The victory against Manchester City was a seismic shockwave that reverberated throughout the world of youth football. We had gone into the lion's den, faced down a team of future superstars, and emerged with a victory that was as ugly as it was beautiful.
The bus journey back to London was a joyous, boisterous affair, a stark contrast to the tense, quiet journey north. The boys were heroes, and they knew it.
But as the celebrations faded and the exhaustion set in, a new challenge emerged. The victory had been a defensive masterclass, a triumph of tactical discipline and collective will. But it had come at a cost. And the cost was Connor Blake.
I woke on Monday morning not to the jarring blare of my alarm, but to the soft, gentle touch of a kiss on my forehead.
I blinked, my eyes slowly adjusting to the soft morning light filtering through the curtains, and saw Emma, already dressed in her work clothes, a warm, gentle smile on her face.
