I stood up and offered him my hand. He looked at it for a long moment, his jaw working silently as he wrestled with his pride and his desperation. Then, with a choked sob, he took it, his grip surprisingly firm. The tears he'd been holding back began to fall freely, streaming down his face in silent testament to the hell he'd endured.

"Thank you, Danny," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Thank you."

I pulled him into a hug, clapping him on the back. "Welcome home, skipper."

I left him there on the park bench, a man who had been to hell and back, but who now had a glimmer of hope. Marcus Chen had tried to break us, but he had failed. He had lost his money, his reputation, and his power. And we had won. Not just the league, but something far more important. We had won back our soul.

---

Finally, there was only one person left to tell. My friend, my mentor, the man who had been my rock through this whole crazy journey. Frankie. He had been trying to retire for years before I'd arrived and he'd only been helping out as an unpaid advisor, but his wisdom and experience had been invaluable. I owed him more than anyone.

I found him at his allotment, a little patch of green paradise tucked away behind a row of terraced houses. He was tending to his prize-winning roses, his back to me, a figure of quiet concentration in the late afternoon sun. The air smelled of damp earth, compost, and the sweet perfume of the flowers.

He looked up as I approached, a knowing smile already on his face. He wiped his soil-caked hands on his trousers. "So," he said, his voice the familiar, gravelly rumble that had calmed my nerves on so many touchlines. "The big time comes calling."

I laughed, the tension in my shoulders easing for the first time all day. "How did you know? Was it that obvious?"

"I've been in this game for fifty years, son," he said, his eyes twinkling. "I know the look of a man with a decision to make. Saw that chairman talking to you last night. Premier League badge on his suit. Wasn't hard to put two and two together. Sit down, sit down."

I sat on the small wooden bench next to his shed, a rickety thing that had probably seen more seasons than I'd had hot dinners. I told him everything.

The offer from Gary Issott, the UEFA B course starting tomorrow, the interview, the salary, the gut-wrenching decision. He listened patiently, nodding occasionally, his expression unreadable as he pruned a stray leaf from a rose bush.

"Crystal Palace," he said when I'd finished, the name sounding solid and real in his mouth.

"Good club. Proper club. They've got a great academy setup. And Gary Issott's a smart man. Knows his football. It's a good move, Danny. The right move."

"I'm going to miss you, Frankie," I said, the words catching in my throat. It felt like admitting a weakness, but it was the truest thing I'd said all day.

"I'm not going anywhere, son," he said, clapping me on the shoulder, his hand heavy and reassuring. "I'll still be here, growing my roses and moaning about the weather. And I'll be watching. Every step of the way. Expect a full report after every match."

"I've asked Scott Miller to take over," I said.

"Good choice," he nodded, considering it properly. "Solid lad. The players respect him. He's Moss Side through and through. He won't have your tactical brain, not at first, but he's got the heart for it. That's more important, to begin with."

"Will you… will you help him?" I asked, feeling like a kid asking for one last favour. "Just for a bit? To get him started? He'll need someone to bounce ideas off."

Frankie smiled, a slow, warm smile that reached his eyes. "I might pop down to training every now and then," he said, the twinkle returning. "To make sure he's not messing up the team you built. Can't have him undoing all our hard work."

We sat in comfortable silence for a while, the scent of roses and damp earth filling the air. The sun was beginning to set, casting long, golden shadows across the allotment. A blackbird sang from a nearby fence post, its song a clear, pure melody in the evening stillness.

I thought about all the times Frankie had been there for me. The tactical advice whispered on the touchline when we were down at halftime against the Merchant Bankers.

The pep talks in his cluttered office when I doubted myself. The quiet, unwavering belief that had guided me through the hardest moments. He'd never asked for anything in return, never sought credit or recognition. He'd just been there, a constant, reassuring presence.

"I wouldn't have made it without you, you know," I said, breaking the silence. "That first game, when I had no idea what I was doing, and you told me to trust my gut. You saved me."

Frankie chuckled, a warm, rumbling sound. "You saved yourself, son. I just pointed you in the right direction. The rest was all you. You had the vision. I just helped you find the words to explain it."

He stood up and looked out over the rows of vegetables, his hands on his hips. "You've done a good thing here, Danny," he said finally, his voice softer now.

"You've brought hope back to this community. You've given these lads, these people, something to believe in. That's more important than any trophy. Don't ever forget that, especially when you're in the shiny world of Premier League academies."

He turned and offered me his hand. I shook it, his grip firm, his hand calloused from a lifetime of work. "Go on, get out of here," he said, a gruff affection in his voice. "You've got a train to catch and a future to build. And don't you worry about us. We'll be alright. We're Moss Side. We're survivors."

I walked away from the allotment, a sense of peace settling over me. Terry, Mark, Frankie. I had done right by them. I had set things in motion. The future of Moss Side was secure.

Now for the hardest part. The players.

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