Glory Of The Football Manager System-Chapter 376: Coming Home III
She was standing at the kitchen island, her back to me, barefoot on the cool grey tiles, wearing one of my old, oversized Palace training shirts that came down to her mid-thigh. Her dark hair was tied up in a loose, messy knot at the back of her neck. She was humming along to the radio, stirring something in a pan on the hob.
She heard the click of the door and turned, and the smile that crossed her face was immediate and unguarded and so beautiful it made my chest ache.
She crossed the kitchen in three quick steps and walked straight into me, her arms going around my neck, pulling me down to her. I dropped my bag on the floor and held her, and she kissed me properly, warmly, with both hands cupping my face, the way she always did when I had been away too long. She smelled of something floral and clean, her shampoo or her perfume or just her, and I breathed it in and felt the last two weeks begin to dissolve.
She pulled back just far enough to look at me, her dark eyes searching my face, her thumbs still resting lightly against my jaw. She was checking, I knew, to make sure I was still the same person who had left two weeks ago.
I was aware of her... the warmth of her hands, the soft curve of her against me, the way the evening light caught the line of her collarbone above the collar of my old Palace shirt. Not in a way that needed anything. Just in the way you are aware of someone you love.
"You smell like an airport," she murmured, her nose wrinkling.
"Fourteen hours on a plane will do that to you," I said.
She laughed a short, bright, genuine laugh and stepped back, her hand trailing down my arm before letting go. She turned back to the hob, moving with that easy, unhurried grace she had, the oversized shirt shifting with her, the bare skin of her legs catching the late light. "You look tired," she said over her shoulder.
"I am tired," I said. "And I’m starving."
"I made pasta," she said. "Sit down. Tell me everything."
I sat at the kitchen island and she put a bowl of pasta in front of me that smelled so good it made my stomach ache. She poured me a glass of wine, then one for herself, and sat down opposite me.
"So," she said. "Tell me about Singapore."
And I did. I told her about the heat and the noise and the impossible, glittering skyline. I told her about the fans, the way they had stood up and applauded at the end of the second game, not for us, but for the football.
I told her about James, the way he had walked out onto the pitch in the number 10 shirt and the whole stadium had lit up with phones.
I told her about Pato, the way he had stood perfectly still after scoring against his old club, the single tear he had tried to hide. I told her about the trophy, the polite, almost embarrassed way the squad had passed it around, and the way Blake, the academy kid, had held it like it was the most precious thing in the world.
She listened, her chin propped on her hand, a small, amused smile on her face. She didn’t interrupt. She just let me talk. And as I talked, I realised how much I had needed to. How much I had missed this: the easy, uncomplicated intimacy of a conversation with someone who knew me better than I knew myself.
"It sounds like you had a good trip," she said, when I had finally run out of words.
"It was a good trip," I said. "It was a necessary trip. We’re a better team now than we were two weeks ago."
"And the new guy?" she asked. "The handsome one?"
I laughed. "James is... special," I said. "He’s on another level. The way he sees the game, the things he can do with a football... it’s a privilege to watch him train."
"And the duck?" she said, her eyes twinkling.
"Pato is a good man," I said. "He’s been through a lot. I think he’s finally found a home."
She reached across the table and put her hand on mine. Her hand was warm and small and familiar. "I’m proud of you," she said softly. "You know that, right?"
I looked at her, at the genuine, unforced warmth in her eyes, and I felt something in my chest that had been tight for two weeks finally, completely, let go. "I know," I said. And I did.
Later that evening, we were curled up on the sofa, a half-empty bottle of wine on the coffee table, the city lights of London spread out below us like a carpet of scattered diamonds. Emma was asleep, her head on my chest, her breathing slow and even. I had my arm around her, a book lying open and unread on my lap. My phone, which I had put on silent, buzzed on the counter.
I carefully extricated myself from under Emma, walked over to the kitchen island, and picked it up. A message from Freedman.
Barcelona have agreed in principle. Loan with a buy option at £8m. His agent is on board. Medical scheduled for Tuesday. Get some sleep. You’ve earned it.
I read the message twice. A slow smile spread across my face. Lucas Digne. A twenty-four-year-old French international left back from Barcelona. On loan. With a buy option. It was a brilliant piece of business. A perfect solution to a problem that had been threatening to derail our entire season before it had even begun.
I put the phone face down on the counter and looked across at Emma, still asleep on the sofa, looking small and peaceful and impossibly lovely in the soft light of the lamp. The System pinged quietly in the back of my mind, a final, satisfying notification.
> System Notification: [Transfer Update]
> Lucas Digne Loan agreed (FC Barcelona). Buy option: £8m.
> Squad Status: Left Back position secured.
> Days to Europa League Qualifier: 6
> Days to Premier League Season Opener: 22
I let it sit there. I didn’t need to open it. I knew what it said. I walked back over to the sofa, sat down beside Emma, and gently pulled a blanket over her. She stirred in her sleep, murmured something I couldn’t quite hear, and settled back down.
I sat there for a long time, watching her, listening to the quiet hum of the city outside, and I felt a profound, uncomplicated sense of peace settle over me. The work was not over. It had barely begun. But for tonight, at least, I was home.
***
Thank you to Sir nameyelus for the support.
