The peace of the previous night, walking hand in hand with Emma, felt like a lifetime ago. The moment I stepped back into the training ground the next morning, the mountain was there again, vast and imposing. But something was different.
The air, usually thick with the low-grade anxiety of a relegation battle, was clear. The sun was shining, and the sound of laughter echoed from the training pitch. It was the sound of a team that had not just survived, but had won. The fear was gone, replaced by a swagger, a confidence that was both beautiful and, to me, a little dangerous.
I stood on the balcony overlooking the pitches, a mug of coffee warming my hands, watching them train. The intensity was still there, the sharpness in the passing drills, the aggression in the small-sided games.
But it was a different kind of intensity now. It was the intensity of a team that knew how good it was, a team that believed it could beat anyone.
