Harbinger Of Glory

The wind coming in from the northeast carried with it the hum of anticipation. Robin Park Arena wasn’t full, but it was swelling. Louder than last week.

The whistle snapped the mood into place as the match began.

Crewe Alexandra, dead last in the standings, kicked off with an energy that didn’t match their position.

Maybe that was their plan—punch hard early, play like they had nothing to lose.

Coach Thompson had made changes.

Jake was up top today, flanked by two of his usual entourage: Harvin and Ty, both quick-footed but quick-tempered too with Harvin playing as a Left- wing back and Ty, playing as a number 10.

Thompson had wanted rotation, but in doing so, he’d shuffled the chemistry.

The result? A mess.

The first ten minutes were directionless.

Wigan pressed but with no rhythm.

Passes went astray.

Jake dropped deep only to demand the ball and turn into traffic, waving his arms when no one followed his lead.

Harvin ignored Leo twice on overlapping runs, and Ty had already taken three shots—none on target.

Leo drifted, watching.

He didn’t chase recklessly.

Instead, he read the players, both his and his opponents’.

Every time Crewe shifted left, he slid across three steps, intercepting the passing lane.

Once, he ducked in between Ty and the full-back to nick the ball cleanly, before shifting it into Ezra’s feet.

It wasn’t flashy, but it settled the team for about thirty seconds.

Then Jake got the ball.

The play had built nicely—Ezra to Leo, Leo to Duvan, his mate in the centre if midfield, a smart one-two off the wing, and back to Leo at the top of the box.

He shaped for a shot but slipped a perfectly weighted reverse pass behind the defense.

Jake was through and clear with plenty of time to steady himself.

Instead of slotting it low, he tried a step-over and cut in for a more better angle, but it never came.

Crewe’s keeper rushed out, smothering the ball, while Jake ended up on the turf screaming for a penalty that never was.

”Get up you fucking twat” one of the defenders of Crewe Alexandra spat as he went past the grounded jake, causing the latter to stand up and shove the defender in a fit of rage.

But that only earned him a yellow card from the referee, who had turned in time just to see Jake shoving the defender.

Thompson, on the touchline didn’t flinch and just folded his arms tighter watching the scenes unfolding on the pitch.

Fifteen minutes in, Wigan had the better possession.

But they weren’t a team—they were a set of puzzle pieces jammed into the wrong board.

Every run was disconnected.

Every pass slightly behind or ahead, and, as the saying goes, ’That even a rabbit has teeth.’ Crewe smelled opportunity.

And then they struck.

A long diagonal ball over the top caught the Wigan backline napping.

Their right winger, a wiry kid with blistering pace, reached it first, cut inside their left back, and lashed a low shot into the bottom corner.

Leo, already on the case, whipped out his foot in a slide, changing the trajectory of the ball but Wigan couldn’t escape what was imminent as one of the midfielders of Crewe Alexandra, rushed from behind Leo to rifle the loose ball into the back of the net.

Crewe 1 - Wigan 0.

”Where the hell were all of you?” Kadou, a Senegalese defender who appeared for both the Wigan reserves and the U21s, roared at his mates, particularly Harvin, who was near the ball and had all the time in the world to attempt to clear it but left it.

Ezra, coming back from the opponent’s half, swore under his breath.

”What’s Jake even doing up there? Man’s costing us a game.” Ben said as he turned to Leo.

Leo stayed quiet, hands on hips, scanning the pitch as the ball was retrieved.

From the bench, Thompson barked something, but the wind swallowed it up.

Wigan restarted.

Leo dropped deeper now, almost alongside the pivot, Duvan.

Not as a tactic—but instinctively.

Every time he touched the ball, there was a pulse of calm.

Crewe pressed, but Leo never lingered.

He feinted, shuffled, and passed.

Opened gaps. Slowed the tempo just long enough to find space.

He intercepted a dangerous Crewe ball near the halfway line, brought it down with his chest, and swept it out wide in one fluid motion.

But no matter how well he fed them, Jake refused to link play.

Twice more, Leo threaded angled passes into his path—both times, Jake took too many touches, losing the window to shoot.

Instead, he dribbled into a dead end and blamed the runners.

By the 35th minute, the stands were restless.

”He’s just not passing!” someone groaned.

”Number nine thinks he’s Mbappé, bruv.”

”Put the little one in the ten role!”

Down on the pitch, Leo kept moving.

He wasn’t angry, nor did he shout.

But his game changed subtly.

He started holding the ball a little longer—just enough to bait a press.

Then he’d release it at the last second, drawing Crewe players out of position.

Every movement was bait.

Twice more before the break, Leo carved open chances.

The first was a one-touch triangle between him, Ezra, and Ben that ended with a driven ball into Jake’s feet but the latter could only rifle it against the post, a decent form for once from all the shots that he had skied.

The second came after Leo dummied a pass and spun past his marker like a breeze, slipped Ezra down the flank, who cut it back perfectly—only for Jake and his mate, Ty to to clash into each other causing the ball to go astray.

By halftime, it was still 1–0.

And though Wigan had started to dominate possession, the scoreboard told the only story that mattered.

The whistle blew.

The players trudged off, sweat-drenched and silent.

Leo walked beside Ezra, eyes forward, face unreadable.

Behind them, Coach Thompson stood with his arms behind his back, waiting by the tunnel.

”Half a game gone,” Ezra muttered.

”We’re better than them. You know that, right?”

Leo nodded once. ”We are. But you can’t prove that by just playing the most possession. We need to put the ball into the back of the net.”

”And Jake?”

Leo glanced sideways.

”He’s not seeing the game right now. That’s all.”

”Man’s playing in a dream.”

”Then we wake him up second half,” Leo said softly, stepping into the tunnel, his boots echoing against the concrete.

And in the stands, Maya sat forward again, glancing down at her notepad.

”Still just 1–0?” Rob asked.

She nodded slowly. ”Yeah. But if you’re watching that number 17, you know it won’t stay that way.”

’I need to get a few words from him today,’ Maya thought as he looked at Leo go down the tented tunnel.

........

The mood inside the makeshift equipment room that had long since been repurposed into the U21s’ cramped but serviceable locker room was tinged with the muted tension of a team down at the half to bottom-placed Crewe Alexandra, and the faint sting of sweat and disappointment lingered between the rows of benches.

Coach Thompson stood at the whiteboard with his arms folded, his eyes scanning the tired faces.

Ty sat hunched, already peeling his socks down before the words were even said.

Harvin looked the same—spent, frustrated, and with the resigned expression of someone who knew what was coming.

”You’re both off,” Thompson finally said, nodding toward them without any fanfare.

”Go cool off. Rejoin the bench once you’ve caught your breath.”

There were no arguments. No pleading.

Ty gave a solemn nod and stood, Harvin right behind him, heading toward the back corner to swap out their gear.

Everyone in the room expected Jake to be the next name called.

Even Jake seemed to brace for it, sitting upright with that tight, defiant set in his jaw.

But then... nothing. Thompson’s gaze swept past him like he didn’t exist, and he remained seated.

That caught attention.

A few subtle glances passed between players.

Ezra raised a brow at Ben.

Even the normally quiet goalkeeper, Mason, blinked in surprise.

Jake tried to play it cool, but his exhale was too slow and relieved to hide.

Thompson, as if fully aware of the moment he’d just created, turned his head toward Leo.

Not a word said.

Just a sharp look, that kind of pointed, unspoken challenge Leo had seen before.

It wasn’t hostile. But it carried weight. Expectation.

Figure it out.

Leo blinked back at him.

In his mind, he laughed bitterly.

Mate, I’m seventeen. Not Guardiola.

But outwardly, he only nodded once and adjusted the laces on his boots.

If that was the hand they were being dealt—Jake staying on, with his circus of selfish attempts and misread runs—then Leo would just have to play the cards right.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the muffled sounds of the crowd outside creeping into the walls.

’Now, how do actors get in the mood?’ Leo thought as he looked at Jake downing a bottle of water.