James Anderson tightened his grip on the steering wheel as Elland Road came into view. The old stadium loomed against the overcast Leeds sky, just as imposing as it had been the last time he walked through its doors. But that was nearly four years ago—back when his knees still held up, back when he was James Anderson, Leeds United's rising midfielder. Now, at 26, he was just a former player, stepping back into a world he'd thought he'd left behind.
He parked his old Vauxhall in the staff lot, his heartbeat thudding in his ears. James had barely set foot here since his injury cut his career short at just 22. He'd spent most of the past few years running youth sessions in his local community, keeping the game alive in his own way. But this—this was different. George Graham had called him out of the blue, offering him a role as an assistant coach.
He learned under Graham and this year due to a argument between the owner and coach Graham has left the team and he is appointed as an interim manager.
James didn't hesitate to accept, but now, standing at the entrance, he wondered if he'd made a mistake.
The reception was quieter than he remembered. The hum of excitement that used to hang in the air was subdued. Leeds had been in a rut lately, struggling to break into the top half of the table. As he walked through the hallways, familiar faces nodded, some looking surprised, others curious. A few of the younger lads whispered as he passed by.
He made his way to the manager's office, the walls lined with framed photos of Leeds' past triumphs. Peter Ridsdale greeted him with a firm handshake, his expression as unreadable as ever.
"Good to see you again, James," Peter said, motioning for him to sit.
"Likewise, boss," James replied, his voice steadier than he felt.
"I know it's been a while, but the lads could use someone like you—someone who knows what it means to fight for this club. Get them focused, get them hungry again. They've got talent, but they need guidance."
James nodded, the weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders. He knew the names on the squad list, but connecting with them—earning their respect as a coach rather than a teammate—would be another challenge entirely.
Peter handed him a clipboard filled with training schedules and team notes. "Training starts in an hour. Get settled, then meet the lads on the pitch."
James took a deep breath. "I won't let you down."
As he left the office, he caught a glimpse of the pitch through the hallway window. Memories flooded back—late goals, the roar of the crowd, the feeling of belonging. He clenched the clipboard, forcing himself to focus. This wasn't about reliving the past. It was about helping Leeds march forward.
One step at a time, he reminded himself. One training session, one day, one season.
He could do this.
James made his way to the locker room, the murmur of voices growing louder. When he stepped in, the chatter stopped. He scanned the room, recognizing a few familiar faces from his playing days and plenty of new ones. Lee Bowyer looked up, eyebrows raised, while Lucas Radebe shot him a nod of acknowledgment.
James cleared his throat. "Alright, lads. I'm James Anderson. I'm here to help you out this season. Some of you know me, some don't. I played here before an injury put me out at 22. I know what it takes to wear this badge, and I know what it feels like when things don't go your way. I'm not here to be your mate, but I'm here to push you—get you playing the way we should be."
A few players exchanged glances, unsure of what to make of him. James noticed Bowyer giving a faint smirk, while Radebe looked thoughtful.
"Training in ten," he said firmly. "Be ready."
He left the room, giving them space to process his arrival. Outside, he ran into Eddie Gray, a club legend and now one of the senior coaching staff.
"Don't worry about them," Eddie said with a knowing smile. "They'll come around. Just show them you've still got that fire."
James chuckled. "Yeah, well, I'm hoping they'll see that soon enough."
When training started, James observed quietly at first, watching how the players interacted and moved. There was talent, no doubt, but there was also a lack of cohesion. As the session wore on, he stepped in, correcting a misplaced pass here, pushing someone to make a sharper run there. Some took his advice in stride, others less so.
Midway through a drill, Bowyer approached. "You really think you can make a difference?"
James met his gaze. "I know I can. Whether you listen is up to you."
A tense moment hung between them, but Bowyer finally gave a curt nod. That was enough for now.
By the end of the session, sweat drenched the players, and a few seemed more willing to take direction. As they headed off the pitch, James felt a mix of relief and apprehension. He knew it wouldn't be easy, but at least it was a start.
One step at a time.