Monday morning, Beckenham. 08:30. The normal time. The human time.
I hit the canteen first. Rúben was sitting alone... coffee in one hand, phone in the other. The morning routine. I bought a cup and sat beside him. Not opposite. Beside. The difference was everything. Opposite was a meeting; beside was a conversation.
"How's the family, Rúben?"
A flicker of surprise crossed his face. In nearly six months since taking the job at Crystal Palace, I had asked him about passing ranges, stamina levels, tactical awareness, and recovery metrics. I had interrogated him on everything that happened between the white lines, but I had never asked about the world outside them.
"They're good, gaffer," he said, recovering. "My daughter is walking now. Everywhere. She marched into the bathroom cabinet yesterday, and my wife sent me a video of the bruise." A small, genuine smile broke through. "It's a big bruise."
"What's her name?"
"Lurdes."
"That's beautiful."
