Late at night, Sand's bar was nearly empty. Aldridge, who had occupied the pool table all evening, put down his glass and climbed onto the table itself, sitting cross-legged as he smoked and chatted. The conversation drifted into childhood memories—half-forgotten scraps of mischief and embarrassment—and as the banter grew more ridiculous, tears welled up in laughter-blurred eyes.
"How the hell are you a head coach now?" Brady exhaled a stream of smoke and grinned at Aldridge across the table. "Your family's loaded. You could've just hired one."
"Oh, come on. Hasn't he wanted to be a manager since he was a kid?" Eva chimed in, sitting beside Aldridge. Her petite face was flushed from drink, lips curled in a small, amused pout.
"Exactly," Fred said with a shrug, as if it were obvious. "Back then, he couldn't even afford a Sunday league team."
Aldridge didn't reply. Ambition had always burned in him. He couldn't understand how some people in the game chose to walk away from it. Cantona's early retirement, Beckham fading into the margins of the mainstream, the countless young prodigies who'd fizzled out—was it just about money? He doubted that explained everything.
So he didn't bother justifying his path. When he'd had nothing, he wanted wealth. Now that he had comfort and security, something louder stirred within him. Ambition didn't die with riches. If anything, it echoed louder. He could coast through life as a rich man's son waiting for death—or he could try. Before failure ever came, he'd rather chase something greater.
Just before closing time, the bar doors swung open. Six or seven middle-aged men walked in and headed straight to the bar. Sander, the owner, waved off the younger bartenders and took over, pulling out clean glasses and pouring drinks for each of them.
From where he sat, Aldridge casually glanced over. The newcomers had rough, weathered faces marked with bruises and scrapes, but they didn't seem to care. They drank, laughed, and swapped war stories without restraint.
Listening in, Aldridge quickly pieced it together. These men had jumped a few Derby County fans in an alley after the afternoon's match at The Den.
The one seated in the middle was clearly their leader. His clothes were plain, and he wasn't physically imposing, but something about him was unsettling. His face carried a strangely feminine cast, and when he locked eyes on someone, it felt like a chill down the spine.
After downing a few drinks and lighting fresh cigarettes, the group wandered over toward the pool table. Their leader spotted Brady and gave him a casual nod, like an uncle greeting a younger cousin in passing.
Aldridge climbed off the table, picked up his suit jacket, and began to leave, his friends following behind.
As they passed the group, the leader suddenly reached out and grabbed Aldridge by the arm.
He studied him up and down before Aldridge jerked his arm free.
The man chuckled, intrigued. "Whoa, easy, lad. You're Aldridge Hall, aren't you?"
Aldridge's eyes narrowed. His voice was icy. "I am. Touch me again, and I'll break your hand."
The man raised both hands in mock surrender, turning to his mates with a grin. "Bloody hell, he's wound tight, isn't he? Like we were gonna hit him. Ha!"
His companions chuckled, more out of awkwardness than amusement.
"Hey, Polk, leave it," Brady said, stepping forward. His tone was tense, and his posture stiff. He clearly sensed how close this was to spiraling into something worse.
But Aldridge reached out to stop him.
He knew exactly who the man was.
Polk Greer. Ringleader of the Bushwackers.
Aldridge despised football hooligans. Anyone with a stable life did their best to stay clear of them.
Polk lit another cigarette, smiled as if they were old friends, and said calmly, "Glad you've taken over Millwall, lad. You've done well so far. We'll keep backing you."
He sounded like an elder offering encouragement to a younger relative.
Aldridge's disgust showed on his face. His tone dripped with disdain. "If you and your lot stopped hiding behind Millwall's name to commit crimes, I'd be a lot happier."
Polk's smile faded. His expression cooled. "Aldridge, I'm not your enemy. This is the first time we've met. Why the hostility? My dad supported Millwall his whole life. So have I. And how old are you—eighteen? You've only been in charge three months. Don't get ahead of yourself."
Aldridge didn't bother hiding his sneer. "The Millwall Football Club is mine now. I can take it to the top or burn it to the ground. That's my call. Who the hell are you? I don't care if you think you're a fan. If you disgrace the club, if you damage my property, I will have you thrown out of East London. I'll have you jailed. Polk Greer, do you even understand who you're talking to? The Hall family could crush you like an ant. We're not just rich—we're from here. We know your type. And you can't afford a war with us. You're nothing but a clown."
With that, Aldridge flung his jacket over his shoulder and turned to leave.
Polk and his gang stared in stunned silence. He was nearly forty, and yet here stood a teenager who had just humiliated him.
Polk reached out on instinct and grabbed Aldridge's arm again.
But before anyone could react—
Crash.
Aldridge spun around, grabbed a wine bottle from the nearest table, and smashed it clean across Polk's head.
"I fucking warned you!" he shouted. "Can't you hear English? Don't fucking touch me, you scum! Don't even stain my jacket!"
The bottle shattered on impact. As Polk staggered, Aldridge seized him by the collar and yanked him forward until their faces were inches apart. His own face, handsome and youthful, was now a mask of ice.
He snarled in a low, vicious growl.
"Polk Greer. You brain-dead piece of shit. You've got a wife. You've got kids. You want to be an unemployed loser? Fine. But do you want your wife to lose her job too? Want your family watched by the police day and night? You think I won't go that far? If you even think about fighting me in court, I'll bankrupt you. Try to come at me in the shadows? I'll make sure your family pays. You're finished. You've already lost. So do yourself one favor—think of your kids. Don't let them grow up poor. Don't let them turn into lowlife trash like you. I swear to God, Polk, if I ever see you again—ever—you'd better run. Now fuck off."
Aldridge suddenly released him.
Polk swayed, dazed, blood trickling from the back of his scalp. Aldridge calmly adjusted the collar of his shirt for him, gave him one final stare, and turned toward the door.
Polk's friends instinctively stepped forward, but he raised a hand to stop them. His eyes remained closed, face frozen in something between humiliation and resignation.
Because Aldridge was right.
Hooligans could throw punches. But people like Aldridge? They could destroy you without lifting a finger—just paperwork and power.
Brady, Fred, Eva, and the others stood frozen, mouths slightly open, staring blankly at Aldridge. None of them had ever seen him like that before.
Polk Greer wasn't just some loudmouth drunk—he was a dangerous figure, the enforcer behind the BushWackers, one of the most notorious hooligan firms in England.
And Aldridge had just smashed a bottle over his head.
As they followed him out of the bar, Brady's thoughts swirled. He wasn't sure what shocked him more—Aldridge's fearless rage or the fact that Polk's skull hadn't split open. Was the man's head made of stone? Or was the bottle just too fragile?
Whatever the case, Polk hadn't bled.
Under the pale wash of moonlight, Aldridge walked ahead in silence. One hand slung his suit jacket loosely over his shoulder by the collar, the other held a cigarette. His steps were steady but burdened with thought, his gaze lost in the eastern sky. Behind him trailed Eva, keeping her hands to herself, though her wide eyes kept glancing up at his back every few paces.
Aldridge felt weary. The cigarette barely offered comfort.
There was no denying it—English football clubs lived and died by their communities. That wasn't up for debate. Wimbledon had proven that better than anyone. When the club uprooted from its spiritual home, the supporters didn't follow. They built something new from scratch—AFC Wimbledon—even if it meant starting at the seventh tier of English football.
You could move a team, but you couldn't move its soul.
Back in the 1980s, Thatcher had declared war on football hooliganism, and her government had cracked down hard. For nearly a decade, the reforms had worked. Stadiums grew safer. The violence waned.
But Millwall hadn't been in the top flight.
That gap gave the BushWackers room to breathe.
The war against hooligans had always been tied to league status. When the Premier League was founded, it wasn't just a rebrand—it was a business. A product. The authorities, and especially the Premier League brass, couldn't afford for violence to taint their image. Commercial interests demanded a sanitized spectacle.
But the police could only stretch so far.
British football matches were concentrated on weekends, and more than 80% kicked off at the same time. That meant police forces had to make choices. Resources flowed to the Premier League. Teams in the top flight received the lion's share of protection.
The hooligan firms of those clubs were the first to feel the crackdown.
Then came the First Division.
But London was a special case. The capital was crowded with clubs. Just within the Premier League there were Chelsea, Tottenham, Arsenal, West Ham, Crystal Palace, QPR, Wimbledon…
The Metropolitan Police were stretched thin trying to cover all of them—especially on derby weekends. When local forces couldn't handle it, reinforcements had to be brought in from outside the city.
And Millwall? They weren't in the top tier.
Playing in the First Division meant Millwall didn't warrant top-priority policing. The BushWackers hadn't vanished—they'd just fallen off the radar, allowed to fester in the shadows.
Suddenly, Aldridge stopped walking.
He had reached the riverbank and, without a word, sat down on the edge of the embankment. The night air was cool against his skin, and the wind off the Thames carried the scent of the city.
His thoughts churned in silence.
He lit another cigarette and muttered to himself, not loud enough for Eva to hear:
"We have to get promoted this season."
...
London's night sky was unusually clear, a rare treat in the capital. Aldridge tilted his head back and stared up at the stars, scattered like salt across black velvet.
Brady and the others had gone off to grab more drinks and snacks. Now they were all lounging casually on the grass along the riverbank, continuing the night's gathering with laughter and warm chatter.
Polk was already forgotten.
Aldridge didn't feel guilty for anything he'd said—or done. He didn't consider his threats excessive or petty. What would've been the point of debating principles with a thug? Trying to reason with a career hooligan was like preaching philosophy to a boot—you'd have to be brain-dead to bother.
As the group relaxed into conversation, Aldridge suddenly turned to Brady.
"Do you like Millwall?"
The others fell silent, all eyes turning to him with puzzled expressions. Brady shifted uncomfortably. None of them were used to thinking in those terms—like or dislike felt too simple. They were just kids chasing trends, growing up fast in a gritty city. It wasn't about loyalty. It was about being part of something.
"What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?" Aldridge frowned, slightly irritated. "It's not that hard of a question, is it?"
To him, these were the friends he could speak to without filters. There was no need for pretense or masks.
Brady rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I like it. My whole family does."
They had all grown up in the same streets, in the same estates. Millwall had been a constant—part of the local fabric.
Aldridge pressed further. "Will you still like it in the future?"
That one landed with a thud.
Eva visibly shivered, clutching her arms. "Ugh, why are you talking like that?" she muttered with a half-smile. The rest of them shifted uneasily.
The way Aldridge phrased it made it sound almost… eerie.
Brady shook his head and sighed. "Alright, what the hell are you getting at?"
"Help me," Aldridge said simply, his voice calm and serious.
Brady raised an eyebrow, confused.
"I want to set up an official fan organization," Aldridge continued. "One recognized by Millwall itself. I want to build a supporters' group with a positive image—something that can influence the club's public face."
Brady blinked, stunned. No one had expected that.
And to be honest, it was a tall order.
If Aldridge created such a group himself, it would reek of PR spin. A supporters' group officially sanctioned by the club would be viewed with suspicion—especially because clubs and fans were often at odds, particularly over one issue: ticket prices.
The age-old fight.
Clubs always felt prices were too low. Fans always thought they were too high.
There was no real solution. No common ground. It was an argument that went nowhere.
Which was exactly why Aldridge couldn't front this initiative himself. But Millwall needed a healthy, community-driven supporter culture—one that wasn't soaked in violence.
Eva leaned back, tapped her forehead, and smiled. "You always do this," she said with a fond shake of her head. "What's even going on in that brain of yours? Of course we'll help you."
Brady nodded firmly. "If it helps you, no problem. I'll take care of it."
Aldridge stood up and dusted himself off, slinging his suit jacket over his shoulder again.
He flashed Brady a sly grin. "Aren't you going to think about your future? You know that's unpaid work, right?"
Brady's grin faded. "Wait, what?"
Aldridge threw an arm around his shoulder. "Don't worry, I won't let you starve. How much do you have saved?"
Brady looked embarrassed, rubbing his hands together awkwardly. He didn't answer.
Truth was, aside from Aldridge, everyone else was still in university. Savings? What savings? If their parents gave them enough for rent and food, they were lucky.
Aldridge didn't miss a beat. "I'll lend you twenty grand. My older brother is opening a round of funding. You're in. Don't withdraw the dividends after each cycle—just keep reinvesting. I want you, when you graduate, to have the freedom to live without worrying about money."
Everyone stared at him, jaws dropped.
The Hall family had made waves in the financial world. Their returns were unmatched. Forget retail investors—entire conglomerates were trying to get a foot in the door.
"Eh? What about me?" Fred leaned over and nudged Aldridge with a grin. "Do I get a piece?"
Aldridge chuckled and nodded. "You all do. I'll lend you the capital."
Technically, Barnett's fund wasn't even open to outside investors. The inner circle was supposed to be invite-only. But if someone was going to benefit, Aldridge figured—why not his friends?
He didn't know everything about finance, but he knew enough. He knew which companies would dominate the next twenty years. As long as he kept it simple, they wouldn't lose money.
Eva hesitated for a moment. Her pride flared up. She wanted to refuse the offer.
But the words never left her mouth.
Refusing it would've felt like rejecting him.
Aldridge turned back to Brady and smiled.
"Back at the bar, you asked me why I want to be a manager," he said quietly. "I think I can finally answer that."
Brady listened.
"It's because I love it," Aldridge said. "I want to do it. Most people spend their whole lives not knowing what they actually want. Remember Lennon?"
Brady burst out laughing. "The guy who used to bully us? We beat the crap out of him in the school toilets."
Lennon had been a few years older, a neighbor in their old estate. He never got along with Aldridge, but he was friendly with Aldridge's middle brother, Andrew.
Aldridge smirked. "Yeah. That same Lennon who used to go on and on about becoming a singer. He was always going to music lessons back in school. Then he dropped it and got into brokerage. Now he wants to work for Barnett. Sometimes I wanna ask him—what the hell do you actually want out of life? Singer? Fund manager? Investor?"
He said it casually, almost like a joke.
But as soon as his voice trailed off, silence settled over the group.
No one replied.
The question lingered in the air, heavy and unspoken. Because the truth was, Aldridge had touched something deeper than he realized.
...
...
After three rounds of the First Division, Millwall had recorded three victories, no draws, and no defeats. They had scored ten goals and conceded none. The league table reflected their dominance, and the results had taken everyone by surprise.
Yet despite this strong start, the mainstream media showed little interest. With less than a week remaining before the close of the summer transfer window, attention across England remained fixed on Premier League business. Every major newspaper was consumed with transfer speculation and top-flight headlines. The second division, as usual, received little more than passing coverage.
But Millwall's performance had not gone unnoticed by the clubs within their own league.
Three days later, in the fourth round of the First Division, Aldridge led his side to face Bolton Wanderers away from home. The match was part of the congested midweek schedule.
Bolton had an excellent record on their own ground and were widely regarded as one of the strongest promotion candidates. They were direct rivals to Millwall in the race for a place in the Premier League.
Perhaps wary of Millwall's form, Bolton adopted a cautious approach, especially in front of their own fans. Aldridge, for his part, stuck to the tactical principles he had implemented since the start of the campaign—prioritising defensive stability above all else.
The result was a stale, tactical deadlock. Over ninety minutes, neither side found the cutting edge to break through, and the match ended in a goalless draw.
Four days later, Millwall were back on the road. This time, they travelled to face Reading in the fifth round of the league.
Once again, the pattern repeated itself.
Reading were compact and well-organised at home. Millwall remained solid in their shape, and the two teams neutralised each other throughout. For the second time in a week, the match finished 0–0.
Two consecutive draws in the space of eight days caused Millwall to slip slightly in the standings. Middlesbrough, with four wins and one loss, moved ahead of them.
The early label of "dark horse" that had followed Millwall since the opening weeks now began to fade. From the outside, it seemed their momentum had been checked.
But Aldridge was not concerned.
He left Berkshire in high spirits, satisfied with what the results represented.
Five matches into the league season, Millwall had yet to concede a single goal. From a defensive standpoint, their performance had been nearly flawless.
Gareth Southgate brought composure and maturity to the back line. Jaap Stam continued to play with strength and authority. Even Lucas Neill, despite being just seventeen years old, was showing an admirable toughness in both temperament and execution. In midfield, Claude Makélélé had now fully settled into his role. His performances had been consistent and reliable across multiple rounds.
Upon returning to London, Aldridge had no opportunity to rest. Although there were no First Division matches scheduled for midweek, the second round of the League Cup arrived as planned.
For this match, he fielded a completely rotated side.
The opponent was a familiar one: Birmingham City. Millwall had faced them in a pre-season friendly at The Den, a game which had ended without a winner. Now, both sides were aiming for promotion, and the League Cup was considered a minor competition in comparison.
Still, the supporters at The Den were treated to a wide-open affair.
Without the weight of pressure, both teams played freely. Solskjær, Phillips, and Ballack each found the net in the first half, securing a 3–1 lead at the break. In the second half, Dean Richards scored from a corner, adding a fourth and sealing a 4–2 victory. Millwall advanced to the third round of the League Cup.
A month later, they would travel to face Newcastle United.
When Aldridge saw that Newcastle were their next opponents, he accepted the reality of the situation without hesitation. Newcastle had finished third in the Premier League the previous season and were one of the most dangerous teams in the country.
Aldridge immediately understood that Millwall's League Cup journey would likely end there.
But he had no intention of risking his first-team squad against a superior side from the top flight. He would not allow a single cup fixture to interfere with his primary goal.
The league came first.
On the weekend, Millwall hosted West Bromwich Albion at home.
The match proved far more difficult than expected.
West Brom had finished twenty-first in the First Division the previous season and had only narrowly escaped relegation. This year, they showed no signs of improvement. Yet at The Den, they came with a clear plan—to sit deep, defend in numbers, and frustrate Millwall's rhythm.
The result was a painfully laborious contest.
Despite controlling possession, Millwall struggled to create meaningful chances. Even Nedvěd was largely contained, rarely venturing near the opposition box. The attack, limited to two forwards and a five-man midfield, looked disconnected and short of ideas.
In the end, it was Bernd Schneider who broke the deadlock with a direct free-kick in the second half. Without that moment of quality, Millwall might well have dropped points.
When the final whistle blew, Aldridge observed a strange atmosphere on the pitch.
His players were not celebrating. Instead, they looked weary, disheartened, and even a little embarrassed.
Their frustration was understandable.
The attacking setup currently in use only involved five players pushing forward. With little support from the midfield and fullbacks, scoring opportunities had to be carved out under significant pressure. It was exhausting, and more importantly, it felt restrictive.
Aldridge completed the post-match handshake with West Brom's manager and disappeared into the tunnel without delay.
The next day, he sat alone in his office, glancing between the upcoming fixture list and the tactical notes he had pinned to the board.
His thoughts were far away.
Three days later, Millwall would once again play a midweek fixture, and once again it would be away from home. The congestion was beginning to take a toll. The season included forty-six league matches. The grind would not let up.
Aldridge found himself hesitating.
When he had first taken over Millwall, his tactical design had prioritised defensive solidity above all else. It had served its purpose. He had not wanted to take unnecessary risks before the team was ready for the next phase.
But now, he wondered if the time had come.
Should he begin the next stage of his team's transformation?
He was still weighing the answer when the head of the medical department, Mr. Thompson, knocked on his office door.