The tunnel at Old Trafford was a strange, sterile corridor of modern football, all polished concrete and corporate logos, but it couldn't contain the noise.
The sound of 75,000 people was a living thing, a deep, visceral hum that vibrated through the soles of my feet and settled in my chest. It was the sound of history, of expectation, of empire.
I walked at the head of my team, my suit sharp, my face a mask of calm. Inside, my heart was a drum solo. This was it. The final day. The final problem.
I felt a light touch on my arm. It was Sarah, my assistant, her expression as focused as my own. "You ready for this, gaffer?" she asked, her voice low.
"Born ready," I said, a confident smirk playing on my lips. I felt like I had him. I'd read the situation perfectly, called his bluff, and prepared my team for an ambush. The master of mind games was about to be out-gamed by the new kid on the block. The narrative was almost writing itself.
