The train pulled into Manchester Piccadilly, and for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, I felt a sense of relief. The interview was over. I had done everything I could. The rest was out of my hands.

Emma was waiting for me on the platform, a beacon of warmth and familiarity 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.

"So," she said, pulling back to look at me, her eyes sparkling with a playful curiosity. "Did you dazzle them with your tactical genius, or did you just bore them to sleep with your pressing stats?"

I laughed, a genuine, heartfelt laugh that eased the tension in my shoulders. "A bit of both, I think," I said. "I think it went well. But there were three other candidates. I just don't know."

"You were the best," she said, her voice full of a quiet confidence that I desperately wanted to borrow. "I know it."

We went back to her flat, ordered a massive Indian takeaway, and I recounted the entire interview, from the moment I walked in to the moment I walked out.

I told her about the questions, the answers, the moments of connection, the moments of doubt. She listened patiently, nodding in all the right places, her hand resting on my knee, a silent, reassuring presence.

"You did everything you could," she said when I had finished. "You were yourself. That's all that matters."

The weekend was a strange mix of forced relaxation and simmering anxiety. We tried to have a normal weekend.

On Saturday, we went to the market, the air thick with the smells of street food and fresh flowers.

We bought a sourdough loaf from a baker who looked like a Viking, and some crumbly Lancashire cheese from a woman with a smile as wide as the Pennines.

We were just a normal couple, doing normal couple things. But every time my phone buzzed, my heart did a little flip-flop, and the illusion shattered. It was never the call I was waiting for.

That evening, we tried to watch a film. Emma put on some daft comedy, something about a talking dog, I think. She was trying to distract me, to make me laugh. But I couldn't focus.

My mind was a hamster on a wheel, endlessly replaying the interview, dissecting every word, every glance, every handshake. Emma would laugh at a joke, and I'd just stare at the screen, my mind a million miles away.

She nudged me with her foot. "You're thinking about it again, aren't you?" she said, her voice soft. I just nodded, and she sighed, snuggling closer, her presence a silent comfort.

On Sunday, we went to Moss Side. Scott was running a pre-season friendly against a local team, and the atmosphere was relaxed, a world away from the high-stakes pressure of the County League. The sun was shining, the pitch was green, and the familiar faces of the players and the community were a comforting balm to my frayed nerves.

Mark Crossley was there, now officially Scott's assistant manager. He was wearing a Moss Side tracksuit, a whistle around his neck, and a look of quiet contentment on his face. He saw me and walked over, a small, hesitant smile on his face.

"Gaffer," he said, his voice full of a newfound respect.

"Mark," I said, my own voice warm. "Good to see you."

"You too," he said. "Thanks. For everything."

"You earned it," I said. "You belong here."

We stood in silence for a moment, watching the game, the unspoken words hanging in the air between us. He was grateful. I was proud. It was enough.

I spent some time with Jamie Scott, who was on the sidelines, recovering from a minor knock.

We talked about his movement, his finishing, and the little details that would take his game to the next level. He was a sponge, soaking up every piece of advice, his hunger to improve a tangible thing. It felt good to be coaching again, to be in my element, to be making a difference.

Scott came over at halftime, a worried frown on his face. "Heard anything?" he asked, his voice low.

"Not yet," I said, my own anxiety returning with a vengeance. "They said within a week. Maybe never."

"You'll get it," he said, his voice full of a conviction that I wished I shared. "I know you will."

But as the days ticked by, my hope began to fade. Monday came and went. No call. Tuesday. Silence. By Wednesday, the one-week deadline had passed, and I was convinced I hadn't got the job. I was quiet, withdrawn, a ghost in Emma's flat.

I snapped at her when she tried to be cheerful, then immediately apologized, the guilt eating away at me. The strain was showing, the cracks in my carefully constructed composure beginning to appear.

"Come on," she said, trying to lighten the mood as I stared blankly at the TV. "They're probably just trying to figure out how to afford your genius. You don't come cheap, you know. I've seen your takeaway bills."

I didn't even smile. "They've offered it to someone else," I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. "I know it. I was a risk. Why would they choose me?"

I opened my laptop and started looking at other coaching jobs, less ambitious, less exciting, a reflection of my diminished self-worth. I was a failure. A fraud. A lad from Moss Side who had dared to dream too big.

Wednesday night was the lowest point. I was sitting on the sofa in the dark, staring at my phone, the screen a blank, mocking void.

Emma came and sat next to me, putting her arm around me. I didn't respond. I had given up hope. The dream was over. And in the silence of the darkened room, I felt a profound sense of loss, a grief for a future that had never been.

***

Thank you to chisum_lane for the inspiration capsule.

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