Harbinger Of Glory

[Two days before Stoke.]

The training pitch at Christopher Park hummed with energy — the kind that only came after back-to-back wins.

Wigan had jumped to 13th.

Mid-table, sure, but within touching distance of the playoff places.

A reminder of just how thin the margins were in the Championship — one bad week and you could drop like a stone, one good fortnight and you were suddenly glancing at the top six.

The mood? As bright as the sky above them.

Dawson stood with arms folded near the halfway line, sunglasses on, hood up — his version of casual.

”Bit of fun today,” he’d said earlier, just before training started.

But fun, by Dawson’s standards, looked suspiciously like hell.

The players were split into three rotating teams for a high-intensity possession game in tight spaces.

Two-touch only. No hiding.

Keep the ball moving or get hunted.

No cones, no bibs — just raw pace, sharp minds, and men who didn’t want to be the ones doing punishment sprints after losing a round.

For the players, this wasn’t fun.

This was pride. This was hierarchy.

And Leo?

Leo was in the middle of it now — one of the targets.

”Oi! Inside!” Naylor shouted as Broadhead clipped a loose pass toward the centre.

Leo caught it on the half-turn, dipped his shoulder and twisted between two closing players, the ball riding his instep like it was glued there.

”Again!” McClean barked, demanding the ball back.

Leo popped it to him, then ghosted into space for the return.

”Good tempo, lads!” Dawson called, but his voice barely registered.

No one was listening to Dawson now.

Not really. The session had taken a life of its own.

”You see him?” Sze said under his breath to Cousins, watching Leo manoeuvre like he’d been in the team all season.

Cousins nodded. ”Different rhythm. So much so that it’s getting weird.”

Weird or not, it was working.

The whistle blew to rotate as Jones jogged out of the goal and clapped his gloves together.

”Let’s go again. Same groups.”

Groans.

Fletcher dropped to his knees, then rolled backwards onto the grass.

”Tell me how that was fun. Seriously. Someone explain it.”

”Wasn’t for you,” Sze said, laughing.

”Speak for yourself,” McClean replied, pouring water over his head.

”I’m thirty-three and still playing you lot off the pitch.”

Leo didn’t say anything.

He just walked over to his bottle, took a sip, then glanced toward the coaching staff.

Dawson met his eye and nodded once.

Training had been fun, sure.

But it had also been preparation.

This was Wigan’s first home match since Leo joined the first team.

And Stoke were coming next.

Another win, and the table might start looking a whole lot different.

Another win, and the crowd at DW Stadium would finally get to meet their new number 22.

.......

Away from Wigan’s preperation, Noah slumped deeper into his seat, forehead pressed lightly to the bus window as the English countryside blurred past — all rolling hills, flat greys, and flickers of dying light.

His laptop sat on his lap, screen brightness dimmed to preserve what little battery he had left.

Another clip rolled — Leo again.

This time, it was the Watford game.

He had watched it five times already, but still, his thumb hovered over the spacebar like it was brand new.

The assist to Sze.

That roulette in midfield.

The late recovery tackle.

All of it.

Forty-eight hours.

That’s how long he’d been digging.

Clips of Leo he had inquired from Manchester United with the help of a friend but they didn’t have much to begin with.

And then recently, academy cut-ups buried on Twitter threads.

Some shaky footage from an away fan’s camcorder in one of Leo’s youth matches at Wigan and two TikToks that showed more of the crowd than the pitch.

The rest were the minutes of Leo’s recent games with the main team.

No sleep. No proper food. Just coffee, codeine, and Leo Calderón.

His phone buzzed as Devon’s name lit up his screen.

Noah slid the green button and lifted the phone. ”Yo.”

”You’re a lunatic, you know that?” Devon’s voice cracked through the speaker with a chuckle.

”Bus to Wigan? Four hours? No sleep? You’ve lost it.”

Noah smiled faintly.

”If you saw what I saw, you’d have sprinted faster than me.”

”Doubt it.”

”I’d have taken a plane,” Noah added, rubbing the corner of his eye, ”but I can’t afford those anymore.”

That got a laugh out of Devon. ”Well, at least you’re honest.”

Another voice cut in — Jake’s — after Devon must’ve slapped the phone on speaker.

”You better be right, mate,” Jake said.

”Don’t come back unless you’re holding gold. I’m not watching you burn out again.”

Noah nodded slowly, even though they couldn’t see it.

”I won’t. If I’m wrong, I’ll disappear for a bit. But if I’m right...”

”You think he’s that good?” Devon asked, not mocking — just curious now.

Noah looked down at his laptop again, which was paused on Leo, slipping a pass to Ezra in one of the youth matches.

”He doesn’t even have a face on the stats site,” Noah muttered.

”But he plays like the ball’s been waiting for him his whole life.”

A brief silence followed on the line.

”Then go get him,” Jake said.

”Bring good news,” Devon added.

The call ended with a few muffled farewells as Noah sat there for a moment, letting the silence return.

He opened his email and stared at the digital ticket he’d booked the night before — Wigan vs. Stoke, tomorrow afternoon, DW Stadium.

His thumb hovered over it, then locked his screen.

Outside, the landscape continued to shift — endless fields becoming townhouses, houses becoming rows of concrete and road signs.

He didn’t know what he’d say when he got there.

He just knew he had to.

Wigan was getting closer, and maybe, so was his salvation.

.........

The old silver Vauxhall clattered over a speed bump, then rolled gently into the DW Stadium car park, the engine coughing once before falling silent.

Mia bounced in the passenger seat before unclicking her belt.

”We made it,” she grinned, eyes wide, voice barely able to contain the excitement.

Sofia leaned forward, both hands gripping the wheel like they were still mid-drive.

”No thanks to this thing,” she muttered, patting the dashboard.

”I swear it took offence to fourth gear.”

Mia laughed, already swinging her door open.

”Who cares? We’re here. And get to seeLeo play live, hopefully,” Mia added, a bit unsure as she finished her words.

Their footsteps echoed lightly against the pavement as they joined the slowly building crowd.

For Mia, the nervous excitement churned under her skin like static, not because of the stadium or the fans or the premier league dreams everyone here carried.

But because somewhere behind those walls, Leo was lacing up.

They found their seats — halfway up the east stand, just behind the dugout, not far from where the substitutes warmed up.

Mia pulled out her phone and opened the camera, but Sofia reached over gently.

”Don’t jinx it.”

Mia smirked. ”Too late.”

—

Inside the tunnel, the dressing room buzzed with game-day energy — half-focused chatter, tape tearing, boots stomping against the tile floor.

Leo sat at his spot, his head down, fingers tightening the final knot on his laces.

Not just any boots — those boots.

The ones Mia had decorated for him before coming to Wigan.

Little blue stars and flowers, as well as what was supposed to be lightning trailing along the heel.

A small hand-drawn lion on the tongue.

A phrase in her messy writing, faded slightly from last match’s sweat and rain:

”Let the ball feel proud to know you.”

He smiled to himself — not wide, just enough—then slipped the second boot on and tugged the tongue into place.

Whap!

A training bib smacked him in the face.

Leo blinked, looked up, and caught the tail of it as it slid down his chest.

Kitman Terry, halfway across the room, pointed at him.

”Get moving, Calderón. It’s warm-up time. You ain’t special just ’cause you look like a wizard on the pitch.”

Leo shook his head and chuckled quietly.

He slipped the bib on, pulled his jacket tight, and rose to his feet.

Through the tunnel now.

Boots squeaking lightly over the concrete.

And then — out into the sunlit pitch, where the warm-up balls were rolling, the cones were spread, and the early fans were filtering in.

Somewhere up in that east stand, he knew they’d be there.

Watching.

Maybe nervous.

But proud.

Leo jogged onto the turf and joined the rest of the squad.

”Welcome to the DW, where Wigan Athletic prepare for their first home game since those back-to-back away wins reignited belief,” the commentator began, voice smooth, practised.

”Two changes for the Latics today. It won’t be most but I’m sure a few fans will be expecting to get a glimpse of the wizard who bamboozled at Vicarage road.”

A/N: Sorry for what happened with the last Chapter. I’m really sorry about that. I tried editing it but they wouldn’t allow me to change more than one hundred words. Really sorry about that.