We walked to Piccadilly Gardens, a chaotic, vibrant hub of city life. We sat on a bench and watched the world go by: the street performers, the skaters, the families, the lovers. It was a world away from the manicured perfection of St. George's Park, but it was real. It was life. And I had missed it.
"I've missed this," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "Just… being normal."
"You're not normal anymore," she said, a playful glint in her eye. "You're a UEFA B-licensed coach with a Premier League interview. You're kind of a big deal."
"I'm still me," I said, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.
"I know," she said, her voice softening. "Don't ever change that."
That evening, Emma took me out for dinner. She had booked a table at a small, independent restaurant in the city center, the kind of place with mismatched furniture and a menu scrawled on a chalkboard. It was perfect.
"I'm paying," she said, before I could even protest. "You're unemployed. I have a job. Let me."
