The tavern door creaked open, letting in a gust of cool night air. A blond man in a worn brown felt coat stepped inside, his sharp eyes scanning the room. When they landed on the empty whiskey bottles in front of Ethan, a flicker of interest sparked in them. He made his way over and sat down across from him.
"I like Scotch whiskey..."
Ethan barely glanced up. He wasn't in the mood for conversation. If the man were a beautiful woman, maybe he'd feel more inclined to chat. But he wasn't.
"My name's Morton. David Morton."
Morton waved to the bartender, ordering a bottle of whiskey for himself. He took a slow sip, savoring it.
"Ah... good stuff. Hope you don't mind me sitting here. Not many quiet bars like this tonight."
Ethan ignored him. He only wanted to drink in peace and figure out what to do next. He had counted his remaining money earlier: 789 pounds — a few crumpled bills and some loose change. Years of studying abroad in England had drained his savings. His salary as a coach at Chelsea was decent, but most of it had gone toward repaying his student loans. If he didn't find a job soon, he'd burn through the rest of his cash fast.
But what job? Continue coaching football?
"Coach Ethan, how did you know Chelsea was going to score?"
A familiar voice cut in. Kenny, a pudgy man with a cheerful face, dragged a stool over and plopped down. His belly nearly knocked over the table.
"Intuition," Ethan muttered, not in the mood.
"That's amazing!" Kenny's eyes sparkled. "They say great coaches have that kind of instinct. Mourinho's famous for it!"
"He's the coach who led Chelsea U18 to the championship!" Kenny added proudly, his voice a little too loud.
Morton's eyes narrowed with sudden interest. "You're a football coach?"
"Of course!" Kenny grinned. "Ethan's a genius coach. Mark my words — he's the next Mourinho!"
Morton leaned forward. "You coached Chelsea's U18 team?"
"Former coach," Ethan corrected bitterly.
Morton hesitated, but didn't back off. "Mr. Ethan... I'm David Morton. Owner of an English second division team."
Ethan raised an eyebrow. A second division club? What was a team owner doing in a run-down bar like this? Even a struggling second-tier team needed serious money to keep running — player wages alone would cost a fortune.
Morton noticed his skepticism and scratched his nose awkwardly. "I'm the owner of Luton Town."
Luton. Ethan knew the name. A team recently relegated from League One, slapped with a brutal 30-point deduction due to financial troubles. Most of their top players had left, and they'd been without a head coach since last season ended. A club like that was doomed to sink further — another relegation would drop them into the semi-professional leagues.
"That Luton?" Ethan asked, frowning. "The one docked 30 points?"
"Yeah..." Morton sighed. "We've paid off the debts. The deduction's the only problem now."
Only problem? Ethan smirked inwardly. A 30-point hole might as well be a death sentence for a struggling team. No decent coach would take a job like that.
And yet… Morton was here. Offering.
Ethan tapped his glass thoughtfully. He had an A-level coaching license. He could probably land a job in a Premier League club — maybe not as head coach, but at least as an academy coach or assistant.
But Premier League jobs were safe. Comfortable.
Luton Town was a disaster waiting to happen. A challenge.
And challenges were what made legends.
"There's also the issue of the squad. Honestly, Luton can only lean on their reserves and academy players to cobble together a lineup for the Championship," Morton said with a sigh.
"There are still two or three first-team regulars sticking around..." His voice trailed off, unsure.
Ethan stayed silent. Coaching in the second tier wasn't off the table, but his future was on the line — a wrong move could derail his career. It made sense to be cautious.
Seeing his hesitation, David Morton sighed again. A good manager wouldn't walk into this kind of mess willingly. If he had any other option, Morton wouldn't have stuck around either.
Luton Town FC had once been a family legacy. David's mother was a lifelong supporter, and when she passed, his father took over. Under his leadership and financial backing, the club even flirted with promotion to the Championship.
But after his father's sudden death, things unraveled. As the youngest son, David inherited the club — while his two half-brothers took most of the rest. Saddled with inheritance taxes and no funds to prop up the team, Luton spiraled. Relegation from the Premier League was just the start. Financial penalties soon followed, pushing the club further into chaos.
For David, the club wasn't an asset anymore — it was a weight dragging him down. But giving up wasn't an option. His mother's love for Luton Town ran too deep, and David couldn't let her memory fade with the club.
He stood up, raising his glass. "I know not many top managers would touch a sinking ship like Luton. Coach Ethan, I appreciate you hearing me out."
He downed his drink in one go and turned to leave.
"My weekly wage at Chelsea was £7,000!"
David froze. Ethan's voice rang clear across the pub.
"Eight thousand!!"
Morton spun around, disbelief on his face.
"Deal!"
Ethan lifted his glass, a grin breaking through as he toasted his new boss.