THE BLUE SEAT CHRONICLES · BOOK ONE
THE SEAT LEFT EMPTY
What happens when the person beside you is no longer there?
Football has always been about more than ninety minutes.
It's the rituals. The journey. The same streets.
The same seat. And, most importantly, the people we share it with.
The Seat Left Empty is a story about
one of those relationships - a lifetime of
football, love, family and memories,
and what remains when the person
who shared them is gone.
Some seats never
really become empty.
THE STORY
MORE THAN A SEAT
Some of the most important people in our lives are simply the ones who were always there.
The Seat Left Empty follows a woman whose life becomes intertwined with football, family and the person beside her.
Matchdays become markers in a much bigger journey - familiar routines, shared moments, changing lives and memories built in the same place, season after season.
But life changes. And sometimes the person who has always been beside us suddenly isn't.
And when one seat becomes empty, the other is left carrying everything that came before it.
Because sometimes losing someone doesn't mean they stop walking beside you.
This isn't a story about results, league tables or ninety minutes.
It's about who we share those ninety minutes with - and why they matter long after the final whistle.
IT'S NOT REALLY ABOUT FOOTBALL.
Well... not entirely.
Football is where the story lives.
The matchdays, the routines, the walk to the ground and the seat itself give The Seat Left Empty its rhythm.
But you don't need to understand formations, remember league tables or even particularly like football to understand the story.
Because underneath all of it is something much simpler.
It's about having someone beside you.
And what happens when they're not.
Football gives us the setting. People give us the story.
BEHIND THE BOOK
WHY I WROTE IT
Because football has never just been about football.
I've spent most of my life going to the match.
And when I think about those years, it's rarely the scorelines I remember first.
It's the people.
The person you walk to the ground with. The conversations you've had a hundred times. The routines that somehow become traditions. The familiar faces around you. The seat you return to week after week, season after season.
Then, one day, somebody isn't there.
The Seat Left Empty grew from that idea - how much of our lives become attached to places, and how those places change when someone we associate with them is gone.
I wanted to write something that understood football as part of people's lives rather than just a sport. Something about love, family, memory, grief and the strange way a place can hold onto someone long after they've left it.
That's where this story came from.
We remember the match.
But we remember who we watched it with more.
— Adam
WHAT READERS ARE SAYING
Turns out I'm not the only one who thinks it's worth reading.
“This story will resonate with a lot of people. It’s set at a football match but could relate to any situation where you attend events with someone regularly.”
“I don’t like football but I do like romance. This book is a must read. I really enjoyed every page. You won’t be disappointed.”
“Have 2 sets of tissues ready. One to wipe away the tears of laughter. The other to wipe away the tears of sadness. This book has it all.”
“He really captures the routine, the smells, the sounds, the interactions with others, and that wonderful anticipatory build up towards kickoff.”
“The characters feel authentic, and genuinely human. Their interactions feel natural rather than forced, and the emotional weight of their choices lingers after you put the book down.”
Already read it? A review makes a massive difference to an independent author.
DON'T TAKE THEIR WORD FOR IT.
Have a read yourself.
You can read reviews all day, but there's really only one way to find out if a book's for you.
So here's a little bit of The Seat Left Empty.
Their first stop, always, was the badge fella by the church wall. The man’s limp was worse now, but his voice still carried that familiar sandpaper growl.
“Latchford once scored with a dislocated toe, y’know,” he said, handing Millie a badge with a smirk. He said it every year about a different player. Her dad rolled his eyes.
“Load of shite,” he muttered — then slipped him a fiver anyway.
They moved on to the chippy by the church, queue snaking out the door. The familiar smell of curry sauce and hot grease welcomed them like an old friend. Her dad ordered two chip barms, both with curry sauce, both with burnt corners — just how they liked them.
The woman behind the counter didn’t even ask for their order — just handed it over like clockwork.
“Curry, burnt corners, bit extra salt,” she recited, before dropping two greasy paper bundles into his hands.
“Three quid fifty for that. Robbery,” he said, as he always did. “Still… it’s matchday.”
They ate under the eaves of the old betting shop, just out of the rain, the paper going soggy at the corners. He wiped his mouth with a sleeve and ruffled her hair — still treating her like the kid in the blue dress and hat he used to call his little Toffee Lady.
“You still got that costume?” he asked.
“Somewhere in the loft,” she replied. “Covered in dust.”
He grinned. “Best bloody Toffee Lady since Ole Ma Bushell, you were. Used to shout, ‘Come on you Blues’ louder than anyone in the Gwladys.”
Inside, past the loos that always smelled like cheap mints and poor decisions, they picked up two Bovrils — thick, salty, and scalding — then made their way to the Lower Bullens.
Seat 111 and Seat 112. Always.
Some seats hold more than a view.
CONTINUE THE STORY →