I went inside to prepare for Saturday. That was the plan. That was what the manager in me demanded: open the laptop, pull up the Chelsea footage, start building the tactical framework for tomorrow's match. But the moment I stepped through the balcony doors and into the warm light of the apartment, the plan died.
Emma was sitting on the sofa in the living room. Not reading. Not watching television. Not scrolling through her phone. Just sitting, her legs tucked beneath her, a glass of wine untouched on the coffee table in front of her, her green eyes fixed on the doorway where I was standing.
She was wearing one of my old Palace training hoodies, the one from last season, the academy one, faded and too big for her, the sleeves swallowing her hands and a pair of black leggings that clung to her athletic legs.
