The 5:30 am alarm was a merciless, piercing shriek in the pre-dawn silence, but it was a sound I didn't need.

I was already awake, had been for most of the night, my mind a relentless carousel of hopes and fears, replaying every possible outcome of the day ahead.

The nervous energy was a physical thing, a low, persistent hum beneath my skin that made sleep impossible and stillness a form of torture. I went through the motions of the morning ritual, pulling on my running gear, the familiar fabric a strange comfort against my agitated skin, and headed out into the quiet London streets.

But the run was a failure before it even began. My legs felt like lead, my lungs burned with a fatigue that wasn't physical, and every footstep on the cold pavement seemed to echo the question that was consuming me: what if I'd failed them?

I cut it short after four kilometres, a distance that felt both monumental and pathetic, and walked the last stretch back to my flat, hands on my hips, my breath coming out in visible puffs in the cold morning air.

The city was still half-asleep, a sprawling beast of concrete and glass slumbering under a blanket of grey, but my mind was a frantic hive of activity, buzzing with the weight of the two young futures that rested so heavily on my shoulders.

Today was the day. Today, Gary would make his decision about Eberechi Eze and Antoine Semenyo.

Three weeks of relentless work, three preseason matches that felt like cup finals, countless hours of one-on-one coaching, tactical adjustments, and whispered words of encouragement, all of it culminating in a single meeting in Gary's office at 9 am.

It felt like a lifetime of effort squeezed into a handful of days, and the thought that it might all amount to nothing was a cold, hard knot in the pit of my stomach.

Back in the sterile quiet of my flat, I stood on the balcony with my first coffee of the day, the ceramic mug warm in my trembling hands, watching the sunrise bleed across the London skyline in muted shades of orange and grey.

The coffee was hot, almost scalding, but I barely noticed the burn, the bitter taste a familiar anchor in the storm of my anxiety. My phone buzzed on the small table beside me, the vibration startlingly loud in the stillness.

It was a text from Emma, her words a small beacon of light in the oppressive gloom of my thoughts. Today's the day. They're both getting contracts. I know it. x.

I stared at the message, a part of me clinging to her certainty, another part of me convinced she was wrong, that her faith was misplaced. I wanted to believe her, to borrow some of her unwavering confidence, but the fear of disappointment was a physical barrier, a wall I couldn't seem to climb.

I typed back a reply that felt wholly inadequate, a pale reflection of the turmoil inside me. I hope you're right. Her response was immediate, a flash of the fierce, brilliant woman I loved. I'm always right. x.

A small, involuntary smile touched my lips, a fleeting moment of warmth in the cold morning. But it wasn't enough to lift the weight from my shoulders.

What if Gary only wanted one of them?

What if, after all this, he wanted neither?

What if three weeks simply weren't enough time to undo years of neglect and bad habits?

I thought of Eze, the ghost of four rejections still haunting his eyes, a young man who had poured every last ounce of himself into this one last chance.

I thought of Semenyo, a boy of fifteen, so raw and inconsistent, who had shown flashes of a brilliance he didn't even understand yet. They both deserved this. They had both earned it in sweat and effort and a willingness to trust me. But football, I knew with a brutal certainty, didn't always care about what was deserved.

I arrived at Copers Cope at half-past seven, far too early for a nine o'clock meeting, but the thought of sitting alone in my flat, stewing in my own anxiety, was unbearable.

The car park was a vast, empty expanse of tarmac, my small car looking lonely and out of place amongst the few expensive models already scattered near the entrance.

I walked into the main building, the familiar, comforting smell of freshly brewed coffee, damp grass, and liniment washing over me, a scent that was quickly becoming synonymous with home.

My intention was to head straight for my office, to lose myself in the minutiae of training schedules and player reports, anything to distract from the impending verdict. But I wasn't the first one there.

A light was on in the video analysis room, and through the glass partition, I could see Sarah, already hunched over her laptop, a cup of coffee steaming on the desk beside her, her focus absolute.

She was the anchor of my staff, the calm, analytical mind that balanced my often-impulsive decisions, and seeing her there, already working, eased a fraction of the tension coiled in my gut.

"Couldn't sleep either?" she asked, her voice quiet, her eyes not leaving the screen. She didn't need to look up to know it was me; we had developed that kind of rhythm in the past few weeks, an unspoken understanding forged in the shared pressure of preseason.

"Not a chance," I admitted, my voice rough with a lack of sleep as I pulled up a chair beside her.

The screen was filled with clips of Eze and Semenyo from the Inter Milan match, intricate patterns of movement and decision-making highlighted in coloured lines and circles.

Sarah finally looked at me then, her expression a careful mixture of professional concern and genuine confidence, a look I was coming to rely on more than I probably should.

"He's going to keep them both," she said, not as a question, but as a statement of fact. I wanted to ask her how she could be so sure, how she could possess a certainty that felt so utterly alien to me in that moment, but the words caught in my throat.

"How do you know?" I managed to ask, my voice barely a whisper, hating the note of desperation I heard in it. Sarah's gaze didn't waver.

"Because I watched the same matches you did," she said, her tone firm. "They've earned it. Eze created two goals and scored one. Semenyo scored and assisted. They've both shown clear, measurable progression. Gary's not an idiot, Danny. He's a businessman, but he's also a football man. He knows what he's got."

I nodded, the logic of her words a small, solid thing to hold onto in the swirling chaos of my thoughts. But the anxiety, deep-rooted and stubborn, refused to fade.

"What if he only wants one of them?" I asked the question that had been tormenting me all night. Sarah's response was simple, immediate, and fiercely loyal.

"Then we fight for the other," she said, turning back to her screen. "But I don't think it's going to come to that."

We sat in a comfortable silence for a moment, the only sound the low hum of her laptop fan, and I felt a profound sense of gratitude for her presence, for her unwavering belief not just in the players, but in me.

She had been my rock, the one who translated my chaotic, instinct-driven ideas into coherent tactical plans, and I knew, with absolute certainty, that I couldn't have done any of this without her.

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