The Saint Maddox Odyssey

”Here we go again.” The next morning, Saint sat down to breakfast with the day’s papers spread out in front of him.

Same as last week, barely a mention of him personally. If anything, the press had found a much easier target: Whitby, who’d become the story in his own right for entirely the wrong reasons.

Not the kind of fame Whitby would have chosen, if given the option. This morning’s coverage had gone well past mockery, treating the 5–1 scoreline as something close to a personal humiliation for a manager who’d built a respectable reputation across a decade in the English game.

Everyone who takes up coaching carries some version of the same dream; leading a genuine giant, silverware, the whole story. Whitby had built a career chasing exactly that, and this result had set him back considerably from wherever he’d hoped to be by now.

”Not my problem,” Saint muttered, scanning the criticism aimed at Whitby, and meant it; he wished the man well privately, but there was nothing productive in dwelling on someone else’s bad week.

Breakfast finished, papers discarded, and Saint headed straight for the training ground. Players and staff had their day off. Managers, apparently, didn’t get that luxury.

Two wins on the bounce was genuinely satisfying; real recognition starting to build from the club and the fanbase both. None of that meant Saint could actually relax, though.

’Aston Villa first-team head coach’ still carried an unspoken asterisk. Two good results hadn’t fully settled the boardroom’s confidence in him, not completely; there was still a version of this season where the whole appointment got quietly reversed if form dipped again.

Just as Saint climbed into his car, his old phone buzzed on the passenger seat; a number he hadn’t seen in longer than he could immediately place.

”Jasper? Where the hell have you been?” Jasper Ashcombe-Wren; Saint’s one genuine friend from his university days at Birmingham, and easily the strangest one.

Jasper’s family name meant something in certain circles; old money, the kind of wealth that came with a title attached somewhere a few generations back. None of that had ever come up much between them, though, because Jasper had approached Saint first, entirely on his own initiative, the moment he’d learned Saint was coaching.

Jasper had grown up wanting to be a footballer himself; by his own telling, at least, a genuinely promising young talent. Reality had disagreed rather firmly: several failed trials, and eventually an injury that put the whole idea permanently to rest.

Giving up on playing hadn’t pushed Jasper away from the game, though. After meeting Saint at university, he’d landed on an entirely new ambition: becoming a licensed agent.

Saint had never quite understood the logic. Most people who couldn’t play and loved football that much gravitated toward coaching, not representation. Jasper had gone his own direction entirely.

”Ha! Mate, I’ve actually done it; got my full FA agent’s license, properly official. We can finally work together.” Jasper’s voice, delighted with himself, came through the phone.

”You disappeared for the better part of a year just to sit an exam?” Saint couldn’t help rolling his eyes even though nobody could see him do it.

”Obviously! What did you think I was doing?” Jasper said it like it should’ve been self-evident.

The licensing process wasn’t exactly easy, to be fair. Hundreds of hopefuls sat the exams every year across English football, and the number who actually walked away with a genuine FA agent’s license could be counted on two hands most years.

”Anyway... mate, you actually did it. Youngest manager in the country’s history, apparently.” Jasper steered the conversation straight back to Saint.

”Where are you right now?” Saint asked, genuinely unsure. His memory had gotten noticeably sharper since taking on this job; whatever the system was doing behind the scenes, but Jasper’s whereabouts had never exactly followed a predictable pattern.

”On my way to yours, obviously.” Jasper knew Saint’s house well; the two of them had been in and out of each other’s lives for years by this point.

The line hadn’t even gone dead before Saint heard an engine roar somewhere nearby; and a moment later, a green sports car came tearing around the corner toward him.

Jasper’s family sat comfortably among England’s wealthiest, though he was nowhere near first in line for any of it; by his own repeated insistence, he’d never wanted to be. He preferred freedom to responsibility, and this particular career choice let him have both.

”Lee... please, for the love of God, get a proper car.” Jasper eyed Saint’s battered old Fiesta with playful disgust; he’d seen it exactly once before and clearly hadn’t forgotten.

”No money for one,” Saint said flatly.

”You always say that.” Jasper wasn’t buying it.

”Because it’s true... every spare pound I’ve got is already working somewhere else.” Saint gave him a mildly disgusted look right back.

”Ha! Mate, I know we’re close and I know I’m devastatingly good-looking, but I’m not that way inclined.” Jasper stepped back theatrically, hands raised in mock alarm.

Jasper had the kind of fair hair and sharp features that stood out in most rooms, standing just about level with Saint himself. Between the looks, the money, and the easy charm, he never had much trouble turning heads wherever he went.

”Look... you’re about to be my agent. Which means you’ll be earning a healthy commission off my back for years to come. That basically makes me your benefactor. Shouldn’t you be the one buttering me up?” Saint said it with a completely straight face.

”...Fair point, actually.” Jasper nodded, genuinely considering it.

”Right then... sign this first,” he added, ducking back to the car and producing a contract that had very clearly been sitting ready for exactly this moment.

”Mate, that’s a hell of a fast way to lose a friend.” Saint clocked the paperwork immediately and knew his own bluff had failed spectacularly.

Years of knowing Saint hadn’t turned Jasper into anyone particularly deep, but it had at least sharpened his instincts considerably.

”Lee... we’re basically brothers. Don’t you trust family?” Jasper put on his best wounded expression.

”Honestly, Jasper, I reckon you missed your calling; should’ve gone into acting instead of football agency.” Saint ignored him entirely and climbed back into his car.

”Yeah, probably,” Jasper agreed cheerfully, entirely unbothered by the insult.