Chapter 119: Coach’s farewell
Ole had just spent the entire two-hour flight from Germany to Manchester feeling like a man condemned. Every second in that cabin had been suffocating, the weight of the past few hours pressing down on him like an unbearable force. He sat stiffly in his seat, eyes staring blankly at nothing, yet acutely aware of everything around him. Every whisper, every glance, every hushed joke between the players—it all felt like it was about him. Maybe it was paranoia. Maybe it was the truth. Either way, it gnawed at him, a slow, relentless torture that refused to let up.
When the plane finally touched down, there was no relief. His ordeal wasn’t over—not even close. Now, he had to board the team bus, endure another fifty minutes of silent suffering, trapped with players and staff who, despite their attempts at normalcy, carried an air of unease around him. He knew they were watching him, wondering what he was thinking, whether he’d break his silence or lash out in frustration. But he said nothing. He just needed to get to the stadium. He could’ve gone straight home—he thought about it, considered disappearing behind his front door, locking himself away from all of this. But no. He needed to be here.
As soon as the bus pulled up, he was the first off.
"Gaffer—" someone called behind him, but he ignored it. The voices of the players, the staff, they didn’t matter right now. He didn’t even glance back. His stride was determined, purposeful. His feet knew exactly where they were taking him.
The stadium loomed ahead, a ghost of what it once was. Once a fortress, a beacon of dominance, now it stood tired, almost lifeless—its fading brilliance a cruel reflection of his own mood. The banners that once fluttered proudly now hung limp, dulled by rain and time. The seats, once filled with an electric crowd, sat empty, silent. The echoes of past triumphs felt like a distant memory, drowned beneath the weight of the present.
Even the security guard at the entrance, the one who might have stopped him on any other day to talk, simply stepped aside without a word. Perhaps it was respect. Perhaps it was pity. Either way, Ole barely noticed.
He stormed through the corridors, his mind a whirlwind, his body moving on instinct. Past the locker rooms, past the trophy displays that now seemed to mock him. Left, right, another turn—his destination was in sight.
A door.
Without breaking stride, he pushed it open without knocking, the wood slamming against the wall as he entered.