We walked to Piccadilly Gardens, a chaotic, vibrant hub of city life. We sat on a bench and watched the world go by: the street performers, the skaters, the families, the lovers. It was a world away from the manicured perfection of St. George's Park, but it was real. It was life. And I had missed it.

"I've missed this," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "Just… being normal."

"You're not normal anymore," she said, a playful glint in her eye. "You're a UEFA B-licensed coach with a Premier League interview. You're kind of a big deal."

"I'm still me," I said, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.

"I know," she said, her voice softening. "Don't ever change that."

That evening, Emma took me out for dinner. She had booked a table at a small, independent restaurant in the city center, the kind of place with mismatched furniture and a menu scrawled on a chalkboard. It was perfect.

"I'm paying," she said, before I could even protest. "You're unemployed. I have a job. Let me."

We ate and drank and talked for hours. We talked about everything and nothing. We talked about her work, about her friends, about the funny, mundane details of normal life that I had been so disconnected from. I listened, fascinated, soaking it all in, realizing how much I had missed her, how much I needed this grounding influence in my life.

"What happens if you get the Palace job?" she asked, her voice quiet, her eyes searching mine.

The question hung in the air between us, a stark reminder of the reality that awaited us.

"I move to London," I said, my voice equally quiet. "We do long distance. We visit each other every other weekend. We make it work."

"That's going to be hard," she said, her voice laced with a sadness that broke my heart.

"I know," I said, reaching across the table and taking her hand. "But we'll make it work. You're the most important thing in my life, Emma. I love you."

It was the first time I had said it. The words felt both terrifying and liberating, a declaration of a truth that had been growing in my heart for months.

Her eyes filled with tears, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. "Football's pretty important too," she whispered, a watery smile on her face.

"You're more important," I said, my voice firm, my gaze unwavering. "Always."

She squeezed my hand. "Good answer."

We walked home slowly, our arms wrapped around each other, the city lights blurring around us. There was no rush. For the first time in a long time, there was no rush at all.

On Sunday morning, I couldn't resist the pull of Moss Side. I had to see how Scott was doing, how the team was coping without me. Emma, ever patient, ever understanding, came with me. We arrived at the training ground at 10 am, the familiar sight of the clubhouse and the pitch a welcome balm to my soul.

Scott was in the middle of a training session, his voice echoing across the pitch, a mixture of authority and encouragement. He was using my tactics, my drills, but with his own unique style, his own personality stamped all over it. The players looked happy, they looked sharp, they looked like a team that was enjoying their football. I watched from the sideline, a proud father watching his son take his first steps.

After the session, Scott came over, a wide grin on his face. "How was the course, gaffer?" he asked, the familiar title a warm embrace.

"Passed," I said, a smile on my face. "Distinction."

"Of course you did," he said, clapping me on the back. "Congratulations. You deserve it."

"How's it going here?" I asked, my eyes scanning the pitch, the players, the familiar surroundings.

"Good," he said, his voice full of a nervous energy. "Pre-season prep is going well. We had that first friendly last week against Radcliffe, won three-nil. Your pressing trap still works a treat. But mate, the pressure is on. You're the one who got us promoted to the North West Counties League. Now I'm the one who has to keep us there."

"That's brilliant," I said, a surge of pride washing over me. "How are you feeling about the step up?"

"Terrified," he admitted, his voice dropping to a whisper. "It's a higher level, Danny. A much higher level. We're looking at a few transfers to strengthen the squad. Terry's got some budget from the JJ money."

"You'll be fine," I said, my voice full of a confidence I wasn't sure I felt. "You know the system. You know the players. Just trust it."

"Easy for you to say," he said, a wry smile on his face. "You're the hero who won the league. I'm just the poor sod who has to follow you and try not to get us relegated from getting relegated from relegated."

"You will," I said, my voice firm. "I believe in you. I wouldn't have left if I didn't."

Later that afternoon, I met Terry at the clubhouse. He showed me the new changing rooms, the gleaming new showers, and the upgraded medical room. It was a world away from the dilapidated facilities I had inherited just a year ago.

"All because of you and JJ," Terry said, his voice thick with emotion. "You changed this club forever, son. We got promoted. We're in the North West Counties League next season. That's because of you."

"We did it together," I said, my voice equally emotional.

"We're looking at a few signings," he continued, his voice full of a newfound ambition. "Got some budget left from the JJ transfer. Scott's identified a midfielder from Curzon Ashton and a center-back from Stalybridge."

"That's smart," I said, impressed by their foresight. "You'll need depth for the higher level."

"When's the Palace interview?" he asked, his eyes full of a fatherly pride.

"Two weeks," I said. "Friday, May 6th."

"You'll smash it," he said, his voice full of an unwavering belief in me. "And when you do, remember where you came from."

"Always," I said, my voice thick with emotion. "This place made me."

"No," he said, his voice firm. "You made yourself. We just gave you the chance."

He pulled me into a hug, his strong arms a comforting embrace. "Go be brilliant," he whispered. "Make us proud."

That evening, back at Emma's flat, the reality of the situation finally hit me. My phone buzzed with an email from Gary Issott. Subject: "Interview Confirmation - Friday 6th May, 10 am, Copers Cope."

My stomach dropped. It was real. It was actually happening.

"What if I'm not ready?" I said the words tumbling out before I could stop them.

Emma came and sat next to me on the sofa, taking my hand in hers. "Then we'll get you ready," she said, her voice a calm, reassuring presence in the storm of my anxiety. "Starting tomorrow."

"I don't even know where to start," I admitted, my voice barely a whisper.

"Yes, you do," she said, her voice full of a quiet strength. "You research Palace. You prepare your philosophy. You practice your answers. One step at a time. We'll do it together."

"Will you help me?" I asked, my voice full of a vulnerability I rarely showed.

"Every single day," she said, her eyes full of a fierce, unwavering love. "We're a team, remember?"

"Thank you," I said, my voice thick with emotion. "For everything. For this weekend. For believing in me."

"Always," she said, her voice a soft caress. "Now get some sleep. Tomorrow, we start preparing."

I woke up on Monday morning feeling refreshed, revitalized, and ready to work. The weekend of rest had been a revelation, a much-needed reminder that there was more to life than football. But now, it was time to get back to work. It was time to get ready for the biggest opportunity of my life.

I walked into the living room to find Emma already up, her laptop open, a stack of notes beside her. She looked up as I entered, a determined glint in her eye.

"Okay, Coach Walsh," she said, a smile on her face. "Let's get you that job."

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