The Saint Maddox Odyssey

”Lee, I reckon you might actually overtake Ferguson’s fame if you lose another one of these.” At Saint’s dinner table, Jasper flicked through the pile of newspapers scattered across it, grinning.

Jasper wasn’t exaggerating for effect, either. Every major national outlet sat stacked in front of them, and each one carried some version of the same story.

”Already have, mate. Ferguson wishes he got this much column space,” Saint said dryly. In truth, over the following days, ”who exactly is Saint Maddox” had become one of the more genuinely debated questions in English football media.

The draw had put Villa back squarely in the national conversation, and Saint’s profile had spiked right along with it.

None of it actually bothered him. Criticism, mockery, unflattering headlines... none of that moved the needle for Saint personally. If anything, the draw itself had been a useful correction, a reminder not to get ahead of himself.

”You’ve been properly boring lately, you know that?” Saint said, glancing at Jasper. Since coming back into his orbit, Jasper had practically been living at Saint’s place.

”Can’t help it, can I... I’ve got exactly two clients on the books right now, and neither of them’s exactly household names yet.” Jasper spread his hands theatrically.

”Also..., and this is the real emergency. I’ve got a genuine humanitarian crisis on my hands. A man who’s clearly not getting any.” Jasper pointed an accusing finger.

”Piss off. I’ve told you, it’s not like that.” Saint said it through gritted teeth.

Being sized up like a piece of livestock by his own agent-slash-flatmate was, apparently, just part of the arrangement now.

”We’re all men here, mate... nothing wrong with the occasional bit of pent-up energy needing somewhere to go,” Jasper said, entirely unbothered.

”But genuinely... that stuff catches up with you eventually. If you’re actually feeling it, get yourself a proper girlfriend. Don’t just white-knuckle it,” Jasper added, slipping into something closer to genuine concern.

And so it had gone, day after day since Jasper’s return... a running campaign to drag Saint out somewhere, anywhere, even if a serious relationship wasn’t on the cards, at least something.

Saint’s life ran on rails that had nothing to do with a normal thirty-one-year-old’s social calendar, and as far as Jasper could tell, there’d been nobody at all in the picture for a genuinely long time.

Jasper found that borderline unbelievable, honestly... he himself hadn’t gone more than a few months without company since he was a teenager, and here was Saint, going on years without so much as a proper date.

”Enough... I promise, if Villa win the next one, I’ll actually come out with you. Find someone, whatever.” Saint said it mostly to end the conversation.

”Ha! There it is... finally, progress.” Jasper looked genuinely satisfied with himself, like he’d just closed a difficult transfer.

Saint made his exit shortly after, heading straight back to the training ground. Squad day off or not, there was still work waiting for him.

Scouting the next opponent, specifically; Reading, sitting fourth in the table and, on paper, Villa’s most dangerous fixture in weeks.

This time Saint didn’t go alone, he’d called in the entire coaching staff. There’d been some grumbling about giving up a rest day, but every one of them showed up on time regardless.

Looking at Reading’s squad, Saint genuinely couldn’t believe the quality assembled two divisions below where it belonged. Half that starting eleven wouldn’t look out of place in the Premier League.

Their centre-back, Marcus Boyd, carried himself like a future top-flight defender in waiting. Midfield had real range too; Danny Tonet’s engine, Leo Ledbury’s range of passing, Dan Donnelly’s positional intelligence.

Up front, they had genuine firepower in Chris Chevington and Nikola Vukic, but the real curiosity, for Saint specifically, was a Bulgarian striker named Ivan Bogdanov.

Bogdanov didn’t look like much on the stat sheet, but Scout’s Eye told a very different story: S-plus potential, the rarest tier that existed. In this whole division, only Rocher graded that high.

Except Saint knew, from another life entirely, exactly how that story actually ended. Bogdanov never became what his ability suggested; a career that quietly stalled, eventually drifting into a well-paid, low-profile spell somewhere in Asian football, chasing a paycheck rather than a legacy.

Reading, on paper, had a squad genuinely capable of embarrassing most of this division. Their actual league position; comfortably in the promotion mix, but not running away with it, told its own story about the man in charge.

Their manager, Darren Ross, meant nothing to Saint personally. Watching their recent footage, the read was straightforward: a solid, unremarkable coach, competent but unspectacular, clearly not extracting everything this squad had to offer.

Reading’s biggest issue, oddly, mirrored Villa’s own; the defence was the weak point, not the attack. Watching match after match, their midfield and forward line consistently underdelivered relative to the individual talent on the pitch, and that mismatch was exactly why they sat fourth rather than first.

”Reading’s defence isn’t good at all,” Saint said, once the morning’s video session wrapped up.

”Agreed,” Pratt said, and the rest of the staff nodded along.

”Even so, breaking them down isn’t going to be simple,” Pratt added. Villa’s recent form had shown exactly how dependent this side had become on the flanks, Rocher especially, and any dip in his output tended to strangle the whole attack.

”Might be worth trying Okoro out wide,” Cadman suggested.

Okoro had drifted into wide areas naturally before, and as a genuine number nine, his hold-up play and pace both translated well to a wider role if needed.

”We move Okoro’s usual spot up top over to Kaba instead,” Saint said. That reshuffle would take some of the pressure off Rocher’s form specifically, spreading the creative burden more evenly across the front line.

Lavelle was a genuine talent in his own right, no argument there, but from a coaching standpoint, he still needed time and reps before Saint trusted him fully in a match this important.

”Try it in training tomorrow. For now, let’s eat,” Saint said, glancing at the clock, gone midday already.

Even on a squad rest day, the training ground canteen stayed open for staff working through it, which meant nobody had to leave the site for lunch.

”Wait... what are you three doing here?” Walking into the canteen, Saint spotted three familiar faces that genuinely surprised him.

Rocher, Lavelle, and Rami, each sitting with the club nutritionist, working through carefully portioned meal plans.

Professional football demands a level of dietary discipline most people never see; balanced, precisely measured, and, by every player’s honest account, almost universally bland.

Saint always felt a small, private relief watching players choke down these meals; genuinely grateful, every time, that his own job didn’t come with quite the same nutritional restrictions.

”Extra session, boss,” Rocher said, answering for the group. Between age, ability, and simple seniority, Rocher had settled naturally into something like the group’s unofficial leader.

”Bit late for that... you should be resting up by now.” Saint felt something warm settle in his chest hearing it, and in that same moment, a new decision started forming in his head.