Friday evening, Manchester Piccadilly station. The familiar chaos of commuters and tourists swirled around me, a symphony of rolling suitcases, hurried announcements, and tearful reunions. But for the first time in two weeks, I wasn't part of the chaos. I was an observer, a ghost in my own city, my mind still buzzing with the relentless intensity of the UEFA B course.
I saw her before she saw me. Emma. Her vibrant red hair was a beacon in the crowd, a splash of color in the monochrome blur of the station.
She was standing on her tiptoes, scanning the faces pouring off the train from Birmingham, a small bouquet of flowers clutched in one hand and a card in the other. My heart did a little flip, a nervous, happy flutter that had nothing to do with football and everything to do with her.
"Emma," I called out, my voice hoarse from two weeks of non-stop coaching.
