Harbinger Of Glory

The office was quiet except for the faint scratch of a pen across paper.

Assistant coach Nolan sat hunched over his desk, sleeves rolled up, reviewing notes from the previous night’s match.

His handwriting was quick but deliberate, numbers and arrows bleeding into little sketches of player movements.

From the corner of the room, his assistant leaned against the filing cabinet, glancing at a sheet on her clipboard.

”Coach,” she said, breaking the silence.

”We’ve just had a request come through. Someone’s asking for one of the tapes, player footage, stats, the usual bits of info from clubs looking to sign players, but this seems like it’s coming from an individual.”

Nolan didn’t look up at first, only gave a small nod.

”Send it over to me.”

She tapped the keys on her laptop, and within seconds, Nolan’s inbox pinged.

He set his pen aside, leaned back in his chair, and pulled his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose before clicking the new mail.

The subject line was plain, but the contents weren’t.

The request was specific: videotapes, performance data, and medical summaries.

For one player only.

Leo.

Nolan’s eyes flicked down to the sender’s name, his lips moving silently before the words rolled out.

”Noah Sarin...”

For the briefest second, his brows jumped, but the surprise left his face as quickly as it came, replaced with something sharper, recognition.

He sat a little straighter, drumming his fingers against the desk before beginning to type.

His reply was measured, professional, with just enough detail to give something without really giving everything.

⌊ We don’t have much archived on him yet.

He signed five months ago. Only began featuring in the U21S three months back, and made the step up to first-team sessions a month and a half ago.

What we have is mostly what’s already floating online. You can try to contact his former club, but I doubt you will get anything better than what we have. I’ve attached what’s in the system, some training clips, match highlights, and standard medical reports. ⌋

He attached the files, read through the email twice, then leaned back again, exhaling.

His assistant hovered nearby.

”Do you want me to tidy that up before it goes?” she asked.

”Yeah,” Nolan said, pushing the chair back with his foot. ”Polish it up, make it look official. Then send it.”

She nodded and took the draft.

Nolan rubbed at his temple before shutting down his computer, standing, and gathering the rest of his notes.

.....

Hours later, in his hotel room, Noah Sarin woke up from what he called a little nap and sat by the window with the curtains drawn halfway, city lights spilling faintly across the floor.

His laptop pinged again, causing him to make his way towards the table that had held his laptop before opening the newest mail.

He scrolled through the attachments once more, then caught sight of the name at the top of the email chain.

”So it is you,” he muttered, a dry chuckle slipping out as he closed the screen.

”Of course.”

He leaned back against the chair, arms crossed, a small smile cutting across his tired face.

”Nolan...” he said to himself this time, the word half a reminder, half a warning.

Then the room went quiet again.

.....

[Wigan Main Team Complex]

”Come on, so you are saying that we couldn’t beat Manchester United in their current state. Come on, give us some credit,” Mclean uttered while watching for the reaction of Fletcher or even Leo, but the two didn’t give him the chance to gloat about or start any argument.

The laughter still came after the players figured out what Mclean was trying to do, the sound filling the room until Dawson’s voice came.

”Alright, lads, quiet down.”

The noise ebbed instantly.

Some of the younger players straightened up, while a few of the older ones leaned back, arms crossed, watching their manager with steady eyes.

Dawson stood in the middle, hands clasped loosely in front of him as he smiled towards a couple of heads in front of him.

”Before we talk about Blackpool,” he began, ”I want to start with something else.”

He paused, with most of the players turning to look behind while Dawson’s gaze shifted across the group, reading them before he spoke again.

”We’ve got two players back with us today.”

His hand gestured toward the side of the room.

”Our captains, Tendayi Darikwa and Max Power.”

A ripple went through the squad, murmurs rising as both men gave small nods and clapped.

The respect was there already.

Dawson’s voice carried over the chatter.

”You all know what they mean to this club. They’ve been out for a while, but their return strengthens us. That said,” he raised a finger, sharp and clear— ”I’m not in the business of handing shirts back just because someone’s name is big or familiar.”

The two captains nodded in approval, showing their support and siding with the Coach, but Max Power, of the two, couldn’t help but sigh.

The words hit the air with weight.

A few players shifted in their seats.

”Others have stepped up. Others have shown they’re ready to put their foot in when the team needed it, and they’ve done so spectacularly.”

His eyes swept the room, lingering just a heartbeat longer at the back where Leo sat beside Chris Sze.

The teenager’s head was slightly lowered, but Dawson’s look was enough to make him feel the heat.

”I want healthy competition,” Dawson said, voice firm but even.

”Every position, every week, has to be earned. That’s how we get better. That’s how we keep pushing forward.”

There was no clap, no cheer, no fist pump.

Just a quiet understanding as heads nodded, a silent agreement that no one’s place was safe, and that was exactly how Dawson wanted it.

He gave a short nod of his own, almost like ticking a box, before exhaling and shifting the tone.

”Now,” he said, pulling a marker into his hand and turning to the tactics board, ”onto Blackpool...”

...

[2 days later]

Steam still clung to the bathroom mirror as Noah Sarin stepped out, towel slung over his shoulders, hair damp and uncombed.

He moved without hurry, the way someone did when they had nothing much to dress up for.

At the corner of the room, a small black duffel bag lay open, half-filled with a few shirts and trousers he’d picked up at a thrift store earlier in the week.

Cheap, worn at the edges, but serviceable and clean at the very least.

He hadn’t come to Wigan to spend on appearances, and clothes weren’t worth burning through what he had been graced with.

He dressed in silence, sliding into a plain grey jumper and dark jeans.

His watch lay facedown on the table by the bed.

He slipped it onto his wrist, tapped the screen once, and the hands clicked into motion with a soft whirr.

For some reason, he liked that, the sound of time restarting, like it waited for him to acknowledge it.

Just as he reached for his shoes, his phone buzzed alive on the desk.

The alarm he’d set for matchday.

Noah walked over, silenced it with a thumb, then held the phone for a second longer before placing it back down.

He exhaled through his mouth, switched off the lights, and slung the bag over his shoulder before making his way down the stairs.

Down at reception, the same clerk from yesterday looked up from his monitor and gave a nod.

”Afternoon, Mr. Sarin. Heading out again?”

”Yeah,” Noah answered simply, tugging the strap of his bag higher.

”Enjoy the game,” the clerk said, voice carrying that easy northern cheer.

Noah gave a half-smile in return before pushing through the glass doors.

The chill hit him first, crisp autumn air settling into his lungs.

He pulled the jumper tighter around himself and started walking.

That was when the noise reached him.

Not from the street he was on, but spilling from further down, voices, loud and rough-edged, rising together in rhythm.

”Wigan ’til I die, I’m Wigan ’til I die...”

He turned the corner and there they were: clusters of fans spilling out of the town centre, scarves in the club’s colours wrapped high around their necks, some already waving pints, others balancing pies in one hand and gesturing with the other as they sang.

The chant wasn’t polished; it was raw, uneven, half the group ahead of the beat and half behind.

But it carried weight. It carried joy.

Noah stopped for a moment, watching them move as one mass towards the DW Stadium.

Then, without thinking, his lips twitched into a smile.

He hadn’t felt this kind of energy in years, not the noise of stadiums, but the pulse of people who believed in something together.

He adjusted his bag on his shoulder and stepped off the curb, merging into the flow of the crowd.

Feet pounding pavement, voices bouncing off brick walls.

The stadium wasn’t far now, and the air itself seemed alive with anticipation.