When Aldridge arrived at Sir Alex Ferguson's residence in Cheshire, it was the first time he'd come face-to-face with the legendary Scotsman. The man who had dominated English football did not, at first glance, exude the fierce, commanding presence the public associated with him. Instead, lying back in a garden lounge chair under the warm midsummer sun, he looked more like a soldier resting after battle — casual, serene, his armor set aside.
Ferguson, dressed in a plain T-shirt, had dozed off while waiting for his guest. It was his wife, Cathy, who gently woke him. Ferguson had already been informed that a guest would be visiting, but time in the garden had lulled him into a peaceful afternoon nap.
Still blinking from the sun, Ferguson reached for his glasses and adjusted them before examining the young man standing nearby. Cathy served tea and quietly stepped away, knowing full well that any conversation remotely related to football was considered sacred — and best left to the men.
Ferguson never liked to discuss football at home. If Aldridge hadn't come through Jason, Ferguson's own son, he likely wouldn't have agreed to meet at all.
Aldridge, ever composed, approached with calm respect.
"Mr. Ferguson. It's an honor," he said with a light smile.
Ferguson gave a polite nod, then waved his hand toward Jason, subtly signaling that he wanted to speak to Aldridge alone. Despite Jason being his own son, Ferguson remained loyal to the unspoken codes of football's inner circle — a tight-knit world of coaches and managers where even the smallest insights were kept within.
Aldridge cast a quick glance at Andrew, who took the cue and followed Jason into the house. As the two younger men disappeared indoors, Ferguson gestured to the seat across from him. Aldridge sat down, and the two were soon separated only by a small garden table and two cups of steaming tea.
Brits had long embraced tea as a tradition — a subtle marker of civility. Aldridge took a sip, letting the moment settle before conversation began.
Ferguson, as expected, opened with a simple but pointed question: "Tell me, then. What exactly have you been doing at Millwall?"
Aldridge didn't hesitate. He spoke openly and without affectation, laying out the full picture — from his sudden takeover at the press conference to the voluntary resignation of the coaching staff, and the aggressive rebuild that followed.
He admitted, without flinching, that the press conference had been no accident — it was a deliberate move to corner the existing coach and force his resignation. Not out of malice, but necessity. If he was to build a team in his own image, he had to clear the board first.
Ferguson's first impression of Aldridge hadn't been positive. He resented the suddenness of the takeover. No manager likes being blindsided, even from afar. The disrespect to traditional football order — firing a full coaching staff without warning — came across as arrogance, perhaps even ignorance.
But the more Ferguson listened, the more intrigued he became. There was no posturing in Aldridge's words, no pretense of grandeur. The young man was measured, clear-headed, and brutally honest about his intentions.
And then there were the transfers.
Though Ferguson paid little mind to Millwall, the sheer volume of their summer signings had caught his eye. Most of the names meant nothing to the average English fan — young, foreign, unknown — but Ferguson, with his razor-sharp instincts, could tell this wasn't random.
From a distance, it was clear: Aldridge wasn't collecting players. He was building a team.
The average age looked barely over twenty-three. And while many were obscure, their positions, backgrounds, and potential suggested a method behind the madness. Ferguson couldn't confirm every detail — scouting data in 1994 wasn't nearly as extensive as it would become — but the structure was there.
And that's what piqued his interest.
He still had his doubts. Aldridge, after all, was an eighteen-year-old club owner acting as head coach. But slowly, piece by piece, the man in front of him didn't seem like a naive dreamer.
As evening approached and the shadows stretched across the garden, Ferguson finally leaned forward and asked the question he'd been holding back:
"So then, what exactly brings you here?"
After talking with the old man for more than an hour, Aldridge smiled bitterly and finally brought up his real intention.
"My lineup is a bit thin, so I want to loan players from Manchester United."
Ferguson looked at Aldridge with a strange expression and asked, "Why loans instead of buying?"
The subtext was obvious: You've already spent over ten million pounds. What's stopping you from spending more?
Aldridge scratched his head and gave a helpless smile. "To be honest, I do have a lot of players. Really. But the ones I'd actually want to bring in — I can't afford them. And even if I could, they probably wouldn't come. Most of the players in my team are completely unknown. I'm not buying big names from top leagues."
Ferguson nodded slightly, and for the first time, there was a trace of approval in his expression. At least the young man was aware of his situation. He wasn't acting like some upstart swinging his wallet at everything.
"Who are you looking at?" Ferguson asked. "Maybe I'd even consider selling."
Aldridge was caught off guard. He turned to look at the old man, who had a calm smile on his face. The kind that didn't match his words at all.
He's playing with me, Aldridge realized.
"Alright then. The Neville brothers, Scholes, Giggs, Beckham, Nicky Butt — those few. Name your price. If it's under five million pounds, I'll accept it."
He had been joking, but Ferguson didn't laugh. His face remained serious.
"You mean five million for the group?"
"They're not vegetables at the market," Aldridge replied dryly. "Five million pounds for each. If you're willing to let them go, I'll sell my house to get them. Even if you won't sell all at once, can't I at least take one or two? That would already be a new transfer record."
He finished speaking with a smile and stared at Ferguson, watching his expression closely.
Checkmate.
Ferguson smacked his lips, then suddenly let out a sigh. "So... who are you actually trying to loan?"
Aldridge had to admit, the old man was clever. With a few words, he'd completely changed the subject.
"Beckham," Aldridge answered.
Ferguson was quiet for a moment before asking, "How much game time?"
"At least 20 matches."
"Loan fee?"
"Millwall will take care of his wages during the loan."
After thinking for a while, Ferguson raised his head and said, "I'll add one more for you. Give him 20 minutes of playing time each match. How about that?"
Aldridge frowned. The old man's not just cunning — he's good at adding conditions, too.
He was helping his player develop, but acting like Aldridge should be grateful for the chance to do Ferguson a favour.
"Who?" Aldridge asked.
"Phil Neville."
Although he was Gary Neville's younger brother, Phil had just been promoted to United's first team like Beckham. But if he stayed, he'd be warming the bench all year.
Phil could play full-back or midfield, but Aldridge had already planned out his midfield: Vieira, Makelele, and Gattuso. All of them were raw talent that needed as many games as possible to develop. Even if it meant losing matches, Aldridge would rather play his own kids than polish someone else's.
He was direct. "Mr. Ferguson, if I take Phil Neville on loan, I'll only use him as a full-back. That's where he'll play."
He didn't know what role Ferguson had in mind for Phil, so he made his stance clear — and left the decision up to the manager.
Ferguson nodded. "Alright. That works."
He stood up and stretched, then said casually, "It's late. Stay for dinner."
Ferguson invited both Aldridge and Andrew to stay and enjoy a simple meal at his home.
The next day, Millwall officially announced the end of their summer transfer campaign. Preseason training would begin on July 21st.
...
...
Before the club's official training day on July 21st, Aldridge welcomed Jenson and his group to London. A total of thirteen new coaches would be joining Millwall.
He personally guided them through the club's facilities, then immediately proceeded to reorganize and establish the new coaching staff. Two coaches were assigned to the youth team, another two to the reserve team. Of the remaining nine, Jenson was appointed as Aldridge's assistant. Four would be integrated directly into the first-team coaching group, while the final four were tasked with forming an intelligence and analysis unit.
This new unit had a very clear mission: observe Millwall's league opponents and prepare detailed scouting reports ahead of each match. These reports were to include the opponent's form, key players, strengths and weaknesses, and tactical patterns. Aldridge made it mandatory that such reports be submitted at least three days before each fixture, ensuring Millwall would never go into a game unprepared.
After setting up the coaching structure, Aldridge turned his attention to the newly renovated hotel near the training ground. Accompanied by Adam and several other club staff members, he toured the premises.
The hotel had been acquired under the club's name and was no longer open to the public. Its interior was modestly decorated, but all facilities Aldridge had previously outlined were fully in place. The club's new medical department and restaurant had also been set up within the building.
Even in 1994, the medical standards in English football remained shockingly backward. At many historic clubs, the role of "team doctor" was often more a reward for loyalty than a position earned through merit or expertise. It was not uncommon for groundskeepers or kit men who had been with a club for decades to be handed such roles upon aging out of their previous duties.
This outdated system was deeply ingrained in the conservative traditions of English football. Years later, Jamie Redknapp—despite serving Liverpool for a decade—was ostracized when he opted to seek treatment outside the club, unable to trust the medical staff assigned to him. His choice to prioritize his health over blind loyalty was viewed as betrayal.
But Aldridge had no interest in upholding those misguided traditions. He had no intention of compromising player welfare out of deference to the past. He demanded the most professional and modern medical department available—because when you're managing players worth millions, and potentially hundreds of millions in the future, handing their careers over to an unqualified amateur is simply unacceptable.
Yet, in England, this was still the norm.
...
After the visit to the hotel, Aldridge left Adam behind to return to the club, but not before addressing an important topic: the future infrastructure of Millwall. The conversation was still built on aspirations, but he felt it necessary to plant the idea now.
"I checked the status of the new stadium project that's been on hold," Aldridge began. "I've got a thought. Since the current site is only partially constructed and hasn't taken full shape yet, why not convert it into a new training base? As for the stadium, let's find another location. But this time, the design must accommodate at least 50,000 spectators. And it should be surrounded by space suitable for commercial development—shops, restaurants, perhaps even a hotel complex."
Adam was caught completely off-guard. His eyes widened slightly before he rubbed his temple, exhaling softly in resignation.
"Sir," he said, "I've already drawn up the current financial projections. To be honest, if we don't take on any more large-scale, unplanned projects, the club's existing funds can cover operations for the next two years. But that's assuming we remain stable. Even if we secure promotion to the Premier League within that time, the current financial structure won't be enough to keep the club afloat. Not unless the Hall family is prepared to inject additional capital down the line. Otherwise, we'll be stretched to the breaking point."
Aldridge nodded quietly, understanding Adam's concern but not entirely comforted by the warning.
He was well aware of the financial strain.
The current wage bill for Millwall's first team—stacked with young, high-potential players—already rivaled that of some top-flight Premier League clubs. While the likes of Manchester United or Arsenal might have a handful of stars on ten-thousand-pound weekly wages, the majority of their squad still earned far less. In contrast, Aldridge had offered a minimum weekly salary of £3,000 to nearly every new signing. That wage structure might attract talent—but it was bleeding money fast.
Millwall, for all its ambition, was still a club with limited income.
The stadium's matchday revenue couldn't bring in more than £3 million per year. Commercial sales? Laughably small. Most of the merchandise didn't even leave the borough. TV broadcasting rights and prize money in the First Division were barely enough to cover day-to-day operations, let alone fund long-term growth.
There was only one way out of this financial bottleneck: promotion.
And not just promotion sometime in the next three to five years, like he'd told Barnett to soothe his nerves.
No—he had one year.
If Millwall didn't reach the Premier League at the end of this season, it wouldn't just be a missed opportunity. They would lose everything. Makelele, Thuram, Nedvěd—all the talent he'd assembled would leave. And worse, many would leave on free transfers, making a mockery of their investment. The club wouldn't even have enough left to fund a rebuild.
He said nothing more to Adam after that. Any talk of long-term vision felt hollow without results. For now, Aldridge would hold those dreams close to his chest.
The path ahead was clear.
Survive the year.
Win promotion.
Or lose everything.
...
...
In recent days, Andrew had been extremely busy. He had officially stepped away from Millwall's internal affairs to focus solely on his work as a football agent. In a short span of time, he signed several players in succession — many of whom were new additions to Millwall's squad. As a newly minted agent, Andrew had quickly grasped the responsibilities of the job: not just earning commissions from transfers and wages, but also offering legal assistance, financial planning, daily life management, and even career trajectory support for his clients.
These players weren't household names in England — even Southgate, the most recognizable among them, was only considered a capable professional, nothing more. But for Andrew and his staff working in East London, Millwall's growing investment in the area made logistics relatively easy. The Hall family's local real estate holdings allowed them to swiftly secure comfortable apartments for players, and translators were arranged for those who didn't speak English. Whatever the players needed — even, discreetly, the occasional call girl — Andrew handled it personally, albeit with a stern warning not to get carried away.
Thanks to Andrew's meticulous care, the young players, many of whom had suddenly found themselves earning more money than they ever imagined, began to understand the true value of having a competent agent.
The World Cup had just concluded, and although Aldridge had granted an extended holiday, Henrik Larsson still returned to the club right on time. On the 21st, the Swedish striker — admired by many of the younger players — stepped onto the training ground to a wave of respect.
Though Millwall's squad had been newly assembled from top to bottom, no one seemed isolated. The German contingent — Butt, Schneider, Ballack — mixed easily with Jaap Stam and Ruud van Nistelrooy from the Eredivisie. The Italian youngsters had no trouble finding common ground among themselves. Only Pavel Nedvěd, the soft-spoken Eastern European, might have had trouble integrating, but his calm demeanor and national team pedigree made him a natural focal point for his teammates.
Aldridge and his coaching staff approached the training ground together, all dressed in the club's traditional deep blue training gear. Beside him, Andrew walked in a sharp suit, here only to help finalize some logistical matters. Several translators were accompanying them — Aldridge had ordered that they be embedded directly into the coaching team to help non-English speakers adjust swiftly to the environment.
"Is the FA paperwork all sorted?" Aldridge asked quietly.
Andrew leaned in and whispered, "Yeah. Pavel's already a full national team member, so no need for any lobbying from big-name figures. Submitted the documents along with a little sweetener — £100,000. It's done. No trace left. As long as he performs well, no one will ever reopen the file."
Nedvěd, though not holding an EU passport, required a work permit to play in England. While his record of national team appearances didn't meet the typical 75% threshold, Aldridge wasn't too concerned. The rule was rarely enforced rigidly — and in 1990s England, where envelopes often passed under the table, formalities could be smoothed over with ease. While Aldridge handled the official submission through the FA, Andrew worked behind the scenes, making sure nothing would come back to haunt them. If Nedvěd had been a youth player with no caps, not even a pile of black money could have secured the deal. But as a rising figure in European football, he was worth the risk.
And let's be honest — a hundred-year-old club with no trophies, a lousy image, and no commercial value? No one in the FA was going to bother double-checking which Czech kid Millwall was importing.
At the edge of the pitch, Andrew gave a few last instructions to the translators, then waved goodbye to Aldridge before leaving.
As Aldridge stepped onto the training ground, flanked by his coaching staff, the players immediately formed two orderly lines. Most of them were between 17 and 19 years old, filled with ambition and potential, though still raw and unsure. Yet, in front of the young coach — who was also the club's new owner — every player stood with quiet respect.
It felt a bit like a gang formation. Aldridge stood calmly at the head, with his coaches lined up behind him. For the first time, the whole team was gathered in front of him — and for Aldridge, this was a moment to establish the tone.
He slowly walked past the players from left to right, pausing briefly at each one to make eye contact, offering only the smallest nods in return.
Then, stopping before the group, he folded his hands behind his back and began to speak in a soft, deliberate voice.
"Millwall has a 109-year history. And in that history...
English Premier League titles: Zero.
League Cup wins: Zero.
FA Cup victories: Zero.
European appearances: None.
Congratulations," he said, raising his voice just slightly, "you've joined a club with more than a century of history — and not a single major trophy to show for it."
His tone remained even, almost casual. Only that final sentence had any edge, delivered in the simplest English possible so that even the players still learning the language could understand.
Of the 26 first-team members, only Beckham and Phil Neville looked completely unmoved. As loan players from Manchester United, they'd come here for experience — not glory — and clearly didn't rate the club's history or prestige.
The rest of the players, however, glanced around uneasily. The weight of the club's barren past — the realization of what they'd signed up for — slowly dawned on them.
Then Aldridge suddenly spread his arms open and asked, solemnly:
"Aren't you happy?"
Aldridge glanced over the players assembled before him, a faint smile playing across his sharp features. He shrugged and spoke casually, "Honestly, when I first took over this club, I probably had the same expression as all of you right now. I even wanted to question my family: Why not buy Manchester United? Why not Liverpool, the kings of Europe from England? Why not put me on the pitch at Highbury?"
He paused briefly, then continued with a wry chuckle, "Why Millwall? Why this club? Maybe you've thought the same — that you should be playing for Juventus, or Real Madrid, or AC Milan... maybe even soaking in a hot bath in Rome or Lazio. But after ten minutes in a cold shower, I figured it out."
At this point, Aldridge's tone shifted, and even the usually detached Beckham and Phil Neville looked at him with newfound interest. All 26 players, whether eager or unsure, focused on the man in front of them. They wanted to know — what had he figured out?
His smile faded, and his tone grew serious.
"If I were the head coach at Manchester United, or Liverpool, or Arsenal, and I led them to win the Premier League next season... or even conquered Europe... what then? What would it really mean?"
Aldridge's voice deepened.
"People would still talk about the legendary Sir Matt Busby. They'd still speak of Shankly's Liverpool empire, or Chapman's Arsenal legacy. Who in their right mind would compare me to them?"
His eyes swept over the players.
"If I win the title, I can't brag. I can't puff my chest, because someone will just pat me on the shoulder and say, 'Aldridge? What have you really done? United rebuilt from the ashes of Munich. Liverpool won nearly 20 trophies in 9 years under Paisley, including three European Cups. Even Arsenal, with George Graham, have been formidable. So who the hell are you?'"
He paused again.
"That's what it would be like at a giant club. No matter what we achieve, we'd forever be living in the shadows of those before us. Our miracles... our glory... would be swallowed up by history."
Aldridge took a step forward, raising his voice with confidence.
"So I want to congratulate you — truly — for arriving at a club with 109 years of history and zero championships."
His words echoed through the training ground.
"Because this," he declared, "is the perfect place to build a legend that belongs to you. And to me."
A spark flickered across the faces of the players. Some looked at each other, and in their eyes, a fire had been lit.
Aldridge went on, his tone growing sharper.
"You made the right choice coming to Millwall. If I were a talented young player like any of you, I wouldn't be begging to sit on the bench at some bloated superclub. What's the point?"
He scoffed.
"Watching your teammates win titles from the sidelines? Sliding alone in the mud when no one passes you the ball? Standing off to the side at the end of the season, watching the starting eleven parade the trophy while you clap from the shadows? No thanks."
He stepped forward again.
"I don't want a hand-me-down title. I don't want someone else's charity medal. I want to lift the damn trophy myself. I want to win it. I want to show the world my medal — earned, not gifted."
The group stirred. Heads began to nod.
Aldridge grinned and let the tension ease, pacing with a lighter tone.
"They say I spent over ten million pounds on a circus. That I've brought in a team of nobodies. Let them laugh. I don't mind. Because very soon, the world will see exactly who you are."
His eyes burned as he pointed to the players.
"You're not just talented — you are the future stars of football. No, not just stars — superstars! Forget Maradona, Platini, Matthäus, Zico, Van Basten — in the next ten, twenty years, you will be the ones people talk about."
His voice swelled with passion.
"You'll be rich. You'll be heroes. You'll be the idols of fans across Europe — and probably have a few gorgeous women on your arm too," he added with a mischievous grin, which drew a few chuckles.
"And maybe, just maybe, a dozen of you will become true legends. The others? Some of you will fall. That's football. But don't blame the world if you fail. Don't blame your manager, your teammates, or bad luck. The truth is, if you waste your talent, it's your fault."
He stopped walking and looked each player in the eye.
"Sweat alone won't make you a champion. There are plenty of hard workers out there. But you — you've got that 1% magic the others don't. So don't throw it away. If you do, you'll wake up ten years from now looking in the mirror and wondering where it all went. And I won't pity you."
The squad was stunned — not by arrogance, but by a strange, raw conviction. Even the more experienced players like Nedvěd and Larsson were moved, if not completely swept away. But for the younger ones — 17-year-olds with dreams as big as stadiums — Aldridge's words hit like lightning. They were ready to train. Hell, they were ready to play in the World Cup tomorrow.
Then Aldridge took a step back, relaxed again, and called out.
"From now on, you call me Boss. Gareth."
Southgate straightened up and answered immediately, "Yes, Boss?"
Aldridge tossed him a captain's armband. Southgate caught it, surprised.
"You're the captain," Aldridge said simply. "Henrik."
Larsson tilted his head. "Boss?"
"You're vice-captain. Pavel," he added, looking at Nedvěd, "you're third."
Nedvěd looked stunned, then nodded solemnly.
Aldridge's tone turned firm again.
"My requirements are simple. First: discipline. Second: unity. There are no privileged players here. Not now. Not ever. On or off the pitch."
His gaze swept across them.
"If you ever have a problem, come to me. Any problem. But whatever happens, we solve it within the team. You're not just footballers. You're professionals. Act like it. Live like it. Understood?"
All 26 players responded in unison:
"Understood!"
Aldridge turned slightly, gesturing to the men behind him in blue training kits.
"Meet your coaching staff. This is Jenson Bernard, my assistant. These four — Babu, Craig, Tolop, and Leo — are the first-team coaches. You'll meet the rest during your training sessions."
He paused, letting it sink in.
"Don't underestimate them because they're young. They're from Ajax. Each has coached there for four years or more. They'll shape you into world-class players. Top of the world."
When the players heard the name Ajax, a ripple of respect passed through the ranks. In European football, there was no name more synonymous with elite youth development.
...
After the formal team meeting, Aldridge signaled the players to begin their first official training session. He stood on the sidelines, watching closely as the squad jogged laps around the pitch to warm up. The session began with a simple routine, but the atmosphere was far from ordinary.
Under the direction of the team's three captains, every player kept a steady pace. No one dared slack off. The group moved as one — 26 young men who had come from different corners of Europe, now thrown together under one banner.
Among them, young Michael Ballack ran quietly, his thoughts swirling. Glancing at Bernd Schneider, the midfielder beside him, Ballack murmured, "I think I'll remember today for the rest of my life."
Schneider furrowed his brow slightly. "I don't even know if I've got what it takes to be a top-level player," he admitted.
At 21, with his experience limited to Germany's 2. Bundesliga, Schneider wasn't overflowing with confidence. But today's meeting with Aldridge had planted something in him — not just motivation, but a strange sense of purpose. For Ballack, Schneider, and many others, this first formal session was no ordinary event. It would become a defining memory, etched permanently in the story of their careers.
Aldridge knew the truth: he could inspire them all he wanted, but ultimately, England couldn't keep them.
Back in the 1970s, English clubs had dominated Europe. Tottenham had won the UEFA Cup, and Liverpool, Nottingham Forest, and Aston Villa had captured seven European Cups between them. English football was once synonymous with continental success.
But after the Heysel Stadium disaster in 1985 and the subsequent ban on English clubs from European competitions, things had changed. By the time the ban was lifted in 1990–91, the damage had already been done. Even Liverpool, upon their return to the Champions League, failed to make it past the qualifiers.
Graham Taylor's infamous report following England's poor performance at Euro '92 further damaged the credibility of the domestic game. Investment declined, club infrastructure stagnated, and the English game found itself falling behind.
In the same period, Serie A rose to prominence, becoming the top league in Europe. It attracted the biggest names, commanded the largest transfer fees, and produced the most tactical sophistication. For young players with ambition, Italy—not England—was the promised land.
Aldridge understood this reality all too well. Players like Nedvěd weren't drawn to Millwall out of desire, but out of necessity. Without an EU passport, Nedvěd couldn't easily transfer to Italy, where non-EU player quotas were tightly enforced. Many players in his situation would later resort to fake documents and face scandal, but Aldridge offered him a legal, safer path — and Nedvěd, seeing the long-term opportunity, accepted it.
Still, Aldridge knew that if these players fulfilled their potential, the pull of bigger clubs would come. England, and especially Millwall, might be a stepping stone — unless he could turn it into something more.
Watching the training unfold, Jenson came to his side and nudged him playfully.
"I didn't know you had it in you," he said, half-joking. "You could make a living just giving speeches."
Aldridge didn't even glance at him. "I wasn't giving a speech," he said coolly. "I was just telling the truth — the real truth."
Jenson laughed, but his expression soon turned serious. "You know," he said, lowering his voice, "next season's going to be tougher than usual. The Premier League announced they're reducing the number of teams. Only 20 clubs next year."
Aldridge's brow furrowed.
"That means," Jenson continued, "four teams will go down from the Premier League. And only two will come up from the First Division. It's going to be hell trying to get promoted."
Aldridge let out a low sigh. It was bad luck, plain and simple.
The Premier League had announced its intent to reduce the number of clubs from 22 to 20 for a while now. It could've happened last year. It could've happened next year. But of course, it had to be this season — his first year at Millwall.
The fight for promotion would be a brutal one.
As Aldridge had already analyzed, the First Division was stacked with contenders.
Three clubs had just been relegated from the Premier League — Sheffield United, Oldham Athletic, and Swindon Town. While Swindon's disastrous campaign in the top flight meant they were unlikely to bounce back quickly, the other two posed a real threat.
Then there were the perennial powerhouses of the division: Middlesbrough, Reading, Bolton Wanderers, Wolverhampton, Derby County, Watford — all strong sides with ambitions of their own.
And now, with only two promotion spots available instead of the usual three, the competition would be fiercer than ever.
Aldridge exhaled slowly. He'd known it wouldn't be easy. But this? This was going to be a war.