Thursday evening, Emma arrived. She'd taken the train down from Manchester, a surprise visit that felt like a lifeline.

I was in my office, buried under a mountain of paperwork and video footage, my eyes burning from staring at the screen for too long, when she walked in.

She didn't say anything, just stood there for a moment, taking in the mess, the empty coffee cups, the dark circles under my eyes.

"You look like shit," she said, her voice a mixture of concern and amusement. I laughed, a tired, hollow sound.

"I feel like shit," I admitted. She came over, wrapped her arms around me from behind, and rested her chin on my shoulder.

"You're working too hard," she said softly. "You can't save everyone, Danny."

"I have to try," I said, my voice thick with exhaustion. We didn't talk about football after that. We ordered a takeaway, watched a film I can't remember, and for a few hours, I felt like a normal person again, not a manager carrying the weight of two futures on his shoulders.

But the feeling didn't last. The next morning, she was gone, back to her life in Manchester, and I was back to mine, the two hundred miles between us feeling like an unbridgeable chasm.

Saturday arrived with a familiar sense of dread and anticipation. Our second preseason match is away to Charlton U18s. Another 60-minute test, another chance to see if the work was paying off.

I started both Eze and Semenyo, a decision that had caused a heated debate with Sarah, who thought Semenyo wasn't ready.

"He needs to learn," I'd argued. "He needs to play." She'd eventually agreed, but the look on her face told me she thought I was making a mistake. The first half was a physical, attritional battle from the first whistle.

Charlton were aggressive, direct, their style a stark contrast to Brighton's more technical approach. They pressed us high, closed us down quickly, and gave us no time on the ball. Their midfield was relentless, hunting in packs, and their forwards were physical, using their bodies to bully our defenders.

It was exactly the kind of match I'd been worried about, the kind of match where technical quality could be suffocated by sheer physicality and work rate.

In the opening ten minutes, we struggled to get out of our own half, the ball constantly coming back at us like a boomerang. Ryan was forced into two good saves, his distribution still shaky but his shot-stopping solid.

Reece was screaming at the back four, organizing, cajoling, trying to impose some kind of order on the chaos. But Eze was different. He was stronger, more resilient, and the extra gym work with Rebecca already paying dividends.

The first time he received the ball under pressure, a Charlton midfielder came flying in, trying to knock him off it. But Eze held firm, his body low, his core engaged, and he shielded the ball effectively before playing a simple pass to Nya. It was a small moment, but it was significant.

A week ago, he would have been knocked off that ball. Now, he was holding his own. He created two chances with clever, incisive passes, his vision a constant threat. The first was a ball over the top for Connor that the keeper just managed to collect.

The second was a through ball to Tom on the wing that was cut out by a last-ditch tackle. His quality shone through, a beacon of light in a sea of physicality.

Semenyo was better, too. He was still making mistakes, still a step behind the play at times, but he was in the right position twice, cutting off passing lanes, and his work rate noticeably improved. I could see him thinking, processing, trying to remember everything we'd worked on.

At one point, he was caught ball-watching, and Sarah screamed at him from the touchline. He looked over, nodded, and adjusted his position. It was a small thing, but it showed he was listening, he was learning.

At 18 minutes, Eze picked up the ball in the middle of the park, glided past two players like they weren't there, and played a perfect through ball to Nya, who had made a clever run from midfield.

Nya took a touch and finished calmly, 1-0.

It was a moment of pure quality, a goal created from nothing, and the team celebrated with a mixture of relief and joy. At 25 minutes, Semenyo had a chance. The ball fell to him on the edge of the box, and for a second, I thought he was going to shoot.

The old Semenyo would have, the one who tried to do too much, the one who wanted to be the hero. But this Semenyo, the one who had spent hours in the video room with me, the one who was starting to understand the game, he looked up, saw Connor in a better position, and played a simple pass.

Connor's shot was saved, but it was the right decision, a small but significant sign of progress. I was frustrated he hadn't scored, but I was pleased with the decision-making. Half-time arrived, and we were 1-0 up, the mood in the changing room a world away from the subdued silence of the Brighton match.

The second half was a different story. Charlton came out with a renewed sense of purpose, their pressing more intense, their challenges more aggressive.

I could see it in their body language, the way they were hunting the ball, the way they were throwing themselves into tackles. They wanted this. They needed this. And for the first five minutes of the second half, we were on the back foot, defending desperately, the ball pinballing around our box like a pinball machine.

At 35 minutes, they equalized. A defensive error, a sloppy pass from Lewis that was intercepted, and their striker finished clinically. 1-1. I felt my stomach drop, the familiar sense of dread washing over me like a cold wave.

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