After Trezeguet's goal rippled the back of the net, he pointed toward Larsson, grinning widely, and jogged over to embrace him. The rest of the Millwall squad quickly converged around the pair, celebrating the move as a unit. Their joy was unfiltered and deeply earned. It was a goal born from understanding, timing, and discipline.
On the sidelines, Aldridge's adrenaline was still running high. The moment had set his nerves alight, and his excitement left his throat parched. He turned briefly from the dugout, grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler, and took a long drink.
Even though he wasn't playing, Aldridge knew that managing a match like this took its own toll. He was processing every movement, every shift in momentum, and constantly recalibrating the balance of the game. It wasn't just tactics—it was a physiological engagement, the kind that sent surges of adrenaline through his body.
Had he been able to hear the television broadcast at that very moment—the national Premier League commentary feed that sometimes featured key First Division games—he might have smiled even wider at what was being said.
"Eleven seconds! That's all it took! What a goal—clinical and breathtaking! Stam wins the header in the box, Pires collects it and carries the ball no more than twenty metres before switching play to Schneider on the right. The German lad doesn't hesitate—delivers a pinpoint low ball across, and Larsson, rather than shoot, lays it off brilliantly for Trezeguet. The Frenchman makes no mistake! That's five touches, five players involved, no delay at any phase. Millwall moved like a machine—every action forward, no backward step. We've underestimated this Millwall team, and we've certainly underestimated Aldridge Hall. They're a storm. A youth-fuelled tornado ripping through this division!"
On the opposite touchline, Derby County's manager, Roy McFarland, stood rooted in disbelief. The speed and precision of the counter had left his defenders scrambling and his entire tactical plan on edge. Yet despite the shock, he knew his position was precarious. After dropping points in the opening two matches, another loss today would leave Derby teetering near the bottom of the table.
Clapping his hands vigorously, he stepped toward the technical area and began shouting instructions.
"Come on, lads! We're still in this! Heads up! Don't fold—we put nine past them last season. We'll score more today!"
The players responded, rallying together and clapping each other on the back as they reset for kickoff.
Aldridge, who had returned to the edge of the technical area with his water bottle in hand, heard McFarland's words loud and clear. The volume of his counterpart's voice carried across the pitch. Aldridge narrowed his eyes for a moment, then stepped forward and raised his own voice for his players to hear.
"Did you hear that? Their coach just said they'll score ten against us!"
All of Millwall's players—except for Lucas Neill, who was stationed on the far right flank—turned their heads briefly in response. The message landed.
In the minutes that followed, the transformation was visible. Millwall's players snapped back into focus, closing down space more aggressively, challenging every touch, and defending with greater unity. They didn't panic or overcommit; they simply refused to let Derby settle.
The supporters in the stands, however, remained somewhat conflicted. On one hand, Millwall had taken the lead with a stunning goal. On the other, their tactical setup still confused a segment of the crowd. Despite having the lead, nearly the entire team remained inside their own half, sitting deep and conceding possession.
Both Larsson and Trezeguet lingered around the centre circle, far from Derby's penalty area. To the casual observer, it looked passive—almost lazy. But those watching closely would have noticed the constant scanning, the subtle movements, the awareness of Derby's defensive positioning.
This was not disinterest. This was strategy.
In the minds of Larsson and Trezeguet, Aldridge's tactical briefing from the night before remained vivid.
"Derby plays one way," Aldridge had said. "They come hard, press early, throw numbers forward. When it works, they suffocate teams. But when it doesn't, they leave gaps. Their back line stays tight to the striker's heels. They'll foul. They'll try to steal high. But if you—David, Henrik—drift back near midfield instead of pushing up, they'll eventually follow. They'll press too high. That's when the space behind them opens like a canyon."
He had looked each of them in the eye when he said it.
"When you see that gap—when their back line loses its structure—I want the wingers to fire balls in behind. Hit them before they turn. No defender in this division, maybe not even in the Premier League, will catch you two in a straight-line sprint."
So now, Larsson and Trezeguet remained patient, hovering just deep enough to pull Derby's defenders away from their zone.
Aldridge had always been subtle in the way he praised his players' individual strengths. He rarely singled anyone out openly in tactical sessions, preferring instead to embed compliments within the team framework. This understated recognition had a powerful effect: players felt valued and empowered without being isolated, and in turn, they became more motivated to carry out his instructions with belief.
However, despite their tactical discipline, Millwall had spent much of the first half under sustained pressure. Derby County's high press was proving effective. Their forwards hunted in packs, pressing Millwall's defenders and defensive midfielders with intensity. While they couldn't intercept every pass or force turnovers consistently, their sheer presence prevented Millwall from building effective attacking phases.
For nearly forty minutes, Millwall remained compact in their own half. Their forwards remained withdrawn, and possession was mostly recycled across their defensive third. The Den, after the initial surge of energy, had grown tense and quiet.
But Derby County's aggression came at a cost. As the minutes ticked by and their efforts yielded no breakthrough, frustration began to seep into their game. Their midfielders pressed less urgently. Their defenders held shape with less precision. Signs of fatigue and discouragement began to show, especially in their transitions and recoveries.
It was in this window—approaching the 40th minute—that Millwall struck.
On the edge of Millwall's penalty area, Derby's centre-forward attempted to cut inside, hoping to beat Southgate and create a shooting lane. But Southgate anticipated the move, stepped in cleanly, and won the ball without going to ground. Instead of clearing the ball blindly, he looked up, assessing the shape ahead of him.
Of the two centre-backs, Southgate was clearly the more composed in possession. It was no accident that in Aldridge's tactical framework, Southgate had been assigned an additional responsibility: initiate the first pass in transition after a successful defensive stop.
Just ahead in the midfield, Pavel Nedvěd signaled for the ball, peeling into a pocket of space. Southgate didn't hesitate. He sent a crisp pass into Nedvěd's feet.
The Czech midfielder immediately shifted laterally with a smooth pullback to evade the oncoming Derby midfielder. Then, after glancing upfield, he launched a high, looping ball from just behind the halfway line—skipping the wings entirely and driving it directly into Derby's defensive third.
For over thirty minutes, Nedvěd had dutifully followed the plan: build up play through the flanks, use Pirès and Schneider to feed crosses or diagonal entries. But Derby's full-backs had clogged those channels, using persistent pressure and tactical fouls to stifle progress.
This time, Nedvěd adjusted on the fly. He didn't recycle wide. He bypassed everything and went for the heart of the matter.
Aldridge, watching from the sideline, immediately recognized the intent behind the ball.
Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.
The pass soared over midfield, carrying enough height to clear the high defensive line that Derby had been operating with. It was a risk, but the trajectory and weight were perfect. The ball was set to drop about forty yards from goal—an area behind Derby's centre-backs, but too far out for the goalkeeper to claim.
Larsson and Trezeguet were already in motion. After exchanging glances and understanding the play, they initiated a cross-over run—Larsson curved in from the right, Trezeguet from the left, switching their lanes to confuse their markers.
The Derby defenders, caught mid-step, hesitated. Their body positioning faltered just long enough for the damage to be done. By the time they turned to chase, Larsson and Trezeguet had already pulled a full metre ahead, and the gap continued to widen.
Larsson was faster and had the better angle toward the ball. Trezeguet, recognizing this, adjusted his run to become the second option—a trailing threat.
For a brief moment, The Den held its breath.
The ball dropped cleanly in front of Larsson, who had timed his sprint perfectly to avoid the offside trap. Derby's goalkeeper rushed out of his box, trying to narrow the angle and force an early decision. The two players closed in on one another, just three metres apart.
Larsson, calm and aware, did not take the shot.
Instead, he squared the ball across the penalty area with a smooth, unselfish touch, placing it directly in front of Trezeguet.
Trezeguet, who had never been offside due to his trailing position, collected the pass with ease. With the goalkeeper already committed, he touched the ball forward into the box.
The keeper spun and lunged to recover, but he was now behind the play.
Rather than shooting immediately, Trezeguet rounded the keeper, drifting toward the byline to widen the shooting angle. Then, rather than taking the tight shot himself, he passed the ball gently back across the face of goal, where Larsson had slowed his run.
Surprised but alert, Larsson stepped into the path of the return pass and tapped it into the empty net.
It was a finish so effortless, so unhurried, that it momentarily stunned even the home crowd. But the silence didn't last.
The stands erupted. Fans leapt to their feet in unison, clapping, shouting, waving scarves and fists as The Den roared to life once again.
Larsson walked over to Trezeguet, smiling quietly as they embraced. The goal had been built on trust, vision, and perfect execution.
Derby's defenders stormed into the net, one of them lashing the ball back out in frustration. Their confidence was unraveling. The anxiety they had begun to feel after the first goal now turned into open panic.
Aldridge, standing at the edge of the technical area, clenched his fists and gave two sharp upward pumps—controlled, focused, without showmanship.
There was no need to over-celebrate.
Millwall had just made their point.
By halftime, they led 2–0.
The timing of the second goal—just before the interval—was psychologically devastating for Derby. The body language of their players on the walk back to the dressing room said it all. Shoulders slumped. Heads down. Their belief had fractured.
In the second half, Aldridge rotated his squad with confidence. He introduced three substitutions to control the rhythm and conserve energy.
And Ole Gunnar Solskjær, entering from the bench, took full advantage.
Within thirty minutes, he scored twice—first with a poacher's instinct inside the six-yard box, then again with a cool finish from the edge of the area after a clever layoff from Beckham.
As the fourth goal hit the net, The Den transformed into a sea of movement.
"Ole! Ole! Ole Ole!"
The chants rang out in rhythm, joyful and deafening.
The final whistle confirmed Millwall's most emphatic statement yet: 4–0, a clean sheet, total domination.
After three matches, they sat atop the First Division table—three wins, ten goals scored, zero conceded.
The team that no one rated in pre-season had now turned every head in the league.
Millwall had arrived.
...
...
In East London, the early evening atmosphere on the night of the Lantern Festival resembled more the noisy reopening of a street market than the polished glow of West London, where neon signs lit up the façades of glass towers and upmarket department stores. Here, in the working-class heart of the city, the energy was raw, grounded, and familiar.
Inside a modest corner bar tucked between a fish-and-chip shop and a bookmakers, a small crowd had gathered to unwind. The bar itself was narrow, its counter lined with four stools, most of them occupied. A few men leaned against the pool table in the back, laughing between shots. The warm scent of ale and wood polish hung in the air, while a small television above the bar replayed highlights from the First Division match that had ended earlier in the afternoon—Millwall's thumping win.
Behind the counter, a well-groomed Black man in his late twenties wore a pressed waistcoat and white dress shirt. As he polished a wine glass with a bar towel, he moved with practiced ease—gracious when a customer placed an order, attentive in conversation, but never distracted for long. He greeted guests with familiarity, chatting in low tones between refills and resetting ashtrays.
Just as the post-match lull settled into something more comfortable, the front door opened with a creak. A man in a navy suit stepped inside, drawing attention from nearly everyone in the room.
"Oi, look who it is!" someone shouted from the back.
Brady, cue in hand near the pool table, grinned and waved. "Well, if it isn't our genius on the touchline. Aldridge! That was some display this afternoon!"
The bar's attention shifted entirely to the newcomer.
One of the regulars, red-cheeked and three pints in, raised his glass and slurred warmly, "You keep this up, son, and we'll be in the Premier League next season, mark my words!"
Another man, older and slightly more composed, turned from the TV and pointed a finger approvingly. "Mr. Hall! That Larsson lad's got something. He's got a bit of Sheringham in him, you ask me. Just don't go selling him like the rest!"
A young man in his early twenties stepped up next, barely able to get the words out in his excitement. "You think Larsson's stayin', boss? He's brilliant—don't sell him, please."
Aldridge laughed quietly, shaking a few hands and patting shoulders. Though the comparisons to Teddy Sheringham might have been flattering to the fans, Aldridge didn't put much stock in them. Sheringham had been a solid forward, certainly, but even in his best years, his scoring tally had never truly put him among England's elite. Larsson, in Aldridge's vision, was destined for something bigger.
After several minutes of greeting supporters and indulging the well-wishers, Aldridge made his way to the bar and took a seat on the last empty stool. He looked at the man behind the counter and smirked.
"Place looks busy. Still not hiring help?" he said, only half-teasing.
The bartender grinned and poured a modest glass of whiskey before replying. "The other lads went for dinner. I'll manage until they're back. Peak crowd's passed, anyway."
The man behind the bar was Sand, a long-time friend of Aldridge. Their paths had run parallel in many ways. Aldridge had spent the past eight years traveling across Europe, chasing coaching badges and absorbing modern football philosophy. Sand had started out managing a video rental store and had gradually transitioned into owning this bar, which had become a favorite post-match spot for locals.
Aldridge took a sip of the whiskey and glanced up at the television, now running match recaps with muted commentary. "Still pirating foreign broadcasts, I see," he said dryly.
Sand chuckled and lowered his voice. "You know how it is. They all do it."
Aldridge leaned in, serious for a moment. "You know it's only a matter of time before the Football Association starts cracking down. When they do, it won't be a slap on the wrist. They'll come in hard—fines, court cases, maybe even closures. If they catch you, this place won't survive."
Sand nodded slowly, acknowledging the risk. "Yeah. I know. Just tryin' to stay afloat."
It was common knowledge. Across Britain, bars like this one used back-channel satellite decoders to broadcast live Premier League matches from European feeds. Sky Sports held the exclusive UK rights, but their encrypted signal was too expensive for most small business owners. Instead, bar owners paid a few hundred pounds on the black market for decoding equipment. That allowed them to show live football pulled from Scandinavian or Middle Eastern broadcasters—often before Sky's own airing.
For most guests, a one-pound cover charge got them inside to watch Premier League football on Saturday or Sunday, and they'd easily spend three or four times that in drinks. The profit margins made it difficult to resist, even if the legal risks loomed large.
Aldridge made a passing comment, then grabbed a bottle of beer and walked to the back of the bar, where two pool tables were set up. Brady and a few others were already there playing. As Aldridge approached, Brady tossed him the cue stick with a grin.
"Millwall is awesome."
Aldridge tossed his blazer onto a nearby chair, set the beer bottle down on the edge of the table, and took his shot in a game of snooker.
After striking the ball, Aldridge stood up straight. Fred, who was of Nigerian descent, handed him a lit cigarette. Aldridge took it without hesitation and drew in a deep puff.
Fred threw an arm over his shoulder with a laugh. "Aldridge, you haven't changed a bit."
Aldridge shoved him off with mock disgust and said, "Damn it, how long's it been since your last shower? You stink!"
The others burst out laughing, the kind of free, rowdy laughter only old friends could share.
Since returning to London a few months ago, this was Aldridge's first time properly hanging out with his childhood friends. As they played pool, smoked, drank, and talked about women and life, everything felt just like the old days.
As the night wore on, the bar filled with more patrons. But by then, Aldridge had blended into the crowd. With his suit off, the top buttons of his shirt undone, his tie removed, and a beer in one hand and cigarette in the other, he was indistinguishable from any other laid-back young man enjoying a night out with mates.
"You're saying my team is trash? Saul, do you even know anything about football? We smashed Derby County with four goals this afternoon. You're telling me Derby had the upper hand? Rubbish! They didn't score a single goal! You call that an advantage? If you can't score, you can't win. Possession means nothing if it leads nowhere!"
Aldridge barked his words across the pool table. Saul had no comeback. The others looked on with amused faces—they had just witnessed twenty straight minutes of Aldridge's unapologetic bragging, delivered with unmatched flair.
Just as he was about to continue, Aldridge noticed his friends pulling odd faces. Brady, in particular, was trying not to laugh.
Aldridge paused, puzzled by their reactions—then suddenly someone jumped on his back, wrapping an arm around his neck. A clear, feminine voice chirped in his ear.
"My God, it really is you, Aldridge! What are you still doing in a place like this? Don't you live in a mansion and wear suits now?"
Pressed against his back were two unmistakably soft curves. Even through clothing, the sensation was clear. The arm around his neck was smooth and gentle, and a sweet fragrance drifted into his nose.
Aldridge instantly recognized who it was. Without even turning, he reached behind and squeezed the intruder's backside firmly.
A surprised yelp followed. The person leapt off his back, and when Aldridge turned around, he found himself face-to-face with a short-haired girl in sporty casualwear. Her refined features framed a playful, heart-shaped face.
"Aldridge! You've changed! What a pervert!"
She puffed out her cheeks in mock anger, her face flushed red, but her eyes betrayed no real anger—just a complicated kind of warmth.
Aldridge stepped forward and jokingly reached for her chest. "Eva, you've changed too! You're right, I am a pervert!"
Eva Lowell exuded energy and spirit. Always a tomboy, she dodged his hand with ease, then made a face and teased, "I heard you threw a party for your birthday. Hmph, now that you're rich, I bet you're surrounded by supermodels, huh?"
Aldridge raised an eyebrow. "How'd you know about the party?"
Eva's smile faltered for a moment. Her expression turned nervous and her gaze shifted.
"I just do, okay."
"I'm going to grab another drink."
She quickly turned and retreated to the bar. Aldridge was about to say something when Brady spoke up behind him.
"On your birthday, she showed up at your house with a cake she baked herself. Your mum told her you weren't home yet, said there were already a bunch of guests, so she left the cake and went."
"What? Did my family drive her away?"
Aldridge frowned. He didn't think his family would ever act snobbishly—after all, Brady, Fred, Eva, and the rest had grown up with him. They were more like extended family than neighbors.
Brady shook his head. "Nah, you've got it wrong. Your mum actually invited her to stay. But you know how those posh parties are. None of us really fit in there. Still, it's good to see you haven't become one of them."
Aldridge smiled bitterly, unsure how to respond. What was he supposed to say? That deep down, he was still the same kid from the streets?
Eva came back with a beer in hand. She showed no signs of playing the polite lady. Just like always, she was her bold, unruly self—more brother than sister among the boys.
"Aldridge, come play me. I'm ready for revenge."
Aldridge grinned and reached around to poke her backside. "If it's revenge, bring it on. Just go easy on the strength, yeah?"
"Jerk!"
Eva shot a playful kick toward Aldridge's rear. He dodged it just in time...