Chapter 63: Premier League, Here We Come

"Love, I won’t be able to make it back properly for a while." Grace’s sudden spike in profile had come with an equally sudden spike in work, even the luxury brand that had quietly passed on her weeks earlier had come calling again, considerably more interested this time.

"Should we make the most of tonight, then?" Saint’s answer to that question needs no further elaboration.

Whether it was the looming separation or simply the mood of the evening, Grace threw herself into that night with real intensity; determined, if nothing else, to leave with something to remember before the work took her elsewhere for a stretch.

By the next morning, she could barely move, and had come to a fairly firm conclusion about her boyfriend’s stamina, something closer to a force of nature than an ordinary man.

Grace hadn’t had much serious relationship history before Saint, admittedly, but even without much to compare against, she was fairly confident the word "normal" didn’t apply here.

Her agent’s car pulled up outside Saint’s house early the next morning. Neither of them was especially thrilled about the timing, but Saint walked her out and saw her off regardless.

Twenty-two years old, and Grace already knew exactly what she wanted out of her career; that clarity was, in fact, the whole reason she’d come to England chasing it in the first place. As for what she meant to Saint; well, in the middle of a season like this one, a relationship was more a welcome distraction from the grind than the defining thing in his life.

Which meant her departure barely registered on his focus. If anything, he found himself more locked in on football once she’d gone, and by the next afternoon, Jasper had already reclaimed his usual spot at the dinner table, back to his normal routine.

"Promotion. From today, that’s the actual target, one of the two automatic spots," Saint told his coaching staff plainly.

That question from the press after the Barnsley game, the "aren’t you still technically in danger" line; had been exactly what Saint expected reporters to hear. Nobody in this room needed reminding that it wasn’t the real answer.

Diplomacy with the press was one thing. Being honest with his own staff was another entirely, and Villa’s push wasn’t going to succeed on Saint’s belief alone, it needed every person in this room fully bought in.

"Do we actually have a real shot at this?" Pratt asked, genuinely curious.

Two months earlier, Villa had been seven games into the season, sitting two points above the relegation zone, one bad result away from real trouble.

Two months on, and the club had gone from bottom-half strugglers to genuine promotion contenders, one place off the automatic spots rather than one place off the drop.

What had actually changed in those two months? The answer stood right there in front of them, still carrying a face that looked several years younger than the confidence coming out of it.

"Colin... we’re currently sitting seventh, only two points behind Rotherham in fourth." Ahead of Villa sat Ipswich and Rotherham, with a one-point and two-point gap respectively.

Lose a game, win the next, and Villa could realistically leapfrog straight into the top four inside a fortnight.

This season’s Championship offered two automatic promotion spots and two more via the play-offs, four routes up in total. Word had already started circulating that next season’s restructuring might trim that down to three total places, tightening the competition considerably going forward.

Fewer routes up meant fiercer competition for every remaining season under the current format. Saint had never once shied away from competition, and with a genuine opening in front of him right now, there wasn’t a version of this where he settled for anything less than taking it.

Saint had never been quiet about his ambitions, not from day one. Somewhere down the line, he wanted the Premier League, wanted to test himself against the genuine elite of English management, and beat them at it.

Two months into this job, he’d adapted to the Championship completely, and the results reflected it. If Villa’s momentum held, there wasn’t a good reason to spend another season down here longer than necessary; not with the Premier League’s prestige, and its money, sitting one division above.

"Lads... work hard, the Premier League’s within reach. The best league in the world is right there for the taking." Of the entire coaching staff, only Saint had any real firsthand experience of English football’s absolute top tier; Cadman included, since Villa’s relegation two seasons earlier had cost everyone else in that room their own top-flight experience.

Even so, hearing Saint say it out loud sent a genuine charge through the room; even Pratt, who’d already quietly decided this would be his last season at the club regardless of outcome, felt something stir at the thought.

Goals set with his staff, Saint made his way to Sallow’s office next. Sallow, as it turned out, had been wanting to raise exactly this topic himself for a while, he’d simply been wary of adding pressure, and Whitlock had apparently had the same instinct, choosing to route the question through Sallow rather than ask Saint directly.

"You’re genuinely serious about this?" Sallow hadn’t expected Saint to be the one bringing up promotion first.

"Completely serious, Derek. We’re good enough now to genuinely compete for one of the automatic spots." Saint’s expression carried the same steady confidence it always did.

Sallow, of all people, understood exactly who he was talking to, he’d personally brought Saint into this club, and nobody at Villa knew him better.

Two months had changed something in Saint, and Sallow had watched it happen up close the whole way through. The confidence itself wasn’t new, Saint had never lacked for that. What had changed was the composure sitting underneath it, a calm that genuinely didn’t match someone this age.

Two months earlier, that same confidence had struck Sallow as borderline reckless. Now, it read as entirely earned.

Even so, Sallow’s worry hadn’t fully gone away. Eight games remained, and Villa weren’t the only side with genuine designs on those top spots, several clubs directly behind them in the table were eyeing the exact same prize.

Millwall, Wednesday, and a resurgent Leeds side all sat within a single result of Villa’s own points total. Millwall specifically had closed the gap considerably, level with Villa on points but trailing narrowly on goal difference, keeping them just behind in the table.

"Derek... we’ve already pulled off something nobody thought possible two months ago. Why stop short of finishing the job properly?" Saint understood Sallow well by this point, just as Sallow understood him.

Character shapes fate, more often than people like to admit. Sallow’s own limitations as a director over the years traced directly back to his instinct for caution, always the safe move, never the decisive one.

Football rewards boldness far more often than it rewards prudence. A match, much like a career, rarely gets won by sitting back and hoping.

If Pedmore hadn’t parachuted in and stripped away most of Sallow’s authority that summer, rattling him out of his usual composure, Saint likely never would have ended up in this dugout at all, Sallow simply wouldn’t have taken the gamble under normal circumstances.

Now, with Villa’s results speaking for themselves, Sallow had reclaimed nearly everything Pedmore had taken from him; and, with that security restored, his old instinct for caution had started creeping back in right alongside it.

"Actually... Whitlock already asked me the same question, before you did." Saint had, in fact, already worked out exactly how he wanted to frame this conversation before he ever walked into Sallow’s office.