worse. From the opening weeks, they had been mired in the relegation zone, sinking steadily toward the bottom of the First Division table.
Against such opposition, Aldridge saw no reason to hold back. Even away from home, he intended to field his strongest eleven. Millwall would not approach Maine Road with fear.
The next day, Millwall travelled north to Maine Road full of energy. Manchester City, fighting desperately to escape the relegation zone, rotated their squad heavily. For a club staring at survival, a League Cup run meant little compared to avoiding the drop. Millwall ruthlessly exploited that weakness. Trezeguet struck a superb hat trick, sealing a dominant 3–0 victory that carried the Lions into the semi-finals.
At the weekend, Millwall hosted local rivals QPR in their final league match of the first half of the season. Even with a youthful starting eleven, they controlled the game and earned a comfortable 2–0 win.
By the halfway stage, Aldridge's newly promoted side trailed league leaders Newcastle United by eight points. For Millwall, it was already a remarkable campaign, far beyond pre-season expectations.
Yet Aldridge knew the toughest stretch was still to come. The gruelling festive schedule loomed — the infamous English winter marathon, with no break to recover. Foreign players in particular struggled with fatigue and homesickness, and January promised to test everyone's limits. Between the two legs of the League Cup semi-final against Leeds United, Millwall also faced a punishing run of league fixtures. The dreaded "Devil's schedule" had arrived.
On Boxing Day, Manchester United came to The Den. Ferguson's side, bolstered by Eric Cantona's return from suspension, were brimming with confidence. The clash quickly turned into a Christmas classic. Just as in their first meeting earlier in the season, the two teams went toe to toe, trading attack for attack in a thrilling, high-scoring contest.
This time it finished 3–3. Millwall clawed back from two goals down in the final twenty minutes, sending the home crowd into raptures while Ferguson raged furiously on the touchline.
Aldridge's expression at full time was far less cheerful.
Of the three goals conceded, Andy Cole's long-range strike was unstoppable, but the other two exposed a weakness. Kasey Keller, for all his reliability, was not a world-class goalkeeper. Against a side with Manchester United's firepower, his flaws were laid bare.
By contrast, the young keeper Hans-Jörg Butt— who had featured in eight games so far — was steadily improving. Though he had only faced weaker opponents, his saves were increasingly sharp both high and low, and most importantly, he showed the hallmark of a true goalkeeper: stability.
That was something Keller lacked at the very highest level.
After the match, Aldridge invited Ferguson for a Christmas drink, but the Scot politely declined. Their next meeting would have to wait for another battle on the pitch.
To prepare for the League Cup semi-final first leg in early January, Aldridge rotated heavily for the 21st league fixture, away at Highbury. Arsenal, under Bruce Rioch, had stumbled early in the campaign but were gradually finding their rhythm. Sitting sixth, they were far from title contention, but only seven points off Millwall and United.
Still, it was a doomed season for Rioch. He had steadied Arsenal, restored some fight, but failed to provide any real tactical identity. The football remained functional, even dull, lacking the spark of innovation. Against Millwall's rotated and youthful side, Arsenal defended stoutly but offered little attacking imagination. The result was a flat 0–0 draw.
That stalemate allowed Manchester United to leapfrog Millwall in the standings by a single point. Newcastle, meanwhile, profited as the real winners, stretching their lead to eleven points over United and twelve over Millwall heading into January.
Ferguson poured every ounce of focus into chasing down Newcastle. His verbal sparring turned squarely onto Kevin Keegan.
Keegan, usually passionate but now visibly rattled, snapped during a BBC interview:"I've had enough of Ferguson's comments. We're still fighting for this title, and I'll tell you this — nothing would please me more than to beat Manchester United. Nothing."
The outburst betrayed his frustration. Instead of appearing as the confident leader of the league, Keegan looked agitated and thin-skinned. The press, predictably, seized on his words, framing them as a sign of weakness.
Keegan was like the top student who had led the class at mid-terms, only to be mocked by the class leader who sneered that the final exam was what really mattered. The confidence of the "good student" was beginning to fray.
Aldridge, however, refused to be drawn into the war of words. He concentrated on Millwall. He knew the first half of the season had been uneven, and now he was determined to rotate his squad more effectively, laying the groundwork for a stronger second half.
Leeds United, Millwall's semi-final opponents, were no longer the force of recent years. Once a consistent top-five side, they had slipped badly this season, drifting toward the bottom half and flirting with relegation danger. Their focus on the league made the cup a distraction.
At The Den, Millwall seized their chance. Goals from Larsson and Nedvěd earned a 2–0 first-leg win, putting one foot in the final.
Days later, Liverpool arrived, still burning with the humiliation of their Anfield defeat earlier in the campaign. The Reds attacked bravely, determined to avenge their loss, but in Millwall's fortress, bold opponents were often punished.
In a pulsating contest, Millwall edged them 3–2. Solskjær struck twice, Grønkjær added another, and though Liverpool fought until the end, Aldridge's side claimed another famous victory. In their first Premier League season, Millwall had done the double over one of England's traditional giants.
Momentum faltered slightly in the next match, with a draw against defending champions Blackburn, but by then the fans were scarcely concerned with the league table.
Attention turned to the cup. A 1–1 draw at Elland Road was enough to secure a 3–1 aggregate triumph over Leeds, sending Millwall to Wembley.
Their opponents in the final would be Aston Villa, sitting fifth in the league and proving one of the most consistent sides outside the title race.