I spent every spare moment studying. I devoured the course materials, my brain soaking up the information like a sponge.

I used the system, my secret weapon, to run simulations, to test tactical theories, to analyze player data. The new Manager's Office interface was a godsend, allowing me to visualize complex formations and player movements in a way that the static diagrams in the textbooks never could.

On Tuesday night, I was in my hotel room, laptop open, running through a tactical simulation on the system.

I was testing different approaches to breaking down a deep defensive block, experimenting with player positioning and movement patterns. The system was showing me probabilities, success rates, and potential weaknesses. It was like having a supercomputer in my head.

There was a knock on my door. I quickly minimized the system interface and opened the door. It was Graham.

"Fancy a pint?" he asked. "A few of us are heading to the bar."

I hesitated. I should keep studying. But I also needed to relax, to connect with the other coaches, to be part of the group.

"Yeah, alright," I said. "Give me two minutes."

We spent the evening in the hotel bar, a group of eight coaches, swapping stories, sharing experiences, bonding over our shared love of the game.

Carl was there, telling stories about playing under Gordon Strachan at Middlesbrough, about the manager's infamous temper and his brilliant tactical mind.

Graham talked about his time at Wolves, working with the Portuguese contingent, learning about tactical periodization from coaches who'd worked with José Mourinho.

A young coach from Arsenal's academy, a quiet lad named Tom who couldn't have been more than twenty-five, opened up about the pressure of working at a club where anything less than perfection was considered failure.

"I had a kid last year," Tom said, nursing his pint.

"Sixteen years old. Brilliant player. But he made a mistake in a youth cup game, and the academy director tore him apart in front of the whole squad. The kid never recovered. He left the club six months later. Went to Brentford. And you know what? He's thriving there. Because they treat him like a human being, not a commodity."

The table went quiet. We all knew stories like that. The dark side of elite football, where young players were chewed up and spat out.

It was the first time all week I'd felt truly relaxed. These were my people. This was my world. I belonged here.

I called Emma every night, my head buzzing with new ideas, new concepts. She listened patiently, her voice a calming presence in the storm of my anxiety. On Tuesday night, she told me she'd been looking at flats for us to rent together in London if I got the Crystal Palace job.

"Don't jinx it," I'd said, but I was smiling.

"I'm not jinxing it," she'd replied. "I'm planning for it. Because you're going to get it, Danny. I know you are."

"You've got this," she would say every night before we hung up. "Just be yourself. Be the Gaffer."

I talked to Scott Miller too, my successor at Moss Side. He was finding his feet as player-manager, a mixture of excitement and terror. On Monday night, he'd called me in a panic because Kev and Baz had gotten into a fight at training.

"What do I do?" he'd asked, his voice frantic.

"You sit them down, separately, and you listen," I'd told him. "You don't take sides. You don't shout. You just listen. And then you remind them that they're brothers, and brothers fight, but they also forgive. And then you make them shake hands and get back to work."

He'd called me back an hour later. "It worked," he'd said, relief flooding his voice. "They're fine now. Thanks, gaffer."

"I'm not your gaffer anymore," I'd said gently. "You are. And you're doing a brilliant job."

It felt good to be helping, to be staying connected, to be honoring my promise.

The written exam was on Wednesday morning. I sat in the silent examination hall, the clock ticking ominously on the wall. There were thirty of us, spread out across the room, hunched over our desks like students taking their A-levels. The tension was palpable. I could hear the scratch of pens on paper, the occasional cough, the rustle of someone turning a page.

I read the questions, and a sense of calm washed over me. I knew this stuff. I really knew it. The first question was about tactical periodization, asking us to design a week-long training schedule for a team preparing for a high-intensity derby match.

The second was about player psychology, presenting a case study of a talented but unmotivated player and asking how we would approach the situation. The third was about set-piece organization, both offensive and defensive.

These were things I had lived, things I had breathed, things I had done every single day for the past eighteen months.

I wrote for three solid hours, my pen flying across the page. I wrote about the principles of zonal marking, explaining how I'd organized Moss Side's defense to protect the space in behind rather than man-marking.

I wrote about the importance of periodization in training, describing how I'd structured our weekly sessions to peak for Saturday's match. I wrote about the psychological factors that affect player performance, drawing on my experiences with players from difficult backgrounds.

For the player psychology question, I wrote about Big Dave. I described how I'd had to rebuild his confidence after years of failure, how I'd given him the captain's armband and watched him transform into a leader after Mark Crossley.

I wrote about Jamie, about how I'd had to be patient, to be gentle, to give him the space to heal from trauma. I wrote about JJ, about how I'd had to challenge him, to push him, to make him understand that talent alone wasn't enough.

I wrote from the heart. I wrote with honesty. I wrote with passion. I wrote like a coach who had lived every word, because I had.

When I walked out of the exam hall three hours later, my hand cramping, my brain exhausted, I felt a quiet confidence. I had done my best. I couldn't have done any more.

Graham was waiting outside, leaning against the wall, looking pale. "How did you find it?" he asked.

"Alright, I think," I said. "You?"

"Brutal," he admitted. "That question on sports science nearly killed me. I haven't thought about lactate thresholds since I was a player."

Carl emerged a few minutes later, looking grim. "That was harder than playing at Old Trafford," he muttered.

James, the Leicester coach, came out shaking his head. "I spent too long on the first question. Had to rush the last one."

We walked to the canteen together, joining the other candidates for lunch. The atmosphere was subdued; everyone was mentally and physically drained. But there was also a sense of relief. The hardest part was over. Now we just had to wait for the results.

That afternoon, we had a recovery session, a gentle lecture on career development in coaching, how to network, and how to build a CV. It felt surreal, sitting there thinking about the future when I didn't even know if I'd passed yet.

The final assessment, the practical coaching session, was on Friday. The culmination of two weeks of intense work. My final chance to prove myself.

***

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