The victory over Fulham should have been a release, a validation, a quiet moment of satisfaction before the relentless march of the season began. It should have bought me a week of peace, a brief respite from the gnawing anxiety that had become my constant companion.
But peace was a luxury this job did not afford. The text from Gary, a simple, clinical sentence that had landed with the force of a physical blow, had seen to that.
Tyler Webb was coming back. And with his return, the fragile, hard-won harmony of the squad was about to be shattered. I couldn't run this morning.
The 5:30 am alarm, usually a call to action, a signal to begin the ritual of sweat and suffering that cleared my head, felt like a summons to a trial I had already been convicted of.
I sat on the small balcony of the flat, a mug of black coffee growing cold in my hands, and watched the first, faint streaks of dawn paint the London skyline in shades of grey and bruised purple.
