Later that night, I finally called Emma. She answered on the first ring, her voice bright and hopeful. "Hey, you," she said. "I was just thinking about you."
"Hey," I said, my voice thick with a weariness that had nothing to do with football. "How are you?"
"I'm good," she said. "Just filed my story. Long day. How's the course?"
"It's… a lot," I said. "A lot of theory. A lot of sitting in classrooms."
"Are you learning anything?" she asked.
"I'm learning that I'd rather be on a training pitch," I said, trying to keep my voice light. "I'm not built for this, Em."
"You're built for all of it," she said, her voice soft and certain. "You just don't know it yet."
We talked for a few more minutes, about her day, about my day, about the mundane, ordinary things that felt a million miles away from the high-stakes drama that was unfolding in the background.
