The Moss Side clubhouse, usually a place of laughter and boisterous energy, was eerily silent. I had called an emergency team meeting for Sunday evening, my last night in Manchester before leaving for St. George's Park.
The lads sat on the worn plastic chairs, their faces a mixture of confusion and apprehension. They knew something was up. The celebratory mood of the past twenty-four hours had evaporated, replaced by a tense, nervous quiet that felt heavier than any defeat.
I stood in front of them, my heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird. Emma was there, standing by the door, her presence a silent pillar of support that I clung to without looking at her. Terry was there too, his face grim but resolute, leaning against the bar he'd polished a thousand times. This was it. The hardest conversation of my life.
"Lads," I began, my voice hoarse, betraying the emotion I was trying so hard to control. "Thanks for coming. I… I have something to tell you."
