In the early hours of the morning in the East London neighborhood belonging to Millwall FC, the streets were deserted. The soft light of the moon mingled with the glow of streetlamps, painting the surroundings in gentle tones.
Aldrich was already asleep in his apartment, lying peacefully on his side, deep in the blessed heaviness of slumber. Suddenly, his phone, resting on the bedside table, rang.
Awakened by the noise, Aldrich turned on the bedside lamp and glanced at the incoming call. It was someone saved in his contacts.
Kelly.
Aldrich pressed the answer button, bringing the phone to his ear, and closed his eyes again, trying to drift back into sleep.
"Mr. Hall, I'm sorry to disturb you at this hour. It's Kelly. I need to discuss something with you in person. I'm right outside your door. I know you're awake; I saw the light in your bedroom turn on..."
Kelly kept talking, but there was no response.
He stood just outside Aldrich's door, careful to remain out of sight. His deliberately lowered voice couldn't elicit a reply from Aldrich, and the silence sent a chill down Kelly's spine. He hurriedly continued, "Mr. Hall, there was some misunderstanding earlier. We can clear it up. Mr. Weissman and I at the FA have always considered you a friend…"
Kelly now confirmed Weisman's suspicion: Aldrich was indeed the manipulator behind the scenes. His purpose in coming here was simple: Aldrich was not in it for money, so clearing up the misunderstanding was the key. Aldrich could buy back this information for a little money - although the process was a bit troublesome, it was not impossible. With the influence of the Hall family in London, it was normal to prepare a legal contract in a few minutes.
Kelly felt his throat dry as he spoke at Aldrich's door, but no sound came from the other end. He started doubting whether his phone was working.
From the moment Aldrich took the call, ten minutes later, Kelly's heart dropped from a flicker of hope to a dark abyss.
Aldrich's silence weighed heavier on Kelly than a thousand bitter accusations.
With no other choice, Kelly called Weissman back. Meanwhile, he couldn't help but grumble to himself, "What the hell is this guy waiting for, acting like a big shot?"
It was true; Weissman had sent Kelly to find Aldrich and talk, which was just another way of saying he needed to plead, while he himself couldn't put down his ego.
With his plans falling through, Weissman slinked into the neighborhood, anxious about being recognized.
Now it was his turn to take over Kelly's phone and face Aldrich.
When someone of Weissman's stature spoke, it was a different vibe altogether. He started gently, discussing the good old times before subtly explaining the previous "misunderstanding."
But Aldrich remained silent, not uttering a word. He listened but didn't speak.
Weissman continued talking for five or six minutes with no response, growing increasingly agitated. He started to threaten Aldrich with words.
"Hall, even if you ruin my career, I have many friends in the FA. I have people behind me. If I go down, you won't have it easy either!"
Beep, beep, beep...
As the call ended, Weissman kicked out in frustration, wanting to boot down Aldrich's door. Kelly, seeing this, quickly stopped him.
The two had lingered too long, and a patrolling security guard approached from a distance. Kelly dragged a cursing Weissman away through another exit.
While "escaping," Kelly felt a profound sense of sadness; who would have thought the mighty FA and its CEO would frantically try to slink away under the cover of night...
After hanging up, Aldrich opened his bedside drawer, pulling out a portable music player. He put on headphones and started listening to some "hypnotic music," hoping to drift back to sleep.
Given his profession, sleepless nights often plagued him. Especially during the week when leading the team in matches, arriving home close to midnight. If the team won, he would be exhilarated; if they lost or drew, he would be downcast. In any case, normal sleep eluded him, and he needed the music to regulate his state.
After Weissman and Kelly escaped the Millwall neighborhood, they walked along the Thames River. Though it seemed like a casual stroll, their heavy steps made them feel more like prisoners walking to the gallows.
As dawn broke, the two sat on a bench by the river, pale-faced, bracing themselves for a new day.
While the masses began their daily routines, the workers on Fleet Street had mostly pulled an all-nighter. Word spread fast and like wildfire; by three or four in the morning, nearly every outlet on Fleet Street had received the juiciest headline news, with insiders trading information.
They scrambled to work—some even scrapped entirely prepared newspaper content to produce new editions.
As the morning rolled around, the papers on Fleet Street hit the stands, whether delivered to doorsteps or handed out for free on the streets, the front pages had only one headline:
"Shocking Scandal! FA Chief Weissman and CEO Kelly Misappropriate Funds for Bribery of the Welsh FA Regarding the 2006 World Cup Voting and Securing High Positions in FIFA for Themselves!"
Outside the FA headquarters, journalists gathered en masse, and chaos reigned inside the FA.
Weissman and Kelly had yet to make an appearance, and the spokesperson offered no direct comments. As time ticked by, everyone was convinced that the FA had tacitly accepted the accusations.
The public watched with amused curiosity.
Recent news in English football had been quite eventful—Manchester United's transfers were stalling due to interference from the government, and now this FA scandal broke.
Everyone knew the unspoken truth: Weissman and Kelly bribing the Welsh FA for votes was an open secret—there was nothing to accuse them of.
Each World Cup bid has behind-the-scenes activities that aren't strictly fair or impartial. Nations that host the World Cup engage in a variety of backdoor deals, some discreet, others well-known. This was the accepted rule of the game.
But what Weissman and Kelly couldn't escape blame for was their use of public funds to pave their own football political futures. That was unacceptable to the public—using power for personal gain.
They aimed to ascend to significant positions within FIFA, and internally within the FA, that wasn't a secret. Many supported them, knowing that having an Englishman in such a role in FIFA would benefit England.
But knowing is one thing, saying it out loud is another.
This sensational news became the focus of that day's discussions. Even media from other countries stationed in London flocked in to cover the developing scandal.
Aldrich was disturbed for half an hour during the night and woke up later than usual.
In the morning, he was having breakfast at home when Yvonne burst in, quickly flicking the TV to BBC, where a live reporter was covering the developments outside the FA headquarters.
Yvonne cheered in delight, while Aldrich maintained a calm expression, finishing his juice, clearing the table, and heading off to the gym.
His day went as planned, and Millwall's training wouldn't be impacted.
No one was likely to connect him to any of this.
After the match between Millwall and Wimbledon, Aldrich had made a firm decision: he no longer wished to have any dealings with Weissman or Kelly.
But was that really possible?
Weissman was the FA Chief. It was inevitable they'd cross paths—if Millwall ever lifted a trophy in domestic competitions, meetings were a given.
Either Aldrich had to leave his position and the English football scene entirely, or Weissman and Kelly needed to be ousted from the FA!
Was there even a choice to make?
The FA Chief wasn't a saint. In both work and personal life, they must have dirt on them. Given the history of scandals in English football, Aldrich's request to Andrew was simple: keep a watch on them around the clock. If they slipped up, let them face the consequences.
At three in the afternoon, Weissman arrived outside the FA headquarters, Kelly in tow.
As soon as they got out of the car, they were surrounded by reporters. When faced with sharp questions, they avoided responding and, with the help of security, made their way into the FA building with difficulty.
By the time the internal meeting at the FA wrapped up, evening had arrived.
The FA held a press conference, and Weissman himself announced on the spot: he was resigning!
The FA Chief officially stepped down!
He had no choice; as long as he remained, the scandal clung to him, making it impossible for the FA to pursue the 2006 World Cup bid.
This was currently the FA's top priority.
Kelly also announced his resignation at the same time, marking the exit of the FA's two most powerful figures on the same day.
As they left the FA building, Weissman turned down interviews and went home directly. In contrast, Kelly faced countless microphones and cameras, offering a bittersweet smile as he said, "Sometimes, a small mistake can lead to the most painful consequences."
The reporters on Fleet Street thought he was referring to the bribery of the Welsh FA, but only those involved, those who understood the details, knew what he truly meant.
That night, in the same park where Aldrich had met Andrew a month prior, autumn had arrived—leaves littered the ground in hues of orange and yellow. Aldrich, wearing a fitted coat, stared pensively at the trees by the lake.
Hearing footsteps behind him, Aldrich snapped back to reality. He turned to find Andrew tossing him a cigarette. The lighter flickered to life as they lit up simultaneously and inhaled, exhaling the smoke into the cool evening air.
"What are your thoughts moving forward?" Andrew asked playfully.
Aldrich shook his head. "Nothing."
That was his honest answer.
Andrew continued, "Then I'll work some angles at the FA. You don't mind, do you?"
Aldrich frowned. "No need to ask me."
"Is it unnecessary? Do you think the outside world will see us separately?"
Aldrich sighed and remarked, "Whatever you want, there are many things you can handle without stepping in yourself. Just use your head."
"That's why I'm coming to you. Isn't this clever enough?"
Aldrich looked at him with resignation. Andrew wrapped his arm around Aldrich's shoulders, and they walked out together.
"Why haven't I seen any women around you recently?"
"Too annoying."
"So, what are you busy with?"
"I travel a lot and deal with sponsors. Our big brother's business in the United States is booming, and I also get to know a lot of people, which broadens my horizons."
"Sounds good. In your line of work, connections are more important than anything."
"And you? Is your pop-star girlfriend always off on concert tours? Aren't you lonely?"
"Actually, I'm starting to feel a bit lonely now."
Aldrich and Andrew chatted freely; Aldrich never hid his true feelings from Andrew.
Curious, Andrew asked, "I thought you'd just say it was fine. That used to be your standard reply."
Aldrich looked up at the night sky, feeling a twinge of melancholy. "I don't know. My mindset has shifted. In the past, I was so consumed with football—24/7, even bathroom breaks. Now that the team has won the league and the Champions League, I find I'm less busy at work, but my mind wanders. Sometimes I feel a void at home at night, and it's driving me a bit crazy."
"Come on, let me take you to a fun place."
"I'd rather not. I'm not looking to stir up any trouble."
Aldrich declined the offer, said goodbye to Andrew outside the park, and drove home by himself.