Aldridge returned to the hotel close to eleven o'clock at night. The receptionist confirmed his room number, handed him the key card, and he stepped into the elevator. Moments later, he entered his suite.
The top-tier suites in this hotel were furnished like small apartments, spacious and luxurious yet with the warmth of home. Aldridge switched on the lights and collapsed onto the bed. Although he had dozed on the plane, the rest had been shallow; his head still felt clouded and heavy.
Thud, thud, thud, thud.
His eyes snapped open. The faint sound of footsteps inside the room set his nerves on edge.
A thief?
He rolled over, sat up quickly, and snatched the cordless phone from the bedside table as a makeshift weapon.
"Who's there?! Don't come closer — I'll hurt you if I have to!"
He shouted, then froze in disbelief.
At the foot of the bed stood Melanie. She wore a thin lace nightdress that clung lightly to her figure, revealing just enough of her slim frame beneath. Her long dark-brown hair cascaded over her shoulders. She had clearly taken her time to prepare herself, despite the minimal clothing, and her perfume floated across the room in a warm, enticing wave.
Melanie laughed softly at his reaction, her eyes glinting with amusement. She pointed at the phone in his hand and teased, "If I were really an intruder, would you rely on that to stop me?"
Aldridge tossed the phone aside, sprang forward, and wrapped her in his arms. Rolling her onto the bed beneath him, he kissed her lips hungrily while she gave a startled scream, half laughter, half surprise.
What would happen next needed no explanation. At first Melanie only held his head close, but soon she was tugging at his shirt, slipping it off. When her eyes fell on his lean, sculpted torso, her breath caught. His abdominal muscles were sharply defined — not an ounce of fat on him.
Aldridge stood upright with a hint of pride, flexing as if on display. "Since I was ten years old — one hundred sit-ups every day in the first month, two hundred in the second, and by the end of the year, a thousand daily."
Melanie flushed, half embarrassed, half impressed. "You wanted to be a coach as a boy, didn't you?"
He grinned. "I also needed a fallback plan. If I couldn't be a coach, at least I could try modeling. A man shouldn't go hungry if he relies on himself. And though I don't consider myself vain, I still like to carry a little charm in front of the girls."
"You're shameless," she shot back, though her smile betrayed her.
Aldridge lay down again, closing his eyes playfully. "How about a backflip, like in one of your music videos?"
"I'm afraid I'd crush you," she laughed, before climbing on top of him. Their lips met again, heat building.
The embrace deepened, clothes slipped away, and soon they were lost in the rising warmth of each other's touch.
Melanie was athletic, her body honed through years of dance and performance. Her limbs were supple, her skin smooth, every movement carrying a natural flexibility. She wasn't voluptuous in the extreme, but her youth and vitality shone more brightly than any exaggerated curves.
Their breathing grew ragged, filling the room. As Aldridge paused, he looked at her carefully, noting the tension in her trembling body. His hand rested gently on her hip, his voice soft with concern. "Why are you shaking? Is it too much? Are you hurt?"
Her cheeks burned crimson. She turned her face away, eyes squeezed shut, and whispered, "It's my first time. I'm a little scared… it might hurt."
He blinked, surprised. "So Liverpool girls are this conservative?"
"Don't start with me," she said, half defensive, half shy. "When the group was formed I was only nineteen. I never had time for boys. My days were lessons, dance practice, rehearsals, performances. Not every girl from Liverpool spends her time clubbing in bikinis. Now hurry up, Aldridge! Stop stalling, you're making it worse — how painful will it be?"
He raised his hand in mock salute, putting on a serious expression. "Sorry, I can't answer that."
Inside, he felt nothing but respect for her. Many people succeeded through luck or talent, but Melanie's rise had been built on relentless effort. That drive would carry her even after the group's future breakup, allowing her to dominate the charts as a solo artist — one of Britain's most successful singers.
Melanie giggled despite herself at his soldier-like pose, then buried her head into the pillow. "You're ridiculous. At a time like this… ah—!"
A sharp gasp escaped her.
Aldridge's body pressed close, sweat beading on both foreheads. She bit her lip, her face twisted with both pain and determination.
He winced sympathetically. "Why are you crying out? It's you, not me."
Her laugh was half a sob, eyes watery as she stared at him. "You idiot, of course it hurts — I'm the one crying!"
He looked straight into her eyes, unwavering, and whispered, "It hurts me too… you're so tight."
Her blush deepened to scarlet. She knocked her forehead against his cheek and gritted her teeth. "You're impossible."
"Aha! Then I'll prove to you I'm a man. Want to know a secret? I'm a virgin."
She gave him a look of disbelief. "You've been lying from the moment I met you. With moves like these, do you expect me to believe that?"
"I swear. Nearly ten years without touching a woman," he replied, half serious, half teasing.
She groaned. "You can still joke at a time like this? Honey, this feels… so strange."
"Then let it happen," he whispered back.
And so they did. The night stretched on, the two of them wrapped in each other, driven by youthful fire. In that private world of laughter, gasps, and whispered words, they discovered and rediscovered one another, tireless until the first light touched the curtains.
The next morning, Aldridge and Melanie strolled hand in hand through New York City, accompanied by their teammates and their partners. Moving together in such a large group, their presence was impossible to ignore. Wherever they went, they drew curious glances. Agents and promoters, quick to sense opportunity, approached with business cards, while men and women alike offered invitations with a smile.
It was no surprise — a group of striking young athletes, dressed casually yet carrying themselves with the confidence of professionals, walking the streets of Manhattan had the aura of celebrities.
They toured Rockefeller Center, ascended the Empire State Building for its sweeping views, and later in the evening attended a Broadway performance. For Aldridge, the trip had been worth every moment. The atmosphere around the team was cheerful, full of laughter and lighthearted banter. Everywhere he looked, players and their families wore expressions of genuine happiness.
Three days later, on the weekend, Aldridge arrived at the Sun Devil Stadium in Tempe, Arizona.
The 30th Super Bowl was about to be played here.
In the United States, the Super Bowl was more than just a championship game; it was treated as a national festival, almost an unofficial holiday. Because the spectacle took place on a single day, the event had become the most commercially valuable sports competition in the world. Forbes would later rank it above all others in terms of advertising revenue and brand impact. During this day, advertisers unveiled commercials destined to become cultural landmarks, while the halftime show featured some of the most popular musical artists in the world.
A thirty-second advertising slot was valued in the millions of dollars — a figure that translated, if one did the math, to hundreds of thousands of RMB per second. The oft-mocked phrase about "up and down hundreds of thousands per second" was, in this arena, no exaggeration.
Aldridge and his group watched from a private box. The women gathered together, chatting animatedly about their sightseeing over the past few days. Melanie, independent by nature, wasn't the type to cling to her partner constantly. Aldridge appreciated that about her — the balance between closeness and freedom. He stood at the wide glass window, overlooking the vast sea of people below. Nearly 80,000 fans had filled the stadium, the energy buzzing like static in the air. On the television screens in the box, camera angles swept across the crowd, picking out celebrities from the worlds of politics, film, sport, and music.
Aldridge recognized none of them, nor did he care. He was here to enjoy the game itself.
That year's final brought together two giants of the NFL: the Dallas Cowboys and the Pittsburgh Steelers.
"Boss, thank you," Nedvěd said as he came over. "My family and I have really enjoyed these days."
Aldridge turned back with a smile. "Think nothing of it. Work and life are the two halves of who we are. Enjoy both, and happiness follows."
Pirlo, still single and curious about everything, joined them alongside Schneider, Larsson, Barák and a few others. They had all dressed smartly in suits and leather shoes, ready to head straight to the airport after the game and return to London.
"Do you like American football?" Pirlo asked, his tone half teasing.
Aldridge folded his arms with a grin. "I wouldn't say I love it, but I enjoy it now and then. Funny, isn't it? The football England gave the world, Americans reshaped into rugby, which grew into the nation's most beloved sport."
He chuckled, then added, "If you asked people outside the US what defines American sport, they'd probably say the NBA. But here, the reality is different. For decades, rugby and baseball have been the kings. Even ice hockey once outranked basketball, at least before the NBA's explosion in the nineties."
After a moment, Aldridge leaned closer to Pirlo, deliberately shifting the conversation. "Tell me, Andrea — how have you felt in training these past months at the club?"
Pirlo answered honestly. "Good, I think. I've managed to meet Coach Nagy's demands. But in matches… I'm not sure I understand how my position fits. Every player wants to feel decisive, to be central. I want that too."
Aldridge nodded. "That's natural. Do you know who the stars are in American football teams?"
Pirlo shook his head.
"The quarterback," Aldridge explained. "That role embodies mainstream American values — leadership, composure, decision-making. The quarterback is the mind and the soul of the team. Just look at the MVP awards. More often than not, they go to quarterbacks. The media hypes the duels between them as 'super quarterback showdowns.' It's not unlike two great playmakers facing each other in football."
Pirlo frowned thoughtfully, realizing Aldridge was leading him toward a point.
"Think of it this way," Aldridge continued. "On a football pitch, we've always known what a No. 9 is, what a No. 10 is. Even the idea of a 9½ has been defined. But a true No. 4? For years, it had no clear place — until a Dutchman brought his philosophy to Barcelona. Cruyff. In his experiment, the No. 4 came alive through Guardiola. With him, Barça claimed four straight league titles and ruled Europe. That dynasty is still fresh in our memory."
He paused, letting Pirlo absorb the thought. "Maybe you've never watched American football before, Andrea. But today, relax. Watch the Super Bowl, keep your eyes on the quarterbacks, see how they command the game. Afterward, we'll talk again. And then I'll tell you whether you have it in you to be a key man on the football pitch."
...
...
The atmosphere inside Sun Devil Stadium was feverish, a wave of noise and excitement that seemed to melt away rational thought. The crowd was wild with enthusiasm, savoring every moment of this year's Super Bowl.
Aldridge stood at the window of the box, a glass of wine in hand, surrounded by his players. Some of them had already picked up the rules of American football, while others were watching it for the first time. It didn't matter. The game was straightforward enough to grasp once you saw it live.
The rhythm of the contest was divided into offense and defense. At a glance, you could tell who was attacking and who was defending, since each team sent on entirely separate units for each phase.
Watch for just five minutes, and you would understand that the figure who orchestrated everything — the man who dictated each play after the snap — was the quarterback. He was the team's brain, the soul of its offense.
On this day, Troy Aikman of the Dallas Cowboys and Neil O'Donnell of the Pittsburgh Steelers led their sides. Both were established stars, quarterbacks who carried the burden of expectation.
When Aikman unleashed a perfectly measured long pass that advanced the Cowboys downfield, Aldridge turned to Pirlo with a smile.
"The quarterback is held to impossible standards," Aldridge said. "Passing is the foundation — whether long or short, every throw must be precise. But it isn't just technique. He has to read the field in the blink of an eye, find the safe zone, and deliver the ball there. Sometimes he gambles, taking a risk. Success might mean a touchdown. Failure? An interception. And that can destroy the team."
Pirlo listened closely, his mind already translating Aldridge's point into the language of football. He understood. The quarterback wasn't the runner who carried the ball forward, but he was the true general, the one who dictated victory from behind the lines.
Pirlo frowned thoughtfully. "So, is the quarterback like a No. 10 in football?"
Aldridge shook his head. "Not exactly. A No. 10 is the heart of a team — passing, creating, scoring. He carries many responsibilities. Andrea, what I want to discuss is the direction of football tactics. It matters for your future. When you reach your peak, the game itself will be changing. I can't predict exactly how tactics will evolve in ten years, but change is certain."
The players gathered closer. This wasn't a lecture demanded of them, but they knew that Aldridge's words could shape their understanding and careers.
He sipped his wine, then spoke more deliberately. "Think back over the history of tactics: 1–2–7, 2–3–5, the WM, 4–2–4, 4–4–2, 3–4–3, 4–3–3, 4–5–1… the pattern is obvious. Structures become more balanced, strikers decrease, midfielders increase. Why? Rules matter, yes, but the real driver is innovation. Arsenal's WM in the 1930s, Italy's catenaccio in the 1960s, the Netherlands' Total Football in the 70s. But today, true revolutions are rare. The world has entered an era of synchronization. Once an idea proves effective, it spreads instantly, studied by everyone. Innovation is harder than ever. Only outliers — nations disconnected from the mainstream — surprise us with oddities. North Korea, for example, once lined up in a bizarre 3–3–3–1. It failed, but it showed that breaking from convention can still spark something new."
The young players were absorbed. These were ideas they had never heard in such clarity.
"Now, 4–4–2 is often credited to England," Aldridge continued, "but in truth, Viktor Maslov at Dynamo Kyiv had already developed it. At the time, he was ridiculed. Yet England would go on to win the 1966 World Cup with a version of 4–4–2. The two didn't directly influence one another, but both reflected the same truth. Maslov explained it with a metaphor: football is like an airplane. As speed increases, resistance increases. To cut through the air, the nose must be more streamlined. What he meant was this: as players became faster, finding space grew harder. So attackers needed to hide deeper, harder to mark. Without that, defenses would smother them."
The players nodded. The analogy resonated. Even the best striker endured games where no chance came. To attack effectively, you needed to find cracks in defense, but also to disguise your own intentions.
Pirlo murmured, "So the striker drops deeper."
Aldridge snapped his fingers. "Exactly. A forward who retreats, who organizes as well as finishes, destabilizes opponents. That's what people now call the nine-and-a-half. But it demands supreme technical skill. Maybe in five years we'll see the master of that role. Right now, the best is Baggio. He drops, creates, assists, and still scores. But such balance is rare. Many midfielders can assist, many strikers can score. To combine both at the highest level is another matter."
His gaze shifted to Nedvěd, a glance filled with expectation. A player who could both pass and shoot might grow into such a role.
Pirlo, however, felt a sting of doubt. He knew his qualities. Dribbling past opponents was not his strength.
"Remember our two matches against Manchester United this season?" Aldridge asked suddenly.
The players nodded, recalling the battles.
Aldridge's smile broadened. "At times, both sides were locked in stalemate. We marked their forwards, they strangled ours. The front line had no space. So what changed games? A dribble breaking through into the box. A full-back's sudden overlap. A striker dropping deep and striking unexpectedly. Not rehearsed, textbook movements, but the sudden tearing of rhythm."
Ballack spoke up. "The quick breaks after defense."
Aldridge pointed at him. "Exactly. That's our foundation. Our goals don't come from patiently prodding against a set wall. They come when the opponent has just lost the ball, when their defense is unformed. We advance fast, spread wide, and exploit the gaps before they close. That is our speed advantage. That is our edge."
The room was quiet except for his voice. Many of them had lived these ideas on the pitch, but only now, through Aldridge's words, did they grasp the deeper meaning of what they were doing.
Football is a sport of constant contest — you attack, I attack, back and forth without pause. Unlike American football, where an offensive unit leaves the field for the defensive unit after each drive, the rhythm in football cannot be broken down into neat stages measured in seconds. The game flows continuously, and as its tempo increases, players are forced to become more versatile. Quick counterattacking has become the foundation for elite teams. Without it — or without speed to exploit it — a side will struggle at the highest level.
"If you've ever watched Guardiola play," Aldridge said, "you might share my impression: at times it feels as if Barcelona are playing with one man less. He keeps to himself, quietly sitting deep, doing the dirty work. He takes the ball, passes it off simply, and rarely draws attention. Only in carefully edited highlight reels do you notice the occasional penetrative pass or contribution to a counterattack. Across ninety minutes, over a full forty-two game La Liga season, his moments of brilliance are relatively few. I'll tell you something, but keep it to yourselves — don't let the media twist it. To me, Guardiola is one of Cruyff's experiments that never fully succeeded."
The players glanced at each other in surprise. Guardiola was considered a key member of Barcelona's "Dream Team." Hearing Aldridge describe him as ordinary challenged their assumptions.
"In this era," Aldridge went on, "Guardiola carries the reputation of belonging to that side, but compared with the great midfielders of today, his individual influence isn't exceptional. His job is unusual, though. Cruyff wanted him to be something new — perhaps his version of a quarterback. But Guardiola never truly embodied that role. He was both the main defensive shield and the primary organizer in the back third. Both duties fell on his shoulders. That he managed to perform them at all is impressive. But as the pace of football rises, as the physical duels grow sharper, it becomes impossible for one man to be world-class at both ends. Players can grow more complete, yes, but in a match their energy must be divided. If you focus on defense, your attacking output will suffer. If you focus on attacking, your defensive bite weakens. Football is a team game. It makes more sense to separate those tasks, letting two different players maximize their strengths in midfield."
Aldridge had long believed that it was precisely Guardiola's limitations as a player that later allowed him to excel as a coach. Because he had never been considered truly world-class on the pitch, he was able to reflect more deeply on the flaws in Cruyff's idea and then perfect it as a manager. In Barcelona, he resolved the contradiction he had once embodied. His great team would split the responsibilities: Busquets anchored the defense, Xavi dictated the rhythm of possession, and Iniesta connected attack with creativity. Together they formed a side that balanced offense and defense seamlessly, building a dynasty that dominated Europe.
The lesson was clear. By dividing tasks, the collective became stronger. One man's weakness could be covered by another's strength. The team's sum was greater than its parts — a footballing truth expressed in its purest form.
Pirlo's eyes shone with curiosity. "Boss, why must the organizing role sit deeper, in midfield or even the back line?"
Aldridge chuckled. "We've already touched on this. Players today are faster. Attacking players who position themselves close to goal are easier to mark, easier to smother. So the starting point of attacks has moved backward. The best teams will create danger through late runs — full-backs overlapping, midfielders breaking from deep. Organization will increasingly come from behind the forwards. A lethal attack might start with the goalkeeper, build through the defenders, and only then release a pass that springs the forwards. The choice of when and where to strike from deeper areas will decide matches."
Pirlo nodded slowly. At last, the pieces fell into place. He began to understand why Aldridge and Nagy had drilled him so hard in training on passing, positioning, and vision from deeper zones. Perhaps he could be molded into this new kind of midfielder. Whether it would succeed, he couldn't yet know. But it was worth trying.