Chapter 3: A Coach Signed in a Tavern
The door of Old John's Tavern creaked open.
A gust of cool, damp air slipped inside with it.
A blond man stepped in.
He wore a brown felt coat, slightly wet from the drizzle outside. His shoes were polished, but not new. His posture carried the stiffness of someone used to responsibility… and recent stress.
He paused at the entrance.
Scanned the room.
Then—
His eyes landed on the corner table.
On the man surrounded by empty whiskey bottles.
His gaze sharpened.
And he walked over.
"I love Scotch."
The blond man pulled out a chair and sat down without waiting for permission.
Joshua Smith didn't look up immediately.
He poured himself another glass.
Drank.
Only then did he glance at the man.
One look.
Then he lost interest.
If it had been a beautiful woman, maybe he would have entertained the conversation.
But this?
No.
"My name is David Morton," the man said, extending a hand casually.
Joshua didn't shake it.
Morton didn't seem offended.
He waved to the bartender instead.
"Another bottle."
The bartender quickly complied.
Morton poured himself a drink.
Took a sip.
Closed his eyes slightly.
"…Good."
Then he smiled.
"Do you mind if I sit here? Hard to find space tonight."
Joshua said nothing.
His attention returned to his glass.
To his thoughts.
And to the quiet calculation running in his mind.
He had checked his money earlier.
Carefully.
Every note.
Every coin.
£780.
That was everything he had left.
Years of studying in London had drained most of his finances. Even during his time at Chelsea F.C., a large portion of his salary had gone toward repaying student loans.
And now—
He had no job.
No income.
No safety net.
Joshua swirled the whiskey in his glass.
What next?
Continue as a football coach?
Or start over somewhere else?
"Coach!"
A familiar voice interrupted his thoughts.
Kenny—the fat goalkeeper from earlier—dragged a chair over and squeezed himself onto it.
The wood creaked dangerously.
"How did you know Chelsea would score?" Kenny asked, eyes wide.
Joshua didn't look at him.
"Intuition."
His tone was flat.
He wasn't in the mood for conversation.
But Kenny didn't care.
"That's amazing!" he said excitedly. "I heard great coaches can feel goals before they happen! Like José Mourinho!"
He leaned forward, his belly pressing against the table.
"As expected of the coach who won the Youth Cup!"
Joshua remained silent.
Morton, however—
I was no longer ignoring the conversation.
His eyes lit up.
"You're a football coach?"
He leaned forward slightly.
Kenny answered before Joshua could.
"Of course he is! This is Joshua Smith—the coach who led Chelsea U18 to the FA Youth Cup!"
Kenny raised his glass dramatically.
"I'm telling you—he's the next Mourinho!"
Morton's expression shifted.
Skepticism.
Interest.
Calculation.
He looked at Joshua again—this time more carefully.
"You're the Chelsea U18 coach?"
Joshua took another drink.
"…Former."
Just one word.
But it carried weight.
A trace of irritation.
Morton adjusted his collar.
Then spoke more seriously.
"Mr. Smith."
He paused briefly.
"As it happens… I'm the owner of a football club."
Joshua finally looked at him properly.
"A club?"
"English League Two," Morton said.
Joshua's eyes narrowed slightly.
League Two.
The fourth tier of English football.
Professional—but barely stable.
Running a club there required a serious financial commitment.
Yet this man—
Was drinking in a small, worn-down tavern.
Suspicious.
Morton seemed to notice the doubt.
He rubbed his nose awkwardly.
"My club is Luton Town F.C."
Joshua's gaze sharpened instantly.
Luton.
He knew that name.
Very well.
Recently relegated.
Financial collapse.
Points deduction.
A club on the edge of disaster.
Joshua spoke calmly.
"The team that was relegated… and penalized before the season even starts?"
Morton gave a bitter smile.
"…That's the one."
Luton Town.
Relegated from League One.
Then, it was hit with a massive points deduction due to financial issues.
Most of their key players had already left.
Wages unpaid.
Squad broken.
No head coach.
No direction.
A team that, before the season even began—
Was already expected to be relegated again.
Possibly out of professional football entirely.
Morton exhaled slowly.
"Our debts are cleared now," he said.
"But…"
He hesitated.
Then continued honestly.
"We barely have a squad."
"Mostly youth players. A few reserves."
"Two or three senior players left."
His voice weakened slightly.
Joshua didn't respond.
But his mind was already moving.
Fast.
Cold.
Precise.
This was a disaster team.
A sinking ship.
Any sensible coach would refuse immediately.
But Joshua…
Was not thinking like a normal coach.
He had something others didn't.
The future.
He knew players.
Matches.
Trends.
And—
That strange system.
The one who could evaluate players.
Enhance decisions.
Turn unknown talents into weapons.
Morton stood up.
He lifted his glass.
"I know this is a mess," he said quietly.
"No good coach wants this job."
He gave a small, self-deprecating smile.
"But I had to try."
He drank the whiskey in one gulp.
Then turned to leave.
"Wait."
Joshua's voice came from behind him.
Calm.
Steady.
Morton froze.
Slowly turned around.
Joshua leaned back in his chair.
His expression relaxed.
But his eyes were sharp.
"My salary at Chelsea was seven thousand pounds per week."
Morton blinked.
Surprised.
Then—
Without hesitation—
"Eight thousand."
Joshua smiled.
For the first time that night.
He raised his glass slightly.
"Deal."
Just like that—
In a quiet tavern in East London…
A deal was made.
No contracts.
No agents.
No negotiations.
A fallen youth coach.
And a collapsing football club.
The rain continued outside.
Soft.
Unstoppable.
Joshua finished his drink.
His gaze drifted toward the television again.
The match was still playing.
But his mind…
Was already looking ahead.
League Two.
Relegation battle.
A broken team.
He smiled faintly.
"…Let's see…"
"…how far we can go."
(End of Chapter 3)