Harbinger Of Glory

[The Day Before]

”I would have liked to promote him right now if I could,” Dawson said as he stood in front of a glass screen overlooking the First team training ground.

Nolan, sitting behind him, just scoffed but didn’t say anything.

Before either of the two could speak further, the door opened to reveal Thompson standing behind.

”Ahhh, Thompson. Come in,” Dawson said, gesturing towards the seat at his desk.

Thompson took the seat with a quiet nod, his posture straight, clipboard still tucked under his arm.

Dawson leaned back slightly in his chair, fingers laced loosely in front of him on the desk as he glanced once more toward the training ground outside the glass wall.

”I would’ve already promoted the lad if I could,” Dawson said, his voice even, but with a tinge of restraint.

”No hesitation. The kid’s got the engine, the touch, the awareness—I did a good job training him, but the kid’s good. Studies a lot too.”

Thompson raised a brow slightly but said nothing yet.

Dawson wasn’t done.

”But,” Dawson continued, sighing, ”we both know it’s not just about what he can do with a ball at his feet. Pro football... It’s a different world. The pressure, the pace, the media, the fans—it gets in your head if you’re not managed right.”

Nolan finally glanced up from his seat, arms crossed, not disagreeing, but still skeptical.

He wasn’t the type to overpraise young players, and Leo, as good as he was, hadn’t earned his full trust just yet.

Dawson leaned forward now, locking eyes with Thompson.

”That’s where you come in.”

Thompson nodded once, slowly.

”You want me to guide him.”

”I want you to watch him,” Dawson said.

”Really watch him. Don’t just run him through the motions with the rest of the U21s. I need to know how he handles adversity and how he reacts when things don’t go his way. Does he sulk? Does he adapt? Does he lead?”

Nolan scoffed under his breath. ”He’s a kid. He’s not leading anything yet.”

Dawson didn’t look away. ”He might. Sooner than you think.”

Thompson sat back a little, taking it in.

He wasn’t new to these kinds of instructions—there were always one or two youngsters the club had an eye on each season—but there was a weight to Dawson’s tone that stood out this time.

”You’ve seen him play. Take out his shooting, and he is better than the whole U21 bunch, and his shooting has even gotten better lately,” Dawson went on.

”Now give him more. More minutes. More responsibility. Push him harder than the others. Let him fail—safely—but let him. And when he doesn’t fail, when he shines, make sure the others see it. Let it become natural that he’s the one stepping up.”

”And if he doesn’t?” Thompson asked plainly.

Dawson didn’t blink. ”Then we know. But I don’t think that’s going to be the case.”

The room settled into a brief silence, just the faint hum of wind brushing against the reinforced glass.

Below them, the first team training session was winding down, positional coaches blowing whistles and players trotting toward the recovery stations.

Thompson gave a small nod.

”Alright. I’ll make sure he gets the time. And I’ll report back.”

”Good.” Dawson stood, tone easing just slightly.

”I trust your eye, Thompson. Always have.”

Nolan rose too, still silent, but watching Thompson closely.

Thompson stood and moved toward the door.

”And Thompson,” Dawson said just before he exited.

Thompson paused, turning back.

”Don’t protect him too much. If he’s got it in him, he won’t need shielding.”

”Understood,” Thompson replied simply, then left the room, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving the two in the room.

......

Coach Thompson’s eyes snapped back to the pitch just in time to see Leo wriggle out of a tight spot near the right channel, two defenders pressing high and hard.

It wasn’t flashy—just efficient. A quick feint with his shoulder, a roll of his instep, then a burst forward that caught both markers flat-footed.

The next touch was cleaner still: a sweeping pass across the turf that carved a perfect arc into the run of the left winger, who took it in stride.

Thompson let out a slow breath through his nose, arms crossed as he watched the ball zip through the grass and land exactly where it needed to.

The switch in play had opened up everything.

The tempo surged again, players adjusting on instinct now, drawn into the pace Leo was setting without realizing it.

Ezra, seeing the space wide open, made the overlapping run.

The left winger played it down the line, and before Thompson could even refocus, the ball was being fizzed back across the box—a low, driven cross.

Leo had ghosted forward, unnoticed.

Arriving just late enough to be unmarked.

He poised himself to shoot, but the opposing defender got in the way, so Leo just faked the shot, drew the ball back, and laid it off to the striker who blasted the ball towards goal ripppling the net.

Thompson barely flinched, but there was a faint upward twitch in the corner of his mouth.

Some of the other players gave light claps or shouted half-hearted congratulations.

The ones who’d been pressed by Leo earlier looked a little more irritated than impressed, but none of them said a word.

Ezra jogged past Leo with a smirk, tapping his shoulder.

”Alright, De Bruyne. You can chill now.”

Leo just grinned, jogging back into position, a thin sheen of sweat beginning to gloss his brow.

”Right idea. Right decision. Every single time.”

Thompson muttered as Leo settled back into his position.

And then, louder this time—sharp and clipped to jolt the squad:

”Keep the tempo up! Leo sets the pace, the rest of you match it!”

A few of the lads looked up, surprised.

Getting called out positively by name by a coach during sessions at Wigan was something that was rarely done.

Ben groaned under his breath.

Jake just shook his head and muttered something too quiet to catch.

But the ball was already in play again, and Leo was on the move, and

Coach Thompson didn’t take his eyes off him once.