Friday evening, Manchester Piccadilly station. The familiar chaos of commuters and tourists swirled around me, a symphony of rolling suitcases, hurried announcements, and tearful reunions. But for the first time in two weeks, I wasn't part of the chaos. I was an observer, a ghost in my own city, my mind still buzzing with the relentless intensity of the UEFA B course.

I saw her before she saw me. Emma. Her vibrant red hair was a beacon in the crowd, a splash of color in the monochrome blur of the station.

She was standing on her tiptoes, scanning the faces pouring off the train from Birmingham, a small bouquet of flowers clutched in one hand and a card in the other. My heart did a little flip, a nervous, happy flutter that had nothing to do with football and everything to do with her.

"Emma," I called out, my voice hoarse from two weeks of non-stop coaching.

Her head snapped around, her eyes lit up, and a smile that could melt the Manchester rain spread across her face. She ran the last few steps and threw her arms around me, burying her face in my chest.

I dropped my bag and wrapped my arms around her, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair, a mix of something floral and something uniquely Emma. For the first time in two weeks, I felt like I was home.

"You did it," she whispered into my shirt.

"I did it," I confirmed, my voice thick with emotion.

She pulled back, her eyes shining with pride. "I knew you would. I never doubted you for a second." She handed me the flowers and the card. The card read: "Congratulations, Coach Walsh."

I laughed, a real, genuine laugh that felt like it had been trapped inside me for weeks. "Coach Walsh. I like the sound of that."

I showed her the certificate, the crisp white paper with the three lions crest and the single, beautiful word: "Distinction."

"Of course it's a distinction," she said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You're brilliant. You just needed to believe it."

She looked at me more closely, her smile softening into a look of concern. "But you look exhausted, Danny. Properly exhausted."

"I am," I admitted. "Two weeks of non-stop intensity. My brain is fried. I don't think I can think about football for at least twelve hours."

"Then this weekend, you rest," she said, taking my hand and lacing her fingers through mine. "No football. No preparation. Just us."

"But the interview..." I started to protest, the familiar knot of anxiety tightening in my stomach.

"Is in two weeks," she interrupted gently but firmly. "You have time. Right now, you need to breathe. You need to remember what it's like to be a normal person."

We went back to her flat, a cozy little haven in the heart of the city that had become my sanctuary. We ordered a pizza, opened a bottle of wine, and slumped onto the sofa to watch a movie. I don't even remember what it was. Halfway through, my body finally gave in to the exhaustion that had been gnawing at me for days. My head drooped, my eyes closed, and I was gone.

I woke up a few hours later, a blanket draped over me, the TV off, the only light coming from the soft glow of a lamp in the corner. Emma was sitting in the armchair opposite, reading a book, her feet tucked up underneath her. She looked up as I stirred, a soft smile on her face.

"Hey, sleepyhead," she whispered.

"I fell asleep, didn't I?" I mumbled, my voice thick with sleep.

"You were out like a light," she said. "You've earned it. You've earned a proper rest."

She was right. I had. And for the first time in a long time, I let myself believe it.

I woke up the next morning to the smell of bacon and coffee. I blinked, disoriented, the unfamiliar feeling of waking up without a 6 am alarm jarring me into consciousness. I looked at the clock on the bedside table. 10:30 am. I hadn't slept this late since… well, since before I became a football manager.

Emma was in the kitchen, humming along to the radio, a vision in her oversized band t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. Her red hair was tied up in a messy bun, and she had a smudge of flour on her nose. She looked beautiful.

"Morning, sunshine," she said, her smile bright. "I made you breakfast. A proper full English. You look like you need it."

I sat down at the small kitchen table, a plate piled high with bacon, eggs, sausages, and beans in front of me. It was a feast. A glorious, artery-clogging, beautiful feast.

"What time is it?" I asked, still feeling a little dazed. "I should be..."

"Resting," she finished for me, putting a mug of coffee in my hands. "Eat your breakfast, Coach Walsh. That's an order."

We ate together, the easy silence between us a comfortable blanket. I watched her as she talked about her week, about a story she was working on, about a funny thing her colleague had said. It was normal. It was real. And I realized how much I had missed it. How much I had missed her.

"When was the last time you had a day off?" she asked, her eyes searching mine.

I had to think about it. A proper day off, with no football, no planning, no phone calls. "Before the title race," I said finally. "February? March?"

"That's almost like four months ago, Danny," she said, her voice soft but firm. "You need this. You need to switch off. You can't be 'the Gaffer' all the time."

"I feel guilty," I admitted, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "Like I should be preparing. Researching Palace, planning sessions, something."

"You will," she said, reaching across the table and taking my hand. "Starting Monday. But today, you're mine. All mine. No football allowed."

She was right, of course. She was always right. And so, for the first time in a long time, I let go. I let go of the pressure, the anxiety, the relentless drive to succeed. I let go of the Gaffer. And I just let myself be Danny.

Emma dragged me out of the flat that afternoon for what she called "a proper date." We walked through the Northern Quarter, the city's creative heart, the streets buzzing with a vibrant, bohemian energy.

We browsed in record shops, the smell of old vinyl and dusty cardboard a welcome change from the scent of deep heat and freshly cut grass.

We wandered through vintage stores, laughing at the ridiculous clothes and the outrageous prices. I held her hand, my fingers laced through hers, a simple, profound act of connection that grounded me in the present moment.

We stopped at a small café with tables outside, a rare patch of Manchester sunshine warming our faces. We ordered coffee and cake, and for a while, we just sat in comfortable silence, watching the world go by.

"Tell me about the course," Emma said finally, her voice soft. "The real stuff, not just the highlights. What was it really like?"

And so I told her. I told her about the fear, the crippling imposter syndrome that had consumed me in the first few days.

I told her about the moment it had clicked, the moment I had realized that I belonged there, that my experiences at Moss Side were just as valid as the other coaches' experiences in professional academies. I told her about the camaraderie, the friendships I had forged with the other coaches, the shared sense of purpose that had bound us together.

"You belonged there," she said, her eyes full of a fierce, unwavering belief in me. "You always did. You just needed to believe it yourself."

***

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