Thursday morning arrived with the kind of exhaustion that settles into your bones and refuses to leave. I woke up at 5:30 am out of habit, stared at the ceiling of my flat for ten minutes, and then forced myself out of bed.
The Millwall match had been yesterday, Wednesday afternoon, 5-2, our pressing system working exactly as we'd drilled it, but we had a lot of work to finally master it and my body felt like I'd been the one playing, not coaching.
The adrenaline had drained away overnight, leaving behind a hollow fatigue that made even the simple act of making coffee feel like a monumental task.
I checked my phone while the kettle boiled. Three texts from Sarah, all sent after midnight. The first was a link to the match footage with timestamps for key moments. The second was a tactical breakdown she'd written up, analyzing what worked and what needed improvement. The third just said: Go to sleep. I know you're still awake.
