Friday was the day of the first mock interview. We set up the living room like an office, with me on one side of the table and Emma on the other. She had her laptop open, a notepad beside her, and a pen in her hand.

She was in full journalist mode, her questions sharp, her demeanor professional, her gaze unwavering. This wasn't my girlfriend. This was Emma Hartley, investigative journalist, and she was here to expose every weakness, every doubt, every crack in my armor.

"Your CV is… unconventional," she began, her voice cool and detached. "You've won a non-league title, but you have zero experience in a professional academy environment. Zero. Some would say you're a significant risk. Some would say you're completely unqualified. Convince me they're wrong."

I took a deep breath. This was it. The moment of truth.

"It's a risk," I said, my voice steady, my gaze meeting hers.

"But it's a calculated one. I don't have academy experience, but I have something more valuable: proven experience in developing players under extreme limitations. I took two players who were written off and transformed them. Jamie Scott, 17, released by an academy, traumatized, no confidence - I developed him into a match-winner. And JJ Johnson, released by Man City for attitude problems, thought he was bigger than the team - I transformed his mentality and he just signed for Brighton for £100,000. That's not just coaching. That's development under pressure. That's what academies need."

She nodded, her expression unreadable. "Two players. That's your sample size. Two. What if they were outliers? What if you just got lucky? How do I know you can replicate that success with a squad of twenty players, all with different needs, different personalities, different problems?"

I felt a flicker of annoyance, but I pushed it down. This was exactly what she was supposed to do.

"Because the principles are the same," I said. "Every player is different, but the fundamentals of development are universal. Challenge, trust, accountability, and belief. I didn't just fix two players. I transformed an entire team. We went from mid-table mediocrity to champions. That's not luck. That's a system. That's a philosophy. That's replicable."

"'Player development through challenge and trust,'" she said, reading from her notes. "That sounds good on a PowerPoint slide. But what does it actually mean when you have a £10 million teenager who thinks he knows everything and won't listen to a 26-year-old from the County League? What do you do when he laughs in your face?"

"I've already handled that exact situation," I said, a surge of confidence washing over me.

"JJ Johnson was released by Man City for his attitude. He thought he was better than everyone, refused to track back, played for himself. He was toxic. I didn't lecture him. I didn't shout at him. I showed him video evidence of how his selfishness cost the team goals. I made him watch himself. I challenged him to prove he was as good as he thought he was by making the team better, not just himself. Within six months, he transformed. He's now a £100,000 Championship player. You earn respect by making players better, not by demanding it."

"And if the video doesn't work?" she pressed. "If he still doesn't listen? If his parents complain to the academy director? If his agent threatens to pull him out? What then?"

"Then I have a conversation with the parents and the agent," I said. "I explain my philosophy. I show them the evidence. I make it clear that I'm not trying to break their son down; I'm trying to build him up. But I also make it clear that there are standards, and if he wants to be part of this team, he has to meet them. No exceptions. Not for anyone."

We went on like that for over an hour, her questions relentless, probing, designed to expose every weakness. She grilled me on my tactical knowledge, on my man-management skills, on my ability to handle pressure.

She asked me about my biggest failure, about a time I'd made a mistake, about how I'd handle a player with a serious personal issue. She pushed me, she challenged me, she forced me to think, to defend, to articulate. She forced me to be the best version of myself.

When it was over, I was exhausted but exhilarated. I felt like I had just gone twelve rounds with a heavyweight champion, but I was still standing.

"So," I said, my voice hoarse. "How did I do?"

She looked at me, a slow smile spreading across her face. "You were brilliant," she said, her voice full of a pride that made my heart swell. "Absolutely brilliant. But you talk too fast when you're nervous. You need to slow down. Breathe. Take your time. They want to hear what you have to say."

"I do?" I asked, surprised.

"Yes," she said, her voice gentle. "You do. But that's an easy fix. We'll work on it tomorrow."

We spent the weekend reviewing all the materials we had gathered, refining my answers, and practicing my delivery. Saturday morning, we went for a walk in the park, a chance to clear my head, to get away from the laptop and the notes and the pressure.

We talked about everything except the interview. We talked about her work, about a story she was chasing about council corruption.

We talked about Moss Side, about Scott, about whether Mark Crossley would actually come back. We talked about us, about what would happen if I got the job, about the logistics of a long-distance relationship. It was normal. It was grounding. It was exactly what I needed.

Saturday afternoon, we reviewed my coaching philosophy document again, making small tweaks and refining the language. Saturday evening, we practiced my delivery, my body language, and my eye contact. Emma was relentless, correcting me every time I slouched, every time I looked away, every time I rushed my words.

On Sunday, we did a second mock interview, and I was much better. I was calmer, more confident, more articulate. I answered her questions with clarity and conviction. I didn't rush. I didn't stumble. I was ready.

"One week down," Emma said, as we sat on the sofa on Sunday night, a comfortable silence between us. "One week to go. You're doing great, Danny. You're really doing great."

"I couldn't do it without you," I said, my voice full of a gratitude that went beyond words.

"Yes, you could," she said, her voice soft but firm. "But you don't have to. We're a team, remember?"

I looked at her, at this incredible woman who had turned my life upside down in the best possible way, and I knew that whatever happened in the interview, whatever happened with Crystal Palace, I had already won.

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