In the Premier League, any outstanding player inevitably draws the attention of top-flight clubs. Aldridge knew that if Millwall continued to rise, the real pressure would come from the giants above — and that pressure would be aimed squarely at his core players.
If promotion was secured next season, he planned to use transfer fees and wage demands as a barrier to fend off poachers. The one scenario that worried him was the January transfer window. If Manchester United, having missed their summer chance to sign Andy Cole, went hunting for a striker mid-season, who was to say Ferguson wouldn't turn his attention to Millwall?
Still, Aldridge felt a measure of relief. At least Ferguson had shown him respect by speaking directly. If United wanted to be ruthless, they could bypass him entirely, approach the player's agent, and sow unrest — the same tactic they had used in Cole's transfer saga. Only Keegan's stubborn resistance had made that move messy.
Following the 2–2 draw at Ayresome Park, Millwall's midweek fixture took them to the Northeast for a League Cup clash against Newcastle United.
It was Aldridge's first dugout duel with Kevin Keegan, though the occasion itself proved modest. Fielding a reserve side against Newcastle's first team, Millwall found themselves under pressure from the outset and eventually fell to a 2–0 defeat.
Aldridge wasn't concerned. On the journey home, he repeated the same message to his young squad: Right now, these matches are about experience — feeling the atmosphere, learning the pace, adapting to the stage. The result is secondary.
If he had truly chased the win, he could have parked the bus and hoped to nick a goal on the counter. But what value would that have brought to these young players?
Since the battle with Middlesbrough, the cohesion and sharpness of the first team had taken a noticeable leap. The attacking patterns Aldridge had been drilling were beginning to flow naturally. The wide play grew more dangerous, Nedvěd was stepping up as a midfield general, and his late runs into the box had become a dagger aimed at the heart of opposing defences.
October was Millwall's month. Bristol City, Stoke City, Wolves, Sheffield United, Portsmouth — all were beaten.
The first four victories came in Saturday fixtures, one each week. The away win over Wolves — statistically the best attacking side in the division — was the standout, a statement performance against a dangerous opponent. The last match of the month, a midweek league game, saw Aldridge rest his regular starters. Even so, the rotated side ran out 3–1 winners at home against Portsmouth.
Five straight wins left Millwall firmly in control at the top of the table. The gap to second-placed Middlesbrough was now five points, and the cushion to the chasing pack outside the playoff places had stretched to twelve.
Less than three months into the season, Millwall's "youth storm" had taken the First Division by force. The media narrative shifted almost overnight:
"Millwall sit proudly at the summit — Premier League debut awaits next season!""Larsson, Trezeguet: The Devil's Frontline!""Aldridge's Sword Points to the Premier League!"
...
Aldridge was not swayed by the media's praise. He remained low-key in both words and actions, refusing to let the recent run of consecutive matches tempt him into loosening the team's discipline. The tactical system he had instilled was still built on a solid defensive foundation, and that would not change.
By the time Christmas approached, Aldridge felt that the team's transformation for the season had reached a stage where it could be paused. He understood that building a mature tactical structure was never a matter of a few rousing speeches or a couple of intense weeks of training. It required months of refinement. Over the first half of the season, he had used that time to clearly define Millwall's playing identity: a midfield siege designed to suppress the opponent's defensive shape. Pires, Nedvěd, and Schneider formed the attacking spearhead along the vertical central axis, while Larsson would occasionally drop deeper, adding variety and flexibility to Millwall's forward play.
By the halfway point of the league campaign, Millwall's first-choice lineup had already developed a pleasing fluency on the pitch. They had abandoned the outdated POMO theory that had held English football back for three decades. Watching Millwall play, you would not see endless sideways passes, nor a chaotic rush of attackers cramming into the penalty area. Their attacking patterns were rich, smooth, and varied.
However, during the congested Christmas period, their results dipped sharply. In the three rounds following the festive break, Millwall collected only two draws and one defeat. The points gap to second-placed Middlesbrough shrank from thirteen in early December to just eight. The outside media immediately began proclaiming that Millwall were on the verge of collapse.
Aldridge, however, was unconcerned. He knew exactly where the problem lay. Most of his players were experiencing their first season in English football. They were unaccustomed to the relentless winter schedule, where matches came thick and fast during the Christmas season. Some had understandably shifted part of their focus toward family reunions and festive celebrations. For a young squad, adapting to such conditions was part of the learning process. Rather than criticise, Aldridge accepted the poor run for what it was. In two of those three matches, he had rotated heavily and fielded bench players, so he had not expected maximum points anyway.
As January began, the First Division entered a near two-week pause to accommodate cup competitions. Millwall's early exit from the League Cup meant they would not play again until the FA Cup at the end of the month—a fixture that had handed them no luck, drawing them against city rivals Arsenal from the Premier League.
With ten days free of competitive football, Aldridge gave the squad a four-day break to relax. He also planned a short trip for himself. On this second chance at life, he had both the time and the means, and he constantly reminded himself: cherish the days, and see the world.
Over the past six years, he had travelled extensively across Europe. Aside from his regular habit of attending at least one match a week, he devoted much of his free time to exploring new cities, photographing landmarks, and immersing himself in different cultures. To remain cooped up in London would feel like a waste of the gift he had been given.
Before he could leave, the phone rang. It was Adam, the club's CEO, informing him that several teams had expressed interest in Millwall players. After clarifying the details, Aldridge learned that a number of Premier League sides had submitted offers—names such as Makelele, Thuram, Nedvěd, Larsson, Pires, and Schneider were all being targeted.
Yet there were no true giants among them, and the bids were almost laughable. Aston Villa and Leeds United had not even done their homework. Makelele's offer stood at just £1.5 million, Pires at £800,000, Larsson at £1.8 million, and Nedvěd at a flat £1 million. No serious club would expect to sign a player of Thuram's calibre for less than £5 million, given Millwall had paid £3 million to bring him in. The same logic applied to Larsson and Makelele. The reality was simple: the giants were not making offers because they knew they could not afford these players.
Most of the bidding clubs seemed oblivious to Millwall's bold transfer activity the previous summer. Had they studied it, they would not have dared to submit such insulting proposals.
"Reject every offer for first-team players," Aldridge told Adam firmly. "Make it clear they are not for sale. Now, about the reserve players you mentioned?"
"Yes, boss. Most of the offers are from clubs in the First Division and Second Division. The fees are modest—the highest is around a hundred thousand pounds."
Aldridge thought it over. Many of these reserve players had been mainstays or regular substitutes during Millwall's third-place finish last season. They had been moved out of the first-team picture in the summer, hoping perhaps that a poor run of results would see them reinstated. But Millwall's form had been excellent, and with the winter window open, it was best for them to move on and continue their careers elsewhere.
"If they want to go, list them," Aldridge decided. "Even if there's no transfer fee, it saves wages and lets them play instead of wasting away here."
"Alright, boss."
With those matters settled, Aldridge slipped on a fitted overcoat, slung a backpack over his shoulder, and set off on his winter getaway—to the capital of Scotland, Edinburgh.
Strangely enough, despite having travelled extensively over the past few years—to France, the Netherlands, Italy, Spain, and even the far reaches of Northern Europe—Aldridge had never once visited Edinburgh, the Scottish capital practically on his doorstep. Perhaps the short distance had robbed it of any sense of novelty. In truth, his interest in Scottish football had always centred on Glasgow, and that alone had kept Edinburgh off his itinerary.
Now, with a traveller's easy frame of mind, he wandered through the city's landmarks. In this small yet refined capital, which symbolised the strength and pride of Scotland, Aldridge admired the elegant architecture that seemed to rise on every corner, much of it reflecting the grandeur and creativity of the Victorian era.
For three days he explored alone, drifting from one street to another. When tired, he would slip into a café, order something warm, and watch the world outside through the glass.
On the day he had planned to return to London, Aldridge stepped into a modest little coffee shop called Nicolson's Café. He intended only to rest for a short while before making his way back south. What he could never have guessed was that this seemingly random stop—born of an impulsive decision to travel—would leave an impression so strong that, even in old age, he would recall it with disbelief at the strange workings of fate.
He entered, ordered a coffee and a few pastries from the waiter, and began scanning the room for a seat. He preferred a spot by the window, where he could watch the street life pass by. The way to his chosen table was partly blocked by a stroller. He glanced down at it without much thought. The table itself was empty except for a pen and a notebook. Seeing no cup or plate that might belong to a current customer, he assumed it was free.
Setting his shoulder bag by his feet, Aldridge removed his scarf, unbuttoned his coat, and sat down. While waiting for his order, he reached for the notebook and opened it casually. Within seconds, his attention was caught and held.
It was nothing more than a simple writing pad, but the neat, elegant handwriting stood out. Between the lines, a short fantasy tale unfolded, vividly written and surprisingly absorbing. Without meaning to, Aldridge found himself turning the pages, immersed in the unfolding story.
He barely noticed the world around him. His left hand lifted the coffee cup when it arrived, or occasionally forked a piece of cake, while his right hand kept turning pages. But then, quite suddenly, the story broke off mid-flow, leaving several blank sheets. Aldridge stared at the empty paper, startled and faintly frustrated.
"Sir, would you like a refill?"
The waiter's voice broke his focus. Looking up, Aldridge smiled. "Yes, thank you."
As the waiter refilled his cup, Aldridge became aware of someone standing nearby. A woman—a slender figure with shoulder-length blonde hair—was watching him. Her features were refined, though her face carried a haggard look, and in her eyes there was a hint of sadness. She was holding onto the stroller he had noticed earlier. The once-empty seat of the stroller now held a plump little girl, perhaps just over a year old, dozing peacefully.
Aldridge found the situation curious. Why was this woman simply standing there, and why did the waiter seem unconcerned? His question was answered when the male waiter glanced at him politely and said, "Sir, the book in your hand belongs to this lady."
Realisation struck. He had assumed the table was unoccupied. Standing quickly, he apologised. "I'm sorry, I didn't realise this was yours."
The woman hesitated, her voice quiet and tinged with weariness. "It doesn't matter."
Aldridge's open, friendly manner—combined with his casual but neat appearance—often put people at ease. His smile, boyish and unthreatening, worked in his favour now.
"Is this your work?" he asked.
She frowned slightly at the question, but before she could reply, Aldridge continued, "Please don't misunderstand. I genuinely enjoyed your story—it's wonderful. Since fate brought us together like this, may I buy you a coffee? And if you're willing, could you tell me the rest of the story? It feels wrong to stop halfway. Honestly, it's like being scratched by a cat—itchy and unbearable."
Perhaps it was the disarming humour in his words, but she allowed herself to be persuaded. She sat opposite him, still with her head slightly bowed, as if unsure of herself. Aldridge ordered her a coffee and some snacks, and they began to talk.
At first, the conversation was slow, but gradually she began to open up, especially when he praised her writing. The sadness in her expression softened, and the dullness in her eyes began to give way to a faint spark of light.
"Oh, I almost forgot to introduce myself," Aldridge said at last, smiling over the rim of his cup. "My name is Aldridge Hall. I'm here in Edinburgh as a tourist. My profession… is football coach."
The woman's expression clouded again, as though a single word had stirred an unwelcome memory.
"Football?" she murmured. "In Manchester… I've been to a match before. A ball flew into the sky…"
Her voice trailed off. Whatever the rest of the memory was, it clearly brought no joy. She shook her head bitterly, then lifted her gaze and said, "My name is Joanne Rowling, Mr. Hall. You look very young. I thought you were still a student, not already working."
Aldridge smiled lightly. "I've never had any grand ambition to rule the country. I just wanted to be a football coach. You don't need to go to university for that. As for all those lofty ideas about 'cultivating character' or 'elevating one's sentiment'—well, I'm a simple man. My standards for myself aren't so high, hehe. Ms. Joanne Rowling, you said?"
He blinked suddenly, leaning forward with curiosity. "Forgive me, could you tell me your full name—middle name included?"
She looked mildly puzzled but answered truthfully. "Kathleen."
Aldridge straightened, staring at her as if seeing her for the first time. Joanne Kathleen Rowling.
J.K. Rowling.
He had felt her face was vaguely familiar—an echo in the fog of memory, like recognising someone from a dream. In truth, he had seen her before, though in his previous life it had been a younger, more vibrant version, not this weary and sad figure before him.
Aldridge had never been a literature enthusiast, but even he knew of the woman whose work had taken the world by storm—the creator of Harry Potter. He had never read the books in their original English, and the Chinese translations had never caught his interest, but he had watched the films, just like many others who had entered the world she had created through cinema rather than print.
His expression softened. "Are you in some kind of trouble? Forgive me for saying this, but you don't look well."
Her clothing was modest to the point of austerity, and she had not even ordered a drink in the café. Aldridge wondered how she was allowed to sit there without having so much as a glass of water in front of her.
His question made her lower her gaze, her eyes glistening faintly. "Mr. Hall, you're still young. There are many things you can't understand yet."
Aldridge shook his head. "No, this isn't a matter of understanding. I'm a simple person—if I have a problem, I solve it. I liked your story. The short piece I read just now was excellent. And I believe you still have many more stories in you, stories that could touch people all over the world. You should put your energy into what you love most. I love football, so I throw myself completely into coaching. Anyone or anything that tries to block me is just an obstacle I'll sweep aside."
Rowling looked at him in surprise, almost disbelief.
Why?
Why could he speak with such confidence?
He had already entered the working world, seen its hardships, yet he held his head high as if untouched by its weight. He carried none of the gloom that clung to so many in Britain, no bitterness over a fading empire, nor the aggression of a fighter with a point to prove. His way of living was light and open, as though setbacks were simply part of the scenery.
Since arriving in London in the summer of 1986, Aldridge had tried to live more freely, more simply.
As he said, fate had brought them together. His sincerity and praise broke through her reserve, and within minutes they were speaking as if they had known each other longer.
He soon learned the truth of her situation. She was a single mother, in the midst of divorce proceedings. She lived on government assistance, required therapy, and stayed here in the café because her brother-in-law co-owned it, allowing her a space to write. The past year had been the darkest of her life. The collapse of her marriage had left her adrift, heavy with despair. If not for her young daughter, she might have lacked the will to go on at all.
This was why Aldridge's encouragement moved her more than any polite words of sympathy could have.
When she finished, Aldridge leaned forward, hands on the table, and said with sudden conviction, "Ms. Rowling, you have to get up again! And thank God—or Mary, or whatever you believe in—because your new life starts now! A man who abandons his wife and daughter isn't worth your grief. You should see it as freedom—you're free to pursue the life you want. This is a new starting point. Don't hesitate. Grab it, and make sure you never start over with regret."
Rowling stared at him, as though the light in his eyes were something tangible, a warmth she wanted to hold in her hands.
If there was one thing Aldridge had mastered in his half-year as a coach, it was inspiring people. A good coach needed to speak in a way that lit a fire inside others, and he now applied that skill to her without even thinking.
"But… I don't know what to do," she admitted at last.
It turned out she still wrote her work on an old typewriter at home. Aldridge found himself wincing at the thought of her slender fingers striking the cold metal keys hour after hour.
A glance at his watch reminded him that he had a train to catch. He could not afford to miss the team's training the next day—punctuality was something he enforced on himself as strictly as on his players.
"I'm sorry, I have to go back to London. But don't worry—I can help you. This isn't sympathy or pity, it's simply my pleasure to do so. Wait here for a moment while I make a call."
For him, offering help was easy. For her, it could change everything. Aldridge was not someone who went out of his way to be charitable, but he believed in one principle: fate. If fate put someone in his path, he would not ignore them.
At the counter, he phoned Andrew's apartment, briefly explained the situation, and asked him to come to Edinburgh the next day with a lawyer to handle her divorce case. The dispute was mainly over custody and alimony, but having a capable lawyer would make all the difference.
Andrew, used to his brother's unusual requests, simply agreed.
Returning to the table, Aldridge pulled a business card from his bag and handed it to the still-bewildered Rowling. "This is my brother's card. He's a lawyer, and I've asked him to help you with your case. You won't have to pay a fee. Also, I'll lend you some money so you can breathe a little easier. Any hardship you face now is temporary—you're destined to write a story the whole world will love. I truly admire your talent. I'm sorry, but I'm in a hurry. My brother will find you here tomorrow morning. Goodbye."
With that, he shouldered his bag and left in haste, his carefully planned day upended by the unexpected meeting.
Rowling remained seated, the business card in her hand, watching through the café window as Aldridge disappeared into a taxi.
Near the counter, the waiter shook his head. "Looks like a scammer to me."
Rowling pushed the stroller toward the door, puzzled. What could he possibly scam her out of? She had nothing worth taking.