Chapter 329: The Aftermath II: Europe?

I walked in and sat down. The room was buzzing with a barely-contained energy.

“Danny,” the first journalist began, a man from the BBC whom I had come to recognise over the last few weeks of him following me. “You’ve just beaten Manchester United three-nil at Old Trafford. You’re seventh in the Premier League. You could be in Europe next season. How do you even begin to process that?”

I took a breath. “Honestly? I don’t think I have yet,” I said, and I meant it. “I think that’s a conversation for a quiet evening. Right now, I’m just incredibly proud of every single person at this football club. The players, the staff, and the fans who made that journey today. They were unbelievable.”

“The incident with Mourinho at the final whistle,” another journalist pressed. “There seemed to be a physical altercation. What happened?”

“I shook his hand,” I said simply. “He’s a great manager. I have nothing but respect for him. Whatever happened after that is between the two of us.” I gave a small, controlled smile. “I’m sure the cameras caught it all.”

There was a ripple of laughter around the room. The journalist pressed again, but I had already moved on.

“The Europa League situation,” a third journalist said. “You need United to beat Ajax on Wednesday. Are you confident?”

“Absolutely,” I said, without a moment’s hesitation. “José Mourinho has never lost a major final. He is the most motivated man in European football right now. I wouldn’t bet against him in a million years. And I say that with complete sincerity.” I paused. “Besides, I think after today, he’ll be very motivated to prove a point.”

More laughter. I was in control of the room, and I knew it.

“Your man of the match today?” someone called out.

I didn’t hesitate. “James McArthur,” I said. “Without a shadow of a doubt. He ran himself into the ground for this football club today. His job on Herrera was the key to the entire second half. He’s the kind of player who wins you football matches without ever getting the credit he deserves. Today, he gets the credit.”

A journalist near the back raised her hand. She was from The Athletic, a woman whose writing I had read and respected. “Danny, there will be speculation about your future. Bigger clubs. Bigger jobs. What’s your message to Crystal Palace supporters tonight?”

I looked directly at her. “I’m going nowhere,” I said. “This is my club. These are my players. We have a European adventure to prepare for, and I intend to be the one who prepares for it. Crystal Palace gave me a chance when nobody else would. You don’t walk away from that.”

The room went quiet for a moment. It was the kind of quiet that meant something had landed properly.

By the time I left the press conference, the dressing room afterwards was a warm, chaotic, beautiful mess. Music was playing. Someone had produced a bottle of champagne from somewhere, and it was being passed around with a reckless disregard for the no-alcohol policy.

McArthur was sitting in the corner with his phone pressed to his ear, his face soft, talking to someone back home in Scotland. Wan-Bissaka, the youngest player in the squad, was sitting next to the veteran Dann, and the two of them were just talking quietly, the old head and the new, a passing of the torch happening in real time.

I slipped away from the celebration, just for a moment. I found a quiet corner of the corridor outside, leaned against the cold concrete wall, and closed my eyes.

The System, which had been a constant, flickering presence throughout the day, was now still. And then, in the silence, it spoke.

[Objective Complete: Defeat Manchester United at Old Trafford.]

[Reward: Legendary Manager Starter Pack OPENING…]

I felt a warmth spread through me, a familiar, strange, electric sensation. Three new notifications appeared, one after the other.

[New Touchline Instruction Unlocked: ’Heavy Metal Football’. Effect: For a period of up to fifteen minutes per match, your team’s pressing intensity and attacking speed are boosted to world-class levels. Warning: Significant stamina cost. Use wisely.]

I almost laughed. Klopp would approve.

[New Media Interaction Unlocked: ’The Mind Game’. Effect: Significantly increased chance of unsettling opposition managers and players in pre-match press conferences. Effect duration: 48 hours.]

Mourinho’s gift. I thought of the press conference I had just given. I had already been doing this instinctively. Now the System was giving me a formal upgrade.

[New Player Interaction Trait Unlocked: ’The Hairdryer Treatment’. Effect: A one-on-one, high-intensity verbal intervention with an underperforming player. High probability of significant, immediate positive reaction in the next match. Warning: Can only be used once per player per season. Use with care.]

Ferguson’s legacy. I thought of the old man in the directors’ box. The nod. I thought of what it must have been like to be on the receiving end of that, to have the greatest manager in history look you in the eye and tell you, in no uncertain terms, that you were not living up to your potential. A terrifying gift.

I stood there for a moment, three new tools in my arsenal, the noise of the celebration bleeding through the dressing room door. Then I pushed off the wall, straightened my tie, and walked back in to join my team.

The drive back to London was long and quiet. The team bus hummed through the motorway darkness, most of the players asleep, their bodies finally surrendering to the exhaustion of the day. I sat at the front, my forehead resting against the cool glass of the window, watching the orange lights of the motorway flash past.

My phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number.

“Well played today, son. You’ve got something. Don’t waste it. SAF”

I stared at it for a long time. Then I saved the number, put my phone in my pocket, and closed my eyes.

It was past midnight by the time I got back to Dulwich. I let myself into the apartment as quietly as I could, but Emma was still up, curled on the sofa under a blanket, the television on low. She looked up when I came in, her red hair loose around her shoulders, her eyes soft and warm.

“I watched it,” she said simply. “All of it.”

I sat down beside her. She pulled the blanket over both of us without being asked.

“Seventh,” she said quietly.

“Seventh,” I confirmed.

She was quiet for a moment. Then: “Are you happy?”

I thought about the question properly. Just ten months ago, I had made a secret promise to myself in the U18s dressing room: that I would get those kids into the UEFA Youth Cup by winning the league, not by relying on the senior team qualifying for the Champions League.

I had done that. And now, by some beautiful, absurd twist of fate, I had given the senior team a chance at Europe too. All of this as an interim manager, a man with only a UEFA B Licence to his name, a man who was supposed to be continuing his A Licence course in a week.

I thought about the chairman’s office, the impossible offer to take over a broken first team in 16th place, the doubt, the noise… and the five impossible wins that followed. I thought about the players doing leg raises alone in the rehab gym. I thought about the old man with the red scarf. I thought about Emma, standing on a balcony in Dulwich, choosing a home.

“Yeah,” I said. “I really am.”

She leaned her head on my shoulder. Outside, the city hummed its quiet, endless song. Somewhere in Stockholm, in three days, José Mourinho would walk out into a stadium and do what he always did. And if he did it well enough, Crystal Palace Football Club would be playing European football next season.

But that was a problem for another day.

Tonight, we had earned this.

***

Author’s Note: Thank you for reading. This marks the end of VOLUME 2: THE ACADEMY DAYS.

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