Chapter 17: Angry Roy
At exactly seven o'clock in the morning, Joshua Smith opened his eyes.
The narrow camp bed in his office creaked slightly as he sat up. The faint gray light of early August filtered through the curtains, casting long shadows across the scattered documents on his desk.
He had slept—barely.
For weeks now, his routine had been relentless.
Training during the day.
Match preparation in the evening.
And deep into the night, analysis—player reports, tactical adjustments, individual training plans.
By the time he finally closed his eyes, it was usually three… sometimes four in the morning.
There was no other way.
Assistant coach John Aston could help with drills and organization—but everything else?
That responsibility rested entirely on Joshua.
So he stayed.
Lived in the training base.
The apartment that the club had arranged for him?
He had barely stepped inside.
Cold water splashed across his face.
The shock drove away the last remnants of sleep.
Joshua lifted his head and stared into the mirror.
Calm.
Focused.
Unwavering.
He zipped up his training jacket and hung his whistle around his neck—his now familiar uniform.
Then he reached up and peeled a note from the mirror.
"August 5th—Morning: Counterattack drills + internal match. Afternoon: Passing routines + pre-match press conference."
Joshua glanced at it once more before folding it away.
Today—
Was different.
Tomorrow, Luton Town will play their first league match of the new season.
At home.
Against Port Vale.
The real battle—
Was about to begin.
The day passed quickly.
Morning training was sharp and intense.
Afternoon sessions were shortened deliberately—Joshua didn't want fatigue creeping in before the match.
Instead, he issued a strict order:
All players were to remain at the training base overnight.
No exceptions.
If they couldn't maintain discipline before the first match—
They didn't deserve to win it.
By late afternoon, Joshua walked toward the small conference hall inside the training complex.
Beside him—
Team captain Kevin Keane.
Inside, the room had already been rearranged. A simple table at the front, two microphones placed neatly on top.
This was Luton's pre-match press conference setup.
Modest.
Functional.
Unremarkable.
The audience reflected the occasion.
Sparse.
A few local reporters.
Representatives from BBC and Sky Sports.
Nothing more.
Lower-league football rarely attracted attention.
Not yet.
But today—
The attention wasn't on the match.
It was on him.
Joshua Smith.
A young Jamaican coach.
Unknown.
Unproven.
And, to many—
Unqualified.
He sat down calmly, still wearing his training gear.
The whistle remained around his neck.
No effort to dress up.
No attempt to impress.
To him—
This was just another part of the job.
Among the reporters, one figure stood out.
Roy Saul.
Sharp eyes.
Sharp posture.
Dressed in a neat black suit, her presence carried both professionalism and something else—
Discontent.
She was a reporter for The Hatters, Luton's most influential local newspaper.
And more importantly—
She was a fan.
A lifelong supporter.
Her family had followed Luton for generations.
Which meant—
She cared.
And right now—
She was furious.
From her perspective, everything about Joshua Smith was wrong.
A foreign owner is making questionable decisions.
A young coach with no reputation.
And now—
Her club, her team—
Placed in his hands.
It felt like an insult.
As soon as the press officer opened the floor for questions—
Roy's hand shot up.
She didn't wait.
Didn't hesitate.
This—
Was her moment.
Joshua noticed her immediately.
When she stood—
He paused for a fraction of a second.
She was taller than he had expected.
Confident.
Commanding.
And—
Impossible to ignore.
Joshua cleared his throat lightly and shifted his gaze, suppressing the brief awkwardness.
A ripple of quiet laughter spread through the room.
Roy's expression darkened instantly.
"Mr. Smith," she began, her voice sharp and precise.
"You've brought in several players from non-league football this season. Do you not understand the level of competition in League Two?"
The challenge was clear.
Direct.
Unapologetic.
Kevin Keane glanced sideways at Joshua, concern flickering across his face.
This wasn't just any reporter.
This was The Hatters.
If even they were hostile—
The fans would be worse.
But Joshua—
Remained completely composed.
He leaned forward slightly, eyes steady.
"The players I brought in," he said calmly, "are more than capable of playing at this level."
A pause.
Then, with quiet confidence—
"In fact, they could play at a higher level."
Roy didn't back down.
"This is professional football," she pressed.
Her tone sharpened further.
"Not amateur competition."
Joshua's eyes narrowed just slightly.
"Miss," he replied evenly, "I am managing a professional team."
A beat.
"I understand that better than you."
The tension in the room thickened.
Other reporters leaned forward, interest piqued.
This—
Was far more entertaining than they had expected.
The exchange continued briefly, sharp words meeting calm defiance.
Then, just as abruptly as it had begun—
The press conference ended.
Joshua stood.
No hesitation.
No attempt to linger.
But just before he turned to leave—
He stopped.
And looked directly at Roy.
"Jamie Vardy and Charlie Austin," he said clearly, "will be the best strikers in this league."
"And N'Golo Kanté—"
He allowed himself the slightest smile.
"Will be the best defensive midfielder."
Silence.
"You'll see," he added.
Then he turned—
And walked out.
The room remained frozen for a moment.
Reporters exchanged glances.
Some were amused.
Some are skeptical.
And some were intrigued.
Roy stood still.
Her jaw tightened.
Her fingers clenched slightly around her notebook.
"Arrogant," she muttered under her breath.
"A complete bastard…"
But her eyes—
Did not leave the doorway where Joshua had disappeared.
Because whether she liked it or not—
Something about him—
Felt different.
Behind her, one reporter whispered:
"We didn't even get to ask our questions…"
Outside, Joshua walked down the corridor, expression unchanged.
Tomorrow—
The season would begin.
And when it did—
Words would mean nothing.
Only results would speak.
(End of Chapter 17)
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