"You're 26 years old," Richard Shaw said. "Some of these players are 18. How will you command respect?"

"By being excellent at my job," I said, my voice unwavering. "Age doesn't matter if you're good. I'll earn their respect through coaching quality, not authority. I'll show them I can make them better. That's all that matters."

Steve Parish leaned forward, his eyes locking onto mine. "We have a player in our U18s squad. Immensely talented, probably the most talented player in his age group in the country. But his application is inconsistent. He has the potential to be a first-team star, but he's not fulfilling it. How would you handle a player like that?"

I met his gaze without flinching.

"I watched him train this morning. A striker, right? His talent is obvious. But so is his frustration. I've handled a similar situation with a player named JJ Johnson. He was released by Man City for his attitude. I didn't try to break him. I challenged him. I showed him how his selfishness hurt the team and himself. I gave him responsibility and held him accountable. He transformed. The player I saw this morning has even more talent than JJ. If I can help him channel it properly, he could be a Premier League star. That's the challenge I'm excited about."

A flicker of understanding passed between the three men. They knew exactly who I was talking about.

"And if he doesn't respond?" Steve Parish pressed.

"Then I'll document everything, communicate clearly with you and Gary, and make decisions based on what's best for the team and his development," I said. "But I believe he will respond. Most players do when you challenge them properly."

Steve Parish smiled, a genuine, warm smile that transformed his face. "Confident. I like that."

"Why Crystal Palace specifically?" Gary Issott asked.

"Your academy tradition," I said, my voice full of a genuine passion. "Zaha, Moses, Clyne. You develop players properly. And Gary, your reputation. You're one of the best academy managers in the country. I want to learn from you. This is the perfect place to start my professional career."

Gary Issott laughed, a warm, genuine laugh. "Flattery will get you everywhere."

I then presented my portfolio, the ten-page coaching philosophy document, the twelve pages of session plans, and my UEFA B distinction certificate. They were impressed. I could see it in their eyes, in the way they flipped through the pages, in the way they looked at me with a newfound respect.

"What's your biggest weakness as a coach?" Steve Parish asked, his eyes sharp, analytical.

"I'm still learning," I said, my voice full of a quiet humility. "I'm 26. I don't have 20 years of experience. But I'm a fast learner, I'm hungry, and I'm willing to admit when I don't know something and ask for help."

"Self-awareness," Gary Issott said, nodding in approval. "That's important."

The final question came from Gary Issott. "Last question. Why should we take a risk on you?"

I looked at each of them in the eye, my voice full of a quiet passion, a burning desire, a lifetime of dreams. "Because I'm worth it," I said. "I won a league title in my first season. I developed a player who sold for £100,000. I earned a UEFA B distinction. I'm young, hungry, and talented. Yes, it's a risk. But it's a risk worth taking. I'll work harder than anyone. I'll develop your players. I'll make you proud. That's my promise."

There was a long silence. The three men looked at each other, a silent conversation passing between them. And then Gary Issott stood up and extended his hand.

"Thank you, Danny," he said, a warm smile on his face. "We'll be in touch."

I shook their hands, my own hand surprisingly steady. "Thank you for the opportunity," I said. "I hope to hear from you soon."

I walked out of the room, my legs shaking, the adrenaline crashing through me like a tidal wave. I made it to a bench outside, the cool London air a welcome shock to my system. I pulled out my phone and called Emma.

"How was it?" she asked, her voice full of a nervous excitement.

"I don't know," I said, my voice hoarse. "I think it went well. But I can't tell."

"I'm proud of you," she said, her voice full of a love that was stronger than any doubt, any fear, any insecurity. "Whatever happens, you did your best."

"Now I wait," I said, the words hanging in the air between us.

"Come home," she said, her voice a comforting balm to my frayed nerves. "I'll be at the station."

I took the train back to Manchester, my mind a blur of questions, answers, and what-ifs. I was exhausted, emotionally drained, but also strangely at peace. I had done everything I could. I had been myself. I had been authentic. I had been passionate. The rest was out of my hands.

As the train pulled into Manchester Piccadilly, I saw her standing on the platform, a beacon of hope in the bustling station.

She was wearing my Moss Side hoodie, a small, defiant gesture of support that made my heart swell with love. She ran to me as I stepped off the train, and I wrapped her in my arms, burying my face in her hair, inhaling the familiar scent of her shampoo. In that moment, I didn't care about the job, about the interview, about the future. I was home.

"Whatever happens, I'm proud of you," she whispered into my chest. "You were brilliant. I know it."

I smiled, a genuine, heartfelt smile that reached my eyes. "I love you," I said, my voice thick with emotion.

"I love you too," she said, her voice muffled by my jacket. "Now let's go home. You look like you need a good night's sleep."

And so we did. We went home, and for the first time in two weeks, I slept. A deep, dreamless sleep, the sleep of a man who had given everything he had, and who was finally, truly, at peace with whatever came next.

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