Harbinger Of Glory

As Leo and Carlo stepped into the cafeteria, the chatter softened just a bit as heads turned once more, subtle but noticeable, as players clocked the unlikely sight of Carlo walking beside someone, more so, the new guy.

Carlo was usually seen with his usual circle, never really one to bring in newcomers.

Leo noticed them, sighing as he walked.

”One would almost think I am some sort of star or something,” he muttered as he proceeded forward.

It wasn’t new as those same eyes had trailed him since his arrival, but that didn’t make it any less tiring.

He let out another small sigh, barely audible, and without a word, drifted away from Carlo’s side.

Carlo gave a small nod, not taking offence, and peeled off toward his usual group, who were already watching with raised brows.

Leo made his way to an empty table near the far end of the room and sat down, pulling out his phone.

He kept his head low, scrolling through the messages on his screen while the others gradually got up to join the breakfast line.

The smell of freshly baked cornetti and espresso filled the space, mixing with the murmur of conversation and the occasional clink of cutlery.

Soon, a new message popped up on his phone, one from Noah.

Noah: Hope you’re settling in alright, Leo.

Noah: Also, do you have any social media accounts?

Leo typed back quickly, saying yes and a moment later, another message came through.

Noah: Good. Keep those ones for private stuff. Create new accounts just for your football profile, something clean for the public.

Leo read the message twice, thinking it over before asking: Which ones?

Noah: Start with Instagram. Twitter later, maybe when you turn 18. As for Snapchat and TikTok, you can find your audience there, but let’s just focus on the aforementioned two.

Leo nodded slightly, thumbs tapping. Got it. I’ll set it up later today when I’ve got some time.

Noah replied almost immediately.

Noah: You’re not massive yet, which is a good thing, easier to start small and grow. You’ve got a few Championship games, and your youth call-up helps. Keep it simple for now.

Leo smiled faintly at that.

Don’t worry, he wrote. Even if it gets too much, I’ve got someone who can manage it for me.

Noah: Sounds good. We’ll go over details later.

The chat ended there, leaving Leo to glance up from his phone.

The line at the buffet had thinned a bit, but more players were trickling in from the accommodation, so it’d fill up again soon.

He slid his phone aside, pushed his chair back, and got up before the next wave arrived.

At the semi-buffet, the servers greeted him with polite smiles, asking a few words in Italian, but after Leo barely replied, they understood his situation.

Left alone, Leo grabbed a tray and moved down the line, taking a bit of everything that interested him.

From the cornetto filled with cream to some toast with marmalade and scrambled eggs, before adding a small cup of yoghurt.

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee tempted him, even though he hadn’t liked the one he tried back at Wigan, so he added a cup to his tray before heading back to his seat.

When he sat down again, the cafeteria had grown louder with laughter from one corner and the clink of plates from the other.

Leo stayed quiet, head down, his fork tapping gently against his plate as he began to eat.

....

After breakfast, the players began to file out of the cafeteria in loose groups, their chatter echoing faintly through the hallway.

The air was lighter now, that morning stiffness giving way to the slow rhythm of camp life.

Marco stood near the exit, waiting until the crowd thinned before clapping his hands once, calling their attention.

”Alright, ragazzi,” he said, voice calm but carrying authority.

”Before we start anything serious, we do the usual checks, physio and medicals. You all know how it goes. Quick daily assessments: heart rate, hydration, muscle tightness, breath control. We need to know what state you’re in before you touch a ball.”

A few groans came from the back, playful but predictable.

Marco smirked.

”You can moan all you want. It’s either this or running laps before breakfast tomorrow.”

That shut them up quick, and the small room filled with quiet laughter.

They made their way to the medical section, a bright, tiled room lined with stations.

Each corner had a different setup: one for pulse checks, one for hydration, and another for muscle scans.

The physios were already there, markers in hand, waiting for the players to rotate through.

Leo found himself in the middle of the queue, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his tracksuit pants.

The boys ahead of him joked around as the physios worked, some wincing when their legs were stretched or when a probe pressed too hard against their skin.

The room smelled faintly of disinfectant and that synthetic cream physios always seemed to use.

When it was his turn, Leo stepped forward quietly.

The physio, a tall man with a shaved head and a warm smile, motioned for Leo to run on the mill.

Leo heeded and got on the mill just after the physio strapped a monitor around Leo’s arm, watching the readings flicker to life on his tablet as Leo went a few laps, alternating between high intensity and high pace runs as well as ones stretched over a few minutes.

”Hmm,” the physio muttered, eyes narrowing in curiosity as Leo got off the mill.

”Exceptional heart rate... and breath retention,” he said in Italian, glancing up.

Leo just blinked at him, unsure what to say.

The physio looked over his shoulder toward Marco, who stood a few meters away, arms folded, pretending to look at his sheet but obviously holding back a grin.

”Eh,” the physio said at last, turning back to Leo with a chuckle.

He raised a thumbs-up, saying slowly, ”Good heart. Good breath.”

Leo paused, his expression blank for a second before it clicked.

He hesitated, then gave the physio a thumbs-up back, trying not to smile.

From the corner, a few players watching the exchange chuckled quietly.

One of them whispered something about physio being forced to speak a language he didn’t care much for.

Marco shook his head, finally stepping forward.

”Alright, that’s enough comedy,” he said, clapping his hands again.

”Once you’re done, go up to the lockers. Get your boots, training tops, and anything else you need. We meet back on the main pitch in fifteen.”

A chorus of nods and half-hearted ”sì, mister” followed as the boys dispersed to finish their checks.

Leo slipped off the seat, rubbing the band mark from his arm before heading out.

.....

[England]

Away from the ventures of Leo, the final whistle blew over the DW Stadium, a sharp trill that seemed to drain the energy from both sides.

The crowd’s reaction was mixed, polite applause from some, low grumbles from others.

Another draw.

Another two points gone.

”Full-time here in Greater Manchester,” the commentator’s voice came through, steady but laced with that familiar edge of resignation.

”And it’s back-to-back draws for Wigan Athletic. Not the worst result when you consider the opposition, who’ve been in fine form lately... but it won’t do much for the Latics’ ambitions either. They stay midtable, actually drop one place to thirteenth after this round of fixtures.”

As he spoke, the camera panned over the stands where a cluster of fans near the East Stand held up a hand-painted banner that read in bold blue letters: STOP PLAYING WITH OUR HEARTS.

The words drew a murmur of amusement from the crowd around them, but the sentiment hit home.

Wigan’s season had been a tug of war between promise and frustration.

Sometimes, they would go on a splendid run, but then falter when they needed to stay strong the most.

”Yeah,” the co-commentator chuckled faintly, ”that sign says it all, doesn’t it? They’ve been so close to turning these draws into wins lately, just missing that final bit of composure.”

Down on the pitch, the players exchanged weary handshakes.

A few clapped the travelling fans, who responded with mild cheers, while others simply trudged toward the tunnel.

The grass was chewed up, the floodlights bright against the fading afternoon, and a thin drizzle began to fall, the kind that seemed to follow Wigan home games like clockwork.

Dawson, his coat zipped up to his chin, walked briskly toward the opposing dugout, shaking hands with the other coach.

His expression was unreadable, a mix of irritation and acceptance.

The cameras caught the moment before he turned away, heading down the tunnel with a curt nod to his assistant, Nolan.

Behind him, the players followed in small groups.

You could still hear the fans calling out, not boos, not cheers, just that tired mix of support and exasperation.

As they disappeared down the tunnel, the camera lingered one last time on the banner, STOP PLAYING WITH OUR HEARTS, flapping slightly in the wind before the broadcast faded to the post-match segment.

”Wigan will feel they could’ve had more today,” the commentator summed up. ”But once again, they’ll have to settle for just enough.”