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Harbinger Of Glory

Chapter 35: First Game · Oct 18, 2026

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Chapter List (629)

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1 Chapter 1: Once Upon A Team 2026-10-18
2 Chapter 2: The Shift 2026-10-18
3 Chapter 3: An Olive Branch 2026-10-18
4 Chapter 4: Relations 2026-10-18
5 Chapter 5: The Offer 2026-10-18
6 Chapter 6: Resolution 2026-10-18
7 Chapter 7: A New Day 2026-10-18
8 Chapter 8: An Unimportant File 2026-10-18
9 Chapter 9: New Goal 2026-10-18
10 Chapter 10: School- A Means To An End 2026-10-18
11 Chapter 11: Learning The Art 2026-10-18
12 Chapter 12: Extra Work 2026-10-18
13 Chapter 13: Behind The Scenes 2026-10-18
14 Chapter 14: New Dawn 2026-10-18
15 Chapter 15: Wigan’s U21s 2026-10-18
16 Chapter 16: Testing The Waters 2026-10-18
17 Chapter 17: Unfolding 2026-10-18
18 Chapter 18: Sign The Kid 2026-10-18
19 Chapter 19: One Step At A Time 2026-10-18
20 Chapter 20: Player To Be 2026-10-18
21 Chapter 21: Honing 2026-10-18
22 Chapter 22: Possibilities 2026-10-18
23 Chapter 23: The Ball Whisperer 2026-10-18
24 Chapter 24: How It’s going 2026-10-18
25 Chapter 25: The Talk 2026-10-18
26 Chapter 26: Tell Me Everything 2026-10-18
27 Chapter 27: Meet The Calderons 2026-10-18
28 Chapter 28: Contract Negotiations 2026-10-18
29 Chapter 29: Welcome to Wigan, Leo 2026-10-18
30 Chapter 30: Interest from an Old Flame 2026-10-18
31 Chapter 31: First training session 2026-10-18
32 Chapter 32: First training Session [2] 2026-10-18
33 Chapter 33: All eyes on him 2026-10-18
34 Chapter 34: First shirt 2026-10-18
35 Chapter 35: First Game 2026-10-18
36 Chapter 36: Vanishing Act 2026-10-18
37 Chapter 37: A story writes itself 2026-10-18
38 Chapter 38: Paper Boy 2026-10-18
39 Chapter 39 - 3-body Problem 2026-10-18
40 Chapter 40: Method- Acting 2026-10-18
41 Chapter 41: Uncanny Hero 2026-10-18
42 Chapter 42: On the Cusp 2026-10-18
43 Chapter 43: On the Cusp [2] 2026-10-18
44 Chapter 44: Top for A reason 2026-10-18
45 Chapter 45: Dumb It Down 2026-10-18
46 Chapter 46: Price For Genius 2026-10-18
47 Chapter 47: First Team Calling. 2026-10-18
48 Chapter 48: First Team Calling [2] 2026-10-18
49 Chapter 49: Slowly But Surely 2026-10-18
50 Chapter 50: Number 22 2026-10-18

Later that afternoon, the sky was blanketed in that greyish hue that never quite passed for sunlight in the northwest.

A stiff breeze rolled through the outskirts of Wigan as the squad made their way out of the training ground gates on foot.

Thompson walked ahead of them, hands tucked into his coat pockets, scarf fluttering behind him like a banner.

”No need for the bus,” he’d said earlier, clapping his hands to grab attention.

”Robin Park’s ten minutes away. This’ll loosen you up more than a ride.”

So they walked. Tracksuits zipped, boots clacking against the pavement, bags slung over shoulders.

Some of the lads laughed about how old school it felt—marching to a game like a pub team—but something was grounding about it. Like shedding all the weight of overthinking.

Leo walked near the middle of the group, the number seventeen tucked under his windbreaker.

Every stride toward the arena felt like a step into something he’d waited for, even if he couldn’t quite define what.

And up ahead, just beyond the car park and the outer fencing, Robin Park Arena began to rise into view—humble in size but vast in meaning.

.......

The stands at Robin Park Arena weren’t large—just a few rows of blue plastic seats tucked along the sideline and a concrete standing terrace behind each goal—but they had their own sort of charm.

With a capacity of 1700, it was slightly bigger for a ground used by a u21 team.

On evenings like this, they filled up with chatter and shifting feet, not quite a crowd but more than just a handful.

The match hadn’t started yet, but the air buzzed with the soft hum of voices and the clinking of takeaway coffee cups against the metal railing.

Along the standing area, a group of older men leaned with elbows propped, jackets zipped to their throats, watching as the grounds staff finalized the warm-up cones.

”Not much else to do on a Tuesday, is there?” one of them muttered, adjusting his Wigan cap.

”Tell me about it,” another replied, stuffing his hands deeper into his coat pockets.

”Thought I’d pop down, and see if any of the kids can pass forward.”

A couple of them chuckled, heads turning toward the dugouts where the teams had begun to emerge.

”Barnsley, is it?”

”Aye.”

”Couldn’t tell from the badge. Looks like someone scribbled it on with a felt tip.”

More laughter rippled around the corner.

Down near the halfway line, a small pocket of Wigan fans had gathered—two dads with their sons in oversized coats.

A few curious teenagers in old home kits, and even a man wearing a first-team scarf wrapped twice around his neck.

They hadn’t planned to be here, not really.

Some were just passing by the training complex and saw the gates open, the lights warming up the turf.

”Come on, lads,” one of the dads called to the boys next to him, his voice casual but filled with affection.

”Let’s back the young ones tonight. Club’s the club, whether they’re nineteen or thirty.”

That got a few nods, and one of the kids began a soft chant under his breath—just a rhythm at first, no words, but enough to catch.

The gates at the side of the pitch opened, and the players began to walk out in lines—Barnsley in red, Wigan in their classic blue-and-white.

No music, no grand announcements.

Just boots scraping on the turf, the thud of footballs being bounced off thighs, and the quiet shifting of a growing crowd.

Near the front of the standing area, one man leaned forward slightly, squinting toward the players.

”Oi,” he said, nudging his mate.

”Wasn’t there talk of a new lad signing for the U21s the week before? Some boy from the Manchester United Academy?”

”Yeah, I heard that too,” the other replied, pulling his hood up against the chill.

”Dunno his name, though. Forgot all about it.”

”Think he’s starting?”

”No clue. But we’ve seen this lot enough times—you can tell who’s new just by looking.”

They both turned their eyes to the Wigan line, scanning the players as they stepped onto the turf.

”That one there—number Seventeen. Don’t think I’ve seen him before,” the first said, nodding subtly toward Leo.

”Yeah... Might be him. Doesn’t look out of place though, does he?”

The first man shrugged.

”Well, let’s see if he can play. Talk’s cheap.”

Behind them, more chatter began to stir.

Others were having the same conversation, the same curious glances toward the unfamiliar face in blue and white.

Most of the lads in the squad were fixtures here—seen week in, week out at Robin Park. But number seventeen? He wasn’t one of them. Not yet.

Leo didn’t know any of this, of course. His focus stayed down the pitch. No nerves.

Just steady breath and sharp eyes. Another night. Another game. But for those watching, the whispers had begun.

”All right gather around” the referee spoke, eyeing both sets of players as they walked towards him.

The former stood between the two captains, a wiry man with a firm posture and a veteran’s voice—calm but with that unmistakable edge of authority.

”Right,” he said, looking around at the circle of young men. ”You all know the drill.”

His whistle swung lightly from his fingers as he gestured toward them.

”I want a clean game today. No scuffles, no petty drama—none of that. We’re not in school anymore. None of you look like kids.”

He paused for a beat, letting the statement hang in the air—before his eyes flicked to Leo, who stood quietly a few steps back, arms behind his back and gaze steady.

”Well... except maybe you, lad.”

A ripple of laughter broke across the group. Leo’s cheeks warmed, but he managed a small, lopsided grin.

”Cute face like that?” the ref added with a light smirk.

”You might get carded for distracting the defenders.”

The players chuckled again, even the Barnsley captain cracking a grin.

”All right, captains,” the referee said, flipping the coin into the air with a practiced snap of the thumb.

”Call it.”

”Heads,” Wigan’s captain, a tall and intimidating centre-back, Colin said quickly.

The coin hit the turf, bounced once, and landed—heads up.

”Your pick.”

”Side,” the captain replied. ”We’ll start facing the west end.”

The ref nodded and motioned them back. ”Good. Let’s get it started sharp then. I’ll be watching.”

As the players turned and jogged back to their respective halves, the hum of anticipation around Robin Park grew louder.

Leo drifted back into position, a focused look now drawn on his face.

The sharp tweet of the whistle pierced the air, and just like that, Barnsley kicked off under the grey afternoon sky.

What followed was... chaos.

It wasn’t immediate, but within the first few minutes, the shape of the game unraveled.

Barnsley’s midfield surged forward with too much eagerness, and Wigan responded by pressing recklessly, every player desperate to make an impression.

Lines blurred. Positions collapsed.

Players darted out of place, abandoning their roles in favour of chasing the ball like overexcited schoolboys.

Left-backs overlapped centre-forwards. Centre-mids dropped into fullback positions uninvited.

And more than once, a center-back on either side was caught hopelessly high up the pitch, completely out of sync with their backline.

”Are we playing five-a-side or what?” someone yelled from the stands.

But it was hard to tell.

At one point, five players from each team formed a congested circle around the ball near the center circle.

They kicked and tripped over one another in a scramble that resembled more of a rugby maul than structured play.

It was as if formations had been thrown out the window and replaced with sheer instinct and adrenaline.

Boots collided. Shouts echoed. The ball pinballed between shins and thighs, rolling out and being flung back in without rhythm.

Leo had barely gotten a touch.

He hovered wide right, scanning the madness with narrowed eyes, trying to read the chaos, trying to predict where the ball would land next.

But it was Ezra who finally brought some order to the storm.

With one sharp touch, he scooped the ball from the tangle of legs.

A Barnsley midfielder lunged after him, but Ezra dropped his shoulder and slipped through the mess with surprising elegance.

One of the defenders followed, then another, but Ezra didn’t panic.

He let them chase. It was like watching a school of fish veer after the wrong predator.

He broke into space and lifted his head—and there was Leo, still wide, still waiting.

With a coolness that cut through the clutter, Ezra slid the ball diagonally across the pitch, bypassing three red shirts in one pass.

Like Deer attracted to headlights, the players all turned their attention to Leo who had the ball.

”What the hell is this” Leo said as a couple of Barnsley players made their way towards him.

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