The morning of the final game was eerily quiet. The world outside my window was a muted grey, the sky a blanket of cloud that seemed to absorb all sound, holding its breath in anticipation.
I had slept surprisingly well, a deep, dreamless sleep born of pure exhaustion, but I woke with a jolt, my heart immediately pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Today was the day.
Everything we had worked for, everything we had suffered for, everything we had dreamed of, came down to ninety minutes of football. One game to decide it all. One final, brutal, beautiful battle for a place in Europe.
Emma was already awake, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, her presence a small island of calm in the swirling chaos of my own mind.
She looked up as I walked in, and her smile was a beacon of warmth and reassurance. She didn't say anything about the game. She didn't need to.
