Sleep was a foreign country. I'd visited briefly, a fitful tourist in the land of dreams, but my mind had refused to settle.
The adrenaline of the previous night: the title win, the celebration, the sudden, earth-shattering appearance of Gary Issott and the Crystal Palace offer was still coursing through my veins, a potent cocktail of euphoria and terror.
I slipped out of bed at six, leaving Emma sleeping peacefully, the first rays of Sunday morning light filtering through the blinds of her Manchester flat. The world was quiet, but my head was a roaring furnace of possibility and fear.
I sat at her small kitchen table, my laptop open, the glow of the screen illuminating my face. The UEFA B Licence.
It was the first hurdle, the non-negotiable entry fee into the world of professional coaching. Gary had said the course started next week. I typed "FA UEFA B Licence course Birmingham" into Google, my heart thumping a nervous rhythm against my ribs.
