BY ROSEMARY UGIOMOH
The press room at the Etihad was half empty. Rain tapped the windows like a nervous clock. Pep Guardiola leaned forward, both hands wrapped around a paper cup gone cold.
A reporter asked the question everyone had been circling: “With the Carabao Cup in the bag and City top of the league, is the treble on?”
Pep gave that thin smile. The one that shows up when he’s already done the math ten times in his head.
“Far,” he said. “We are still very far.”
He ticked them off on his fingers. “95 points does not win the league by itself. You need 96, maybe 98. Arsenal are not sleeping. Liverpool are not dead. One bad week in April and you are suddenly fighting for second.”
Someone mentioned the FA Cup semi next weekend. Pep nodded, eyes on the table.
“The cup is the cruelest. One game. One mistake from me, one slip, one deflection. In the league you can fix a mistake. In the cup, the mistake fixes you. It sends you home.”
He stood up, jacket over his arm. “Treble? That word is for journalists in May. For us it is Luton away on Wednesday. Then we see. We are not close. We are not even halfway. We are just… working.”
He paused at the door. “Ask me again when there are three games left. If we are still alive in all three, then maybe we talk. Today? Today we are far.”
Outside, the players were already on the training pitch. No trophies out there. Just cones, rain.
