Later that afternoon, I sat alone in the quiet of my office, the adrenaline of the morning having faded into a pleasant, humming exhaustion. The official contracts had been emailed over from Gary's assistant, and I read through them, the black and white text a concrete validation of everything we had achieved.

Eze's was a standard two-year professional deal, the salary modest by footballing standards but a king's ransom for a seventeen-year-old who had been on the scrap heap a month ago. It was a future, codified in clauses and stipulations.

Semenyo's was a simpler document, a six-month trial extension, a stay of execution that offered him a precious window of opportunity. I made a mental note to schedule his one-on-one sessions for the rest of the month, to keep pushing him, to ensure that this chance didn't go to waste.

Six months wasn't a long time in football, but it was enough. It had to be. My phone rang, dragging me from my thoughts, and I smiled when I saw Emma's name on the screen. I answered, the simple act of hearing her voice a balm on my frayed nerves.

"Well?" she said, her voice bright and full of an excitement that was infectious. There was no preamble, no small talk, just the one question that mattered.

"Both of them," I said, the grin spreading across my face so wide it almost hurt.

"Eze got a full professional contract. Two years. Semenyo got a six-month extension." I heard her let out a whoop of delight on the other end of the line.

"I told you!" she exclaimed, her voice triumphant. "I told you they'd both get something! Never doubt my predictive powers." I laughed, a real, genuine laugh that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside me.

"I won't," I promised. "You were right." Her tone softened then, the excitement replaced by a gentle concern.

"How are you feeling? Really?" I took a moment to consider the question, to look past the exhaustion and the lingering adrenaline.

"Proud," I said finally, the word feeling small and inadequate for the swell of emotion inside me.

"And exhausted. And relieved. Mostly just… proud."

"You should be," she said, her voice firm. "You developed two players in three weeks, Danny. From a standing start. That's incredible."

The familiar urge to downplay it, to deflect the praise, rose up in me, but I pushed it down, remembering her words. "I just gave them the tools," I said, but I couldn't keep the pride from my voice. "They were the ones who did the work."

"Stop being so bloody humble," she chided gently. "Take the credit. You earned it."

"Okay," I said, a warmth spreading through my chest. "I'll take some of the credit."

"Good," she said, satisfied. "Now, on to more important things. When can I come and visit again? This two-hundred-mile thing is getting old."

"Anytime," I said immediately, the longing in my own voice surprising me. "Please. I miss you."

"I miss you too," she said softly. "And… I might be working on something. Something that could help with the distance."

My curiosity was piqued. "Working on what?" I asked. "Nothing concrete yet," she said, and I could hear the caution in her voice.

"But I'm looking into some opportunities in London. Journalism jobs. It's a long shot, but… I'm trying." My heart did a little jump, a flutter of hope that was entirely separate from the day's professional triumphs.

"Emma..." I started, but she cut me off.

"Don't get your hopes up yet," she warned. "It might not work out. But I wanted you to know I was trying. Now, go and celebrate properly. You've more than earned it."

That evening, I sat on my balcony, a cold beer in my hand, the sprawling, twinkling expanse of the London skyline laid out before me like a carpet of scattered diamonds. I was alone, but for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel lonely.

I felt a deep, quiet contentment, a sense of satisfaction that settled over me like a warm blanket. I replayed the events of the past three weeks in my mind: the chaotic, last-gasp win against Brighton, the nervy, tactical battle with Charlton, the sheer, unadulterated drama of the Inter Milan match.

It had been a whirlwind of emotion, a relentless cycle of stress, exhaustion, and fleeting moments of triumph. It had been, without a doubt, the hardest three weeks of my life. And the most rewarding.

My phone buzzed with a text message, and I smiled as I read it.

It was from Eze. Thank you for believing in me. I won't let you down.

A moment later, another one arrived, this time from Semenyo. I'm going to work harder than ever. I promise.

I stared at the messages, my throat tightening. This was why I did it.

This was the real reward. Preseason was over. Three matches, three wins. Eight goals scored, four conceded. Two players developed and given a future. The staff, my staff, were working in perfect harmony.

But the real test, the competitive season, was just around the corner. The Professional Development League. Real matches, with real stakes and real pressure. This was just the warm-up. Now, the real work began.

As I sat there, lost in thought, the familiar, translucent blue notifications of the system flickered into life in my vision, a private summary of the day's events that only I could see. It was a silent, secret accounting of my progress, a digital ghost in my machine.

[SYSTEM] New Skill Unlocked: Individual Player Development (Level 1)

+10% effectiveness when conducting one-on-one coaching sessions

Faster attribute improvement for players under personal tutelage

Unlocks advanced training options for individual players

[SYSTEM] Achievement Unlocked: The Developer

Successfully developed two players simultaneously during a trial period

Reward: +5% to all coaching effectiveness

Bonus: Squad respects your development abilities (+2 to Squad Cohesion when actively developing players)

[SYSTEM] Player Status Updates:

Eberechi Eze: Signed to professional contract (2 years)

Antoine Semenyo: Trial extended (6 months)

[SYSTEM] Squad Metrics:

Squad Cohesion: 82% → 87% (New signings integrating; positive impact of development success)

Squad Morale: High

Preseason Record & Friendly: 4-0-0

Goals For: 13

Goals Against: 6

[SYSTEM] Upcoming: Professional Development League Season

First match: Saturday (7 days)

Opponent: TBD

Pressure: Medium

I closed my eyes, letting the information wash over me, a quiet affirmation of the day's success. The system was my secret weapon, the unseen advantage that allowed me to see the potential others missed.

But it was just a tool. A guide. The real work, the sweat and the tears, the relationships and the trust, that all came from me.

The system could show me the numbers, but it couldn't look a young player in the eye and convince him to believe in himself. Only I could do that. I took another long sip of my beer, a small, satisfied smile on my face. Three weeks down. A lifetime to go.

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