At Beckenham, the squad was already there.

The players who had started in Milan two nights ago, the ones who had flown through the night and slept until noon yesterday and spent the afternoon in ice baths and on massage tables, were moving differently this morning.

Not sluggish. Not injured. Just careful. The particular, measured movement of athletes whose bodies had been pushed to the edge of their capacity and who were now being asked to push again in twenty-eight hours.

Sakho walked from the car park to the dressing room at a pace that was approximately sixty percent of his normal stride, which Rebecca noted on her tablet without comment. Tarkowski’s knees were still strapped.

McArthur was walking normally, which for McArthur meant walking as though nothing in the world could hurt him, which was either true or an act so convincing that even Rebecca couldn’t tell the difference.

The players who had not started in Milan, the first-choice XI who had been rested for exactly this moment, looked different. Fresher. Sharper. Their legs had not played since the Liverpool match eleven days ago. Pope had trained all week.

Konaté had trained all week. Neves had played twenty minutes in Milan and nothing else. Kovačić had not played since Liverpool. Rodríguez had not played since Liverpool. Zaha had played forty-five minutes in Milan before being subbed at half-time, and his ankles, which had been kicked seven times by various Italian defenders, were bruised but functional.

Rebecca had checked them yesterday afternoon, pressing her thumbs into the swelling with the clinical detachment of a woman whose job was to hurt people slightly in order to determine whether they could be hurt significantly.

"Zaha?" I asked her, the first question of the morning, before coffee, before the whiteboard, before anything.

"Fit. Both ankles are bruised. No structural damage. He’ll feel it for the first ten minutes. After that, the adrenaline takes over and he won’t feel anything until Monday morning, when he’ll feel everything."

"Pope?"

"Perfect. Best physical data of any player in the squad this week. He’s been training like it’s a World Cup final. Steele says his shot-stopping in Thursday’s session was the best he’s ever seen."

"Kovačić?"

"Green across the board. Eleven days since his last start. He’s climbing the walls. If you don’t play him tomorrow he might actually leave the club."

"Neves?"

"Played twenty at the San Siro. Load is minimal. He’s fine."

"Konaté?"

She paused. The Rebecca pause. The pause that meant the answer was not a simple green or red but something in between.

"His left hamstring flagged amber in yesterday’s session. Not a strain. Not an injury. Tightness. Tom worked on it for forty minutes last night. I checked it again this morning. It’s green now. But it was amber yesterday."

"Can he play ninety?"

"He can play ninety. I’m confident. But if he feels anything, anything at all, in the warm-up, I want the right to pull him."

"Agreed. Who replaces him?"

"Sakho and Dann. Or Sakho and Tarkowski. Your call. But the first choice is Konaté and Sakho, and I believe he’ll be fine."

"Everyone else?"

She scrolled her tablet. The entire squad, twenty-eight names, each one with a colour code and a number and a recommendation.

"Everyone else is green. Chilwell, green. Wan-Bissaka, green. Benteke, green. The full squad is available. Nobody is injured. Nobody is suspended. Nobody has a muscle complaint or a joint issue or a cold or a headache or anything that would prevent them from playing in a cup final at Wembley tomorrow." She looked at me.

"This is the healthiest the squad has been since September. Rebecca’s rotation model works. You can quote me on that."

"I’ll put it on the programme notes."

"Don’t you dare."

The squad assembled for the walkthrough at ten. Twenty-eight players on the Beckenham pitch in the February sunshine, the frost still on the far touchline, the breath visible in the cold air. The first-choice XI in bibs. The rest without. The shape rehearsed. The set-pieces confirmed. The pressing triggers were reviewed.

At two, the tactical meeting. Sarah’s final briefing on City. The screen showing De Bruyne’s positioning, Silva’s movement, Agüero’s runs. The system designed to contain the best team in England. The identity designed to beat them.

At five, the team bus left Beckenham for the hotel near Wembley. The Hilton on Wembley Way. The rooms booked. The meals prepared. The schedule precise: dinner at seven, team meeting at eight, lights out at ten. The players scattered to their rooms. Some slept. Some watched television. Some stared at the ceiling and thought about what was coming.

At eight o’clock, across the country, on BT Sport, the Ferdinand interview aired. Forty-five minutes. Danny Walsh and Rio Ferdinand in two chairs in a room at Beckenham, the training pitches visible through the window, the whiteboard in the background, the conversation flowing from the cup final to Moss Side to the academy to the one hundred and twelve years.

The country watched. The country listened. And the country heard a twenty-eight-year-old manager say, looking at the camera, not at Ferdinand: "The boy from Moss Side kept his promise."

And then the country went to sleep. And Crystal Palace went to sleep. And Danny Walsh, in a room at the Hilton on Wembley Way, lay in bed and stared at the ceiling and did not sleep. He thought about Wembley. He thought about Guardiola. He thought about the trophy. He thought about the promotional image, the two faces, the split, the two sides of the same coin.

He thought about the fans who would fill the Palace end tomorrow, twenty-five thousand of them, George Elphick and his son David and Lorraine and Malcolm and Sharon and the twelve from Peckham and James Ochieng who would be watching in Nairobi at seven-thirty in the evening, Kenyan time.

He thought about Emma, who was in the apartment in Dulwich, who had a new outfit she hadn’t shown him, who had told him she would see him at Wembley, who had kissed the top of his head on the way to the bedroom like it was the most ordinary morning in the world.

He thought about Frankie, who would be watching from the Railway Arms in Moss Side, his flat cap on the table, his pint in his hand, the television showing the biggest match in Crystal Palace’s history and the boy he had raised staring back at him from the touchline.

He thought about his mum, who would be in the stands. Elena had arranged it. Front row of the directors’ box. Beside Parish. Beside Jessica. Watching her son manage in a cup final at Wembley.

A hundred and twelve years. Tomorrow.

Danny Walsh did not sleep. But he was ready.

[Saturday, February 24th, 2018. Eve of the final.]

[Carabao Cup Final promo: split image of Walsh and Guardiola. Two faces. Two sides. Gold and green Carabao branding. "TOMORROW. 4:30 PM. WEMBLEY."]

[Carabao: Thai energy drink, title sponsor since 2017/18. Three-year deal. "The Fighting Spirit." Green and gold on the trophy ribbons, match balls, perimeter boards, every backdrop.]

[BT Sport Ferdinand interview airs at 8pm. "The boy from Moss Side kept his promise." The country watched.]

[Europa League R16: Crystal Palace vs. Atlético Madrid. Bracket pathway, not draw. First leg Selhurst March 8th, second leg Wanda Metropolitano March 15th.]

[Matchday-minus-one: walkthrough at 10, tactical meeting at 2, team hotel at 5. All data green.]

[Danny’s mum in the directors’ box tomorrow. Jessica arranged it. Front row. Beside Parish.]

[Danny Walsh did not sleep. But he was ready.]

***

Thank you for 100 Power Stones.