Next on my list was Mark Crossley. Of all the conversations I had to have, this was the one that sat like a stone in my gut. He wasn't just a player who had left; he was the captain, my lieutenant on the pitch, a friend.
His departure had felt like a personal betrayal, a knife to the gut that had almost derailed our entire season.
But then I'd seen him in the stands on the final day, his face a canvas of raw, conflicting emotions pride, regret, hope, and pain.
He hadn't just been watching a football match; he'd been watching his family win without him. He deserved more than closure. He deserved a way back.
We met in a quiet park halfway between our houses. It was a place of jarring normality, with kids screaming on the swings and old men walking yapping terriers.
He was sitting on a bench overlooking a duck pond, hunched over in a plain grey hoodie, looking smaller than I remembered.
