Wednesday evening, I took Emma to a small Italian restaurant in Croydon, a quiet, cozy place with candlelit tables and a menu that was handwritten in chalk on a blackboard.
It was the kind of place where you could talk without shouting, where the world outside faded away, where it was just the two of us. She looked stunning, her red hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders, her eyes bright and alive, her smile the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
I had always thought she was beautiful, from the moment I had first seen her at that muddy pitch in Manchester, scribbling notes in her battered notebook, her passion for the game shining through every word she wrote. But tonight, in the soft glow of the candlelight, she was radiant. She was the most beautiful woman in the world, and she was mine.
We ordered wine, we ordered food, and we talked. About everything. About the team, about her blog, about the craziness of the past few weeks.
