Chapter 86: Danny Pryce

"Andrew, you won’t regret this decision." The moment Barzley signed his name on the new contract, Saint reached out to shake his hand.

Genuine attention, shown in person rather than through an email, that was ultimately what had tipped Barzley’s decision Villa’s way, and it was a kind of courtship he’d never experienced from a club before.

"Norwich have put in an offer." Just as Saint saw Barzley off, Sallow arrived with less welcome news.

"For who?" Norwich’s intent was obvious enough, a direct shot back at Villa, and no real surprise given how well they’d finished the season themselves.

Norwich needed defensive reinforcement specifically, since their own first-choice centre-back was reportedly flirting with a move to a bigger club. And losing out on Barzley to Villa clearly hadn’t sat well with them either.

Norwich had enjoyed a genuinely remarkable run these past two seasons, promoted as Championship runners-up, then immediately punching well above their weight in the Premier League, finishing just outside Europe their first season back, then securing continental football outright this time around.

That recent success went a long way toward explaining why Barzley had leaned so heavily toward them before Saint’s personal visit changed his mind. Without that intervention, Villa likely never lands him at all.

"Okoro and Alves," Sallow said. The intent behind the move was unmistakable, Norwich losing out on Barzley, going straight back after two of Villa’s own squad instead.

"Reject it," Saint said, glancing over the offer.

If Rocher’s name had been on that sheet, Saint wouldn’t have bothered reading past the first line. But Okoro and Alves were different enough cases that the offer deserved at least a proper look.

What he found was genuinely disappointing. Norwich’s number lacked any real sincerity, combined, barely two and a half million for both, which read less like a serious bid and more like an insult dressed up as business.

Saint had assumed that rejection would be the end of it, a lowball offer like that usually signals a club testing the water rather than genuinely committing. Half a day later, though, both Okoro and Alves came to him directly.

"Fine. If Norwich come back with something that actually reflects your value, you’re free to go whenever you want." Saint didn’t stand in either player’s way.

Neither departure thrilled him, honestly, both were genuinely useful squad players. But neither was irreplaceable either, and Saint had already quietly planned on moving both on within a season or two regardless. Doing it now, on Norwich’s initiative rather than his own, simply moved the timeline up.

"Norwich. Can’t wait to see you lot again come August." Saint allowed himself one small private grudge on the way out.

While Sallow and Norwich worked through the actual terms for Okoro and Alves, Saint took Grace on a flight down to London; though, this time, not purely for pleasure.

The real purpose of the trip was recruitment. Danny Pryce, a genuine Birmingham boy by birth, had seen his contract at West Ham expire that summer, and word around the game suggested he genuinely wanted to come home.

Beyond that, as someone who’d spent years inside West Ham’s dressing room, Pryce understood exactly what kind of upheaval that club was quietly heading into, considerably more than outsiders following the transfer gossip columns ever could.

"I’ve read plenty about you in the papers, but seeing you in person is still genuinely surprising." A day after arriving in London, Saint sat down properly with Pryce for the first time.

Young. Genuinely, strikingly young. Over a decade in professional football, and Pryce had never once sat across from a manager this age, let alone one who’d just delivered a season like Saint’s.

What actually unsettled him more than the age, though, was the record attached to it. After Villa’s call came through, Pryce had done his own digging into exactly what Saint had pulled off that season.

Genuinely hard to believe, a club one place off relegation, transformed into Premier League regulars inside a single campaign, the same players somehow unrecognisable under new management. If Pryce hadn’t checked the team sheets himself, he’d have assumed it was an entirely different squad.

"So you must be getting the honest version, then," Saint said, shrugging.

Because in Italy; no, in England, outside the Midlands specifically, nobody had much good to say about Saint, even with the players themselves largely spared the worst of the criticism directed his way.

"No, no... I’ve kept close ties to Birmingham over the years, whatever club I’ve played for," Pryce said, shaking his head.

"Oh? And what do your mates back home actually say about me?" Saint was genuinely curious.

"Magic. Genuinely, that’s the word that keeps coming up, people call you a magician," Pryce said.

"That’s a strange way to put it," Saint said, a little defensively.

To be fair, from the outside, Saint’s story did read as something close to unbelievable, pushed into a Premier League club’s hot seat at thirty-one with barely two years’ coaching experience behind him.

And that first match in charge, specifically, had become something of a minor legend in its own right.

What had actually happened in that Millwall dressing room at half-time? What exactly had Saint said to turn a dead squad into one capable of scoring three unanswered goals?

"What did you actually say at half-time that day?" Pryce couldn’t resist asking.

"Come to Villa, and I’ll tell you myself," Saint said, eyes flickering with the opening he’d been angling toward the whole conversation.

"Saint... you know as well as anyone, I haven’t got many years left in this game." Pryce deflected the pitch directly.

Genuine enough, Pryce did want to come home, that part wasn’t in question. What he seemed genuinely uncertain about was whether Villa, specifically, was the right place to spend what remained of his career.

Thirty-six, closing in on thirty-seven, but his form hadn’t suffered for it in the slightest. This past season alone, Pryce had played every available minute and still managed fourteen league goals.

"Danny, that’s exactly why I’m asking. You’re a Birmingham lad through and through, this city’s always claimed you as one of its own. If your career ends without a single season wearing Villa’s shirt, that’s a regret you’ll carry the rest of your life."

As a player, Pryce had become something close to a civic symbol for Birmingham’s football scene over the years, and as a club, Villa remained the city’s flagship, whatever Birmingham City’s own supporters might argue.

"And Danny, I’ll be straight with you. This squad is about to change more than you’d expect this summer. Plenty of young faces coming in. That’s exactly why I need someone with real experience, real standing in a dressing room, to help anchor it."

That honesty genuinely caught Pryce off guard. Most managers sell a transfer on glowing promises about minutes and starting spots. Saint had done the opposite entirely, telling him plainly that this squad would be young, and that his actual value lay in holding it together rather than leading the line.

"They’re young, but they’re genuinely talented. I believe fully that I can develop this group into something that shocks the entire league." Total confidence, no hedging whatsoever.

Pryce had seen plenty in this sport over a long career. He hadn’t, though, seen anyone quite like this, barely two years into coaching, and already three months into a managerial record most veterans would kill for. Something in his chest shifted, almost against his will, listening to Saint lay it all out.

Beside them, Grace, who’d stayed quiet through the whole conversation, sat watching her boyfriend with an expression she couldn’t quite hide either.