The Saint Maddox Odyssey

”You’re genuinely confident you can take Villa up.” A successful businessman doesn’t show much on his face, and Whitlock’s expression gave nothing away as he said it.

”Yes. Given where the squad currently stands, barring a serious injury crisis, I’m confident we can get this club back into the Premier League. And even if it doesn’t happen this season, we lose nothing trying.” Saint left himself a little room, deliberately.

Back when Ventham was steering Villa toward the relegation zone, Saint had genuinely been Whitlock’s least-worst option, nobody else with any real profile had wanted to inherit that mess mid-season.

Whitlock hadn’t rated him much at the time, if he was honest with himself. The appointment had been closer to a calculated gamble than an act of faith, if the season had gone south entirely, Saint and Sallow both made convenient scapegoats for a relegation that would’ve happened regardless.

What Whitlock hadn’t anticipated was that Saint might actually be a genuinely gifted manager. Six wins and a draw since taking charge, and a squad that had gone from one place off the drop zone to genuine promotion contenders.

”Don’t worry... even without promotion this year, your job here is safe going into next season.” Whitlock cut off whatever reassurance Saint might have been building toward.

Truthfully, Saint’s own concern on that front had been somewhat overstated to begin with. His results already spoke for themselves, unless Whitlock had genuinely lost his mind, there was no version of this where missing out on automatic promotion cost Saint his job.

Was Whitlock the type to make that mistake? Not remotely; shrewd, if anything, and this next line proved it.

”If I do get this club up, there’s one particular concession I’d like from you.” With the job security question settled, Saint saw no reason to hold back.

”Go on,” Whitlock said.

”I want real authority over transfers next season.” English football, unlike a lot of the continent, at least gave managers some genuine pull in the transfer market, but ’some’ wasn’t the same as full control, and Saint wanted that spelled out clearly.

”That’s—” Whitlock’s brow creased slightly, clearly not fully on board yet.

”If we go up at the end of this season, this current squad simply isn’t built to survive in the Premier League.” Having opened the door, Saint intended to make the full case.

”And honestly... a good number of the players I’ve inherited don’t fit what I actually want to build tactically, even now,” Saint continued.

”You’re saying the squad needs a genuine overhaul if we go up?” Sallow, sitting in on the conversation, couldn’t help asking.

”Yes. Most of this current group would need to move on, which means I’d want transfer authority alongside a proper budget to actually rebuild around it,” Saint said, looking directly at Whitlock.

”And how much, exactly, are we talking?” Whitlock’s interest was clearly piqued now.

”Ten million.” Saint answered without hesitation.

The number wasn’t plucked from thin air, Villa had already spent close to seven million the previous summer, and if the club genuinely made it up to the Premier League, that figure would need to climb considerably to compete properly.

Privately, Saint saw ten million as more of a floor than a ceiling, if he actually got real control over outgoing transfers too, several fringe players leaving would bring in a healthy return of their own on top of it.

’This one’s clearly thought this through properly,’ Whitlock thought, watching Saint lay it all out with total composure.

”Chairman... you already know that Rocher, Lavelle, and Rami all came in for free. Every one of them scouted and signed by me personally, at no cost to this club.” Saint delivered his closing argument without missing a beat.

”Ha! Fine... I trust your eye for talent. If Villa are genuinely back in the Premier League by the end of this season, the club will commit ten million in transfer funds, and you and Derek will have full authority over how it’s spent.” Hearing the names Rocher, Lavelle, and Rami laid out plainly settled whatever hesitation Whitlock still had.

Even so, a businessman doesn’t fully switch his brain off just because he’s impressed. Sallow’s closeness to Saint wasn’t lost on Whitlock either; if Saint ever did something genuinely reckless with that authority, Sallow was exactly the kind of check who could step in and rein him back.

Saint had no real objection to that arrangement, either; Sallow’s closeness to him was hardly a secret to anyone at the club by now, Whitlock included, and both of them had plenty riding on the same outcome regardless.

Before walking into Whitlock’s office that day, Saint had already run the whole pitch past Sallow directly. Even Sallow hadn’t quite expected just how far Saint intended to push it, a full squad overhaul was a considerably bigger ask than he’d anticipated.

”Lee... you’re genuinely planning a full rebuild of this squad?” Sallow asked again, once they’d left Whitlock’s office.

”If we actually go up, doesn’t it need to be?” Saint looked back at him evenly.

”Is the current group really that far off the standard?” Sallow’s reluctance was understandable, most of this squad had been assembled on his watch, one way or another.

”No... for the Championship, they’re genuinely good. But Derek, I’m talking about the Premier League. That’s an entirely different level,” Saint said, emphasising the point again.

”Fine. I’ll look forward to seeing what this squad becomes come summer, then.” There wasn’t much left for Sallow to argue with, put that way.

”You will, Derek. We’re getting this club back to the Premier League. I promise you that.” Saint said it with total conviction, and his expression matched it completely.

With that settled, the two went their separate ways, Sallow back to his own responsibilities, Saint back to preparing for the next fixture.

Round thirty-one, and Villa’s opponent this week wasn’t a heavyweight, but not a pushover either, Coventry sat just seven points behind Villa in the table, close enough to make this a genuine six-pointer in its own right. ℴ

Elsewhere that same round, Ipswich faced Millwall, two sides level on points with each other, meaning this round’s results would shape more than just Villa’s own position.

Which meant, for every club directly involved, this was not a round to slip up in, least of all Villa and Ipswich, both realistically still chasing one of the two automatic promotion spots.

And yet, facing the press, Saint’s answer stayed exactly where it had been for weeks. ”Our job right now is staying out of the relegation zone. We’re still twenty-three points clear of the bottom, technically, but the danger’s real until it isn’t.”

”This bloke genuinely doesn’t have an honest bone in him,” one reporter muttered, entirely unconvinced.

By this point, most of the press pack had stopped believing a word of it, two months of sparring with Saint had taught them exactly how much weight to give his official line. The people who know you best, as it turns out, are very often the ones you’ve spent two months needling in press conferences.

And that read wasn’t wrong, either. Saint’s insistence on ”relegation danger” had far less to do with genuine caution and rather more to do with the simple, ongoing pleasure of denying the press anything they actually wanted to hear.