"My first game in charge at Moss Side after the Railway Arms Pub was sold," I said.

"We drew 1-1. I'd spent all week working on this complex pressing system I'd read about, but I hadn't considered the players I had. They weren't ready for it. I'd coached the system, not the players. I learned that day that tactics are useless if they don't fit the players you have. From then on, I built my system around my players, not the other way around."

"Good," she said, nodding slightly. "Now, let's talk about the future. You get the job. A year from now, what does success look like for the U18s? And don't just give me vague platitudes about 'player development'."

"Success is a clear pathway," I said. "It's having at least two players from my U18s squad training regularly with the first team. It's having a reputation as a team that plays attractive, attacking football. It's creating a culture where players are not just technically proficient, but also mentally resilient and tactically intelligent. It's about developing not just footballers, but people."

"And what if you don't get the job?" she asked, her gaze unwavering. "What's your plan B?"

I hadn't expected that one. "I haven't thought about it," I admitted. "This is the only job I want. But if I don't get it, I'll go back to Moss Side. I'll keep coaching, keep learning, keep getting better. And I'll be back here, or somewhere like it, in a year or two. This isn't a one-shot deal for me. This is my life."

"Last question," she said. "Why you? There are hundreds of coaches with more experience, more qualifications, more connections. Why should Crystal Palace choose you?"

"Because I'm different," I said, leaning forward, my passion evident in my voice. "I haven't come through the traditional academy system. I've coached in the real world, with real players with real problems. I've had to be creative, resourceful, and resilient. I've had to build something from nothing. I'm not just a coach. I'm a builder. And I can build something special here."

When it was over, I was emotionally drained but strangely exhilarated. I had survived. I had thrived. I had answered every question, met every challenge, and come out the other side stronger, more confident, more certain than ever that I could do this.

"Perfect," Emma said, a slow smile spreading across her face. "That last answer was brilliant. Confident but not arrogant. You're ready. I think you're actually ready."

"I am," I said, a sense of calm settling over me. "I'm ready."

She reached across the table and took my hand. "I'm so proud of you," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "Not just because you're good at this, but because of how hard you've worked. You've earned this opportunity, Danny. Whatever happens on Friday, remember that."

I squeezed her hand, unable to find the words to express what her support meant to me. She'd been there from the beginning, believing in me when I didn't believe in myself, pushing me when I wanted to give up, celebrating every small victory as if it were a championship. Without her, I wouldn't be here. Without her, none of this would be possible.

Thursday was for the final preparations. The little things that made a big difference. Emma insisted I get a haircut, and I reluctantly agreed.

The barber was an old Italian man who'd been cutting hair in Manchester for forty years.

He told me stories about the players he'd cut hair for over the decades, about the nervous young lads who'd come in before trials and signings, about how some of them had made it and some hadn't. "The ones who make it," he said, snipping away at my hair, "they all have one thing in common. They believe. Not arrogance, mind you. Belief. There's a difference."

I thought about that as I looked at myself in the mirror. Did I believe? Really believe? I thought I did. I had to.

We went shopping for an interview outfit. I'd never owned a proper suit in my life, and the thought of it was more intimidating than the interview itself. We went to a department store, and I felt completely out of place, a lad from Moss Side surrounded by racks of expensive clothes I couldn't afford and didn't understand.

"Right," Emma said, rubbing her hands together with a mischievous glint in her eye. "Operation Make-Danny-Look-Like-A-Grown-Up is a go."

"I am a grown-up," I grumbled, but I followed her obediently as she led me to the suit section.

What followed was a blur of fabrics, colours, and sizes. I tried on a suit that was too big, making me look like a kid playing dress-up in his dad's clothes.

I tried on one that was too tight, making me look like a bouncer at a cheap nightclub. I tried on a pinstripe suit that made me look like a gangster from a 1920s movie. Emma took photos of each one, laughing so hard at the pinstripe one that she had to lean against a wall for support.

"Okay, okay," she said, wiping tears from her eyes. "Maybe not the pinstripe. Let's try something simpler."

Finally, we found it. A simple, well-cut navy suit that actually fit. It wasn't a designer brand, but it was smart, professional, and made me feel… different. More confident. More capable. I looked at myself in the mirror, and for the first time, I saw someone who could walk into a Premier League academy and not feel like a complete imposter.

"That's the one," Emma said, her voice soft now. "You look… amazing."

"It's expensive," I said, looking at the price tag. It was more than I'd ever spent on a single item of clothing in my life.

"It's an investment," she said firmly. "In yourself. In our future. We'll make it work."

And so we did. We bought the suit, along with a crisp white shirt and a simple, elegant tie. It was a ridiculous amount of money to spend, but as we walked out of the store, I felt like a different person. I felt like a manager.

I looked at myself in the changing room mirror. I barely recognized the person staring back at me. Gone was the scruffy lad in a tracksuit. In his place was someone who looked like a coach, like someone who belonged in a professional academy.

We printed all my documents at the local library: the ten-page philosophy document, the twelve pages of session plans, and my UEFA B certificate.

Emma bought me a professional portfolio folder, a simple, elegant black folder that made everything look official. "A gift," she said when I protested. "An investment in our future. You can pay me back when you're a Premier League manager."

"Deal," I said, my heart swelling with a love and gratitude that was almost overwhelming.

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