Monday morning. One week to go. The final countdown.

The air in the flat felt different, charged with a nervous energy that had been building since I'd first received the email from Gary Issott.

The first week had been about building the foundations: the research, the philosophy, the session plans. This week was about refinement, about polishing every detail until it shone, about transforming myself from a candidate into the only candidate.

We started the week by revisiting my coaching philosophy document. It was good, but it wasn't perfect. Emma, with her journalist's eye for detail, went through it line by line, her red pen a ruthless but necessary weapon.

She challenged every sentence, every word, every comma. "This section about player psychology needs more depth," she said, circling a paragraph. "You talk about trust and belief, but you need to show them how you build it. Give them concrete examples."

And so I did. I added a new section, detailing my approach to man-management. I wrote about Big Dave, about how I'd rebuilt his confidence after he'd been dropped, about how I'd used video analysis to show him his strengths, not just his weaknesses.

I wrote about Jamie Scott, about how I'd helped him overcome his trauma, not by being soft on him, but by challenging him, by giving him responsibility, by making him feel valued.

And I wrote about JJ Johnson, about how I'd transformed his attitude, not by punishing him, but by holding him accountable, by making him understand that his talent was a gift, not an excuse.

By the end of Monday, the document had grown from eight pages to ten. It was more detailed, more personal, more powerful.

It was a complete picture of who I was as a coach, of what I believed in, of what I could bring to Crystal Palace. "This is perfect," Emma said, her voice full of a quiet pride. "It shows who you are as a coach. It's authentic. It's compelling. It's you."

We took a break in the afternoon, walking through the park near Emma's flat. The spring air was crisp and clean, and for a few precious moments, I allowed myself to forget about the interview, about the pressure, about the weight of expectation that sat on my shoulders like a physical burden.

We talked about other things, about her work at the paper, about a story she was chasing, about the possibility of us moving in together properly if I got the job. It was normal, mundane, beautiful. It reminded me that there was a life beyond football, beyond coaching, beyond this one opportunity that felt like it would define everything.

"You know what I love about you?" Emma said as we sat on a bench overlooking the pond. "You care so much. About the players, about the game, about doing things the right way. That's rare. Don't lose that, whatever happens."

"I won't," I promised, and I meant it."

Tuesday was dedicated to my session plans. They were good, but they could be better. I went through each one, adding more detail, more nuance, more depth. I added specific coaching points for each drill, common mistakes to look out for, and interventions to use when things went wrong.

I created progressions to make the drills harder and regressions to make them easier, ensuring that every player, regardless of their ability, would be challenged and engaged. I even used a simple drawing tool to create visual diagrams for each drill, making them easier to understand and easier to visualize.

Emma, with her eye for design, helped me with the formatting, making sure they were clean, professional, and easy to read.

By the end of the day, I had a complete portfolio: a ten-page coaching philosophy document, four weeks of detailed session plans with visual diagrams, and my UEFA B distinction certificate.

It was a professional body of work, a testament to the hours of effort, the sleepless nights, the unwavering belief that I could do this. "This is a professional portfolio," Emma said, her voice full of admiration as she looked over the finished product. "You look like you've been doing this for years."

I looked at the portfolio, at the hours of work condensed into these neat, professional pages, and felt a surge of pride. This was me.

This was everything I'd learned, everything I'd achieved, everything I believed in. It wasn't just a document. It was proof. Proof that I belonged, that I deserved this chance, that I was more than just a kid from Moss Side who'd gotten lucky.

"Do you think they'll like it?" I asked, a hint of vulnerability creeping into my voice.

"They'll love it," Emma said firmly. "Because it's real. It's not some generic coaching manual. It's you. And you're brilliant.""

Wednesday was the day of the advanced mock interview. This was the big one, the final test before the real thing. Emma had spent the morning preparing a new set of questions, her journalist's instincts on full alert.

She was looking for my breaking point, for the chink in my armor, for the question that would make me crumble. She was in full journalist mode again, her questions sharp, her demeanor professional, her gaze unwavering.

This wasn't my girlfriend. This was Emma Hartley, investigative and sports journalist, and she was here to expose every weakness, every doubt, every crack in my armor.

We sat down at the kitchen table, the portfolio laid out between us. "Let's begin," she said, her voice cool and detached.

For the next ninety minutes, she grilled me. Her questions were tougher, more probing, more personal than before.

She asked me about my biggest failure, about a time I'd let a player down, about how I'd handle a dressing room that had turned against me. She pushed me on my lack of experience, on my unconventional background, and on whether I was truly ready for the pressure of a Premier League academy.

"Let's talk about failure," she began, her tone sharp and direct. "Your CV is impressive, but it's all success. Tell me about a time you failed as a coach. A time you got it wrong, and what you learned from it."

I took a breath. This was a classic journalistic tactic - knock them off balance with an unexpected question.

***

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