Harbinger Of Glory

After the whistle sounded, the crackle of the stadium PA cut through the cheers.

”Tonight’s Man of the Match...” the stadium announcer’s voice boomed, dragging the syllables as the crowd hushed.

”Number ten... Will Keane!”

Applause rang out as Keane, who now had a puffer jacket on, raised a hand, clapping back toward the stands as his name echoed around the tannoy.

But the sound that followed wasn’t quite for him.

The chant that rose from the South Stand told its own story.

”Le-o! Le-o! Le-o!”

The symbolic pronunciation rolled across the DW, raw and uncoordinated, but unmistakable.

A name carried by voices that had made their own decision.

On the touchline, Dawson caught Leo by the wrist, pulled him in, and pressed a hand to his shoulder.

Just a quick embrace, nothing dramatic.

”Well done, kid,” Dawson said under the noise, keeping his voice low.

”You made a difference once again. Now get out there, go with the lads.”

Leo nodded, breath still sharp in his chest, and gave a small smile before he jogged over toward the cluster of blue and white shirts already walking toward the stands, arms out, ready to clap the fans.

Keane reached for him first, a hand to the back of Leo’s head, pulling him briefly into his own celebration, before Whatmough followed, patting him between the shoulders.

Even Cousins, quiet and irritable as always, leaned in with a grin.

”Some debut, kid. Don’t think you’ll be sitting much longer.”

Up in the stands, the chants still lingered.

People clapping, pointing, turning to one another with the same thought unspoken — they’d seen something worth talking about, worth remembering for some time.

Leo lifted his hands with the others, clapping toward the supporters.

For once, he didn’t try to shrink into the line.

He stood there, number 22 on his back, soaking in the echo of his name under the lights.

While the players interacted with the crowd, Dawson stepped towards the post-match interview podium they had set up, jacket zipped, face calm but carrying that edge of tiredness only managers wore.

”Congratulations on the win,”

the reporter began, mic lifted. ”A strong performance from your side tonight.”Dawson gave a short nod.

”Yeah. The lads worked and we got the 3 points. That’s what matters.”

She hesitated, then pressed.

”But I have to ask, you left Calderón on the bench until late. And when he came on, he changed the game. Why hold back a difference-maker like that?”

A flicker of a smile touched Dawson’s mouth, but it didn’t soften his stare.

”Because he’s seventeen. Because it’s his third senior appearance from the bench. And because he needs to learn the game one step at a time, because talent can’t cover inexperience.”

”But surely—” the reporter began, but Dawson cut in.

”Listen. Just because you’ve got a missile in your arsenal doesn’t mean you go using it to hunt rabbits. He’s a talent, no doubt. But talent’s nothing if you burn it out too soon.”

The reporter blinked, almost laughing at the odd metaphor as Dawson turned to leave.

”A missile? For rabbits?”

Dawson didn’t stop.

He just turned, already walking toward the tunnel. ”You’ll see what I mean,” he said over his shoulder.

And with that, he was gone — leaving the question hanging in the cold night air.

.....

Outside the DW, the air was sharp with night chill, but the streets still buzzed.

Fans spilt out of the gates, their voices spilling too, laughter and disbelief mixing in the dark like smoke.

A group of lads passed, one of them waving his scarf in circles over his head.

”Number twenty-two, mate! Did you see that? The kid just played like he’d been doing it for ten years!”

Another fan cut in, shaking his head as if trying to process it.

”Nah, nah, forget the age. It’s the composure. First touch, awareness — that’s what struck me. Like he already knew where everyone was before the ball came to him. We’ve kinda gotten our own Iniesta.”

Their words wrapped around Noah Sarin as he lingered near the edge of the crowd, hands deep in his coat pockets.

He listened without trying to.

The excitement was contagious, infectious even, the kind that lived in the marrow of football towns, when hope felt just a bit more real than usual.

His phone buzzed, and the screen lit up with an incoming call.

Devon.

Noah let it ring once before answering. ”Yeah?”

”How’d it go?” Devon asked.

His voice was steady, but the background noise — maybe the faint clatter of dishes, the warmth of a home — reminded Noah exactly what he didn’t have.

Noah didn’t answer right away.

He stood still, watching the crowd surge past the stadium lights, listening to one group break into a chant that stumbled on Leo’s name.

His throat worked before he finally said, ”I... I don’t know.”

The line went quiet.

Then Devon’s voice returned, softer. ”He shook you that much, huh?”

Noah chuckled, short and strained, but real.

”Maybe. I’ll have to see more of the kid before I say anything.”

Again, silence.

This time longer, weighted.

Until finally Devon said, ”Alright. Fair enough.”

The call clicked off suddenly, and Noah glanced down at his phone, only for another vibration to follow immediately.

A notification.

+£3,500 received.

Noah frowned, trying to make sense of the message, but before he could even think, the phone rang again.

On picking up, his friend didn’t wait.

”She’s gonna talk when she sees the transfer. I’ll deal with that later. What are friends for, eh? Now listen — eat proper, stay somewhere with heating, and pay me back when you’re steady. Don’t argue.”

Noah’s lips parted, but no words came as the sting in his eyes betrayed him first.

”Devon...” His voice cracked. ”Thank you.”

”You’re soggy as hell for crying, you know that?” Devon teased, trying to cut through.

”Alright, I gotta go before I get grief. Take care of yourself, brother.”

The call ended, and Noah stood there, phone in hand, eyes blurred for a moment before he dragged the back of his sleeve across them.

He breathed once, then again, steadying himself against the noise of strangers celebrating around him.

A man brushed past, and Noah caught his shoulder.

”Sorry — bus stop? Which way?”

”Just past the parking lot, mate. Straight ahead.”

”Thanks.”

He turned toward the lot, walking slowly, boots crunching gravel.

That’s when he heard it — a voice, bright and rapid-fire, cutting through the hum.

”...and then he fell down and that’s when I knew, Leo could be a proper player, and not just lucky!”

”But you were just 2 then?”

”Age is just a number,” the girl shrugged, causing the older woman to laugh.

It was a kid — Mia, animated, hands carving the air as she relived the moment.

Sofia walked beside her, laughing at the energy but trying to keep up with her pace.

Noah stopped for half a second, watching and then recognition hit.

The little girl had said it before, clear as anything: she was Leo’s sister.

He looked down at his phone again as Devon’s words before he left Portsmouth lingered, sharp and steady.

Don’t back down.

Noah exhaled, long and slow, before pocketing the device.

His legs moved on instinct now, carrying him across the lot toward the sisters, toward the very thing he had been circling all night but hadn’t yet dared to touch.

[Wigan Locker room]

Leo, already washed and dressed quicker than most, sat on the edge of the bench pulling his jacket zipper up to his chin.

His hair was still damp, clinging to his forehead when Dawson caught sight of him. ”You’re off in a rush.”

Leo hesitated before answering.

”Daws- I mean Gaffer, uh—can I head out? Just for a bit. I want to see Sofia and Mia before they leave.”

Dawson’s brow lifted, as if wanting to ask something, but then he dropped it.

”Don’t be long. And keep the hood up. Half the stadium would follow you if they knew.”

Leo smiled, almost sheepishly. ”Yeah, I know. Thanks.”

Phone in hand, he pushed through the exit and into the cool air outside.

He lifted the phone to his ear and dialled Sofia, but it rang for a while before it went straight to voicemail.

He sighed, lowering the device, then tried again, and this time the line clicked after a pause.

”Leo?” Sofia’s voice came, threaded with surprise.

”Yeah, it’s me.” He walked briskly toward the outer gate, tucking his chin low. ”Where are you?”

”We’re still here. Parking lot. Mia wouldn’t stop talking about the game, so we haven’t left yet.”

A laugh escaped him. ”That sounds about right.”

”You coming over?” she asked.

”Yes.”

”Okay. Just... don’t get mobbed on the way.”

A/n: It has been a while. Damn. Sorry about this guys. I have been really trying to stay to the Chapter per day schedule but I don’t think I can, at least for now. Thanks for all the stone and the tickets and the love and support.