Harbinger Of Glory

Marco didn’t bother knocking.

The door to Piatelli’s office flung open with a soft thud against the stopper, the older man’s pen pausing mid-signature, and then sighing a bit.

”Marco,” Piatelli said, exhaling heavily through his nose.

”You barge in here like you just found out someone murdered the Pope. What is it now?”

Marco stood in the doorway, a little breathless, still in his training gear, a sheen of sweat visible on his forehead.

”Did you see him?” he blurted out, his words tumbling over each other.

Piatelli squinted, already knowing where this was going but deciding to play dumb.

”See who?”

”Leo!” Marco said, stepping fully into the office, his hands moving animatedly.

”Leo Calderon or Ravanielli or whatever! That boy, that kid!” He stopped for a second, gesturing vaguely toward the window behind Piatelli’s desk, the one overlooking the training pitches.

”You saw what he did out there, right? Please tell me you were watching.”

Piatelli leaned back in his chair, sliding his glasses off and setting them beside the neat stack of folders on his desk.

”I may have glanced,” he admitted with the smallest smile. ”He looked... confident.”

”Confident?” Marco repeated, his voice rising.

”Confident is what my mother calls my uncle when he lies about being on a diet! That boy is good and he’s ridiculous! The way he moves, the control, it’s like he’s already five years ahead of the rest of them!”

Piatelli raised an eyebrow, his mouth curving just slightly.

Marco wasn’t usually this animated unless he’d found something special, or unless he was three espressos deep.

”So you’re impressed.”

”Impressed?” Marco laughed, pacing now. ”Tommaso, I got hard watching that kid!”

The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut through the air.

Piatelli blinked twice, then slowly leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk.

”Scusa?” he said carefully, his tone that of a man questioning his life choices.

Marco froze mid-step, his brain catching up with his mouth.

His eyes widened a little.

”Ah, I do not mean— not like that, obviously!” He raised his hands defensively.

”You know what I meant! Football-wise! Professionally! Like— excitement! Passion!”

Piatelli just stared at him.

Marco coughed once, tugged at his collar, then took a step back toward the door.

”Anyway,” he said quickly, trying to gather his dignity, ”I just thought I’d share. The kid’s something else. You were right to bring him in.”

Piatelli sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

”Marco,” he said, his tone halfway between amusement and disbelief, ”get out of my office before you say something else that could end up in HR.”

Marco grinned sheepishly and gave a mock salute.

”Yes, Da—, I mean boss.”

He turned and left, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

Piatelli sat back again, shaking his head, the faintest of smiles tugging at the corner of his lips.

”Dio mio,” he muttered under his breath, staring briefly out the window toward the distant empty training pitches.

”That man-child is going to give me a heart attack.”

....

Leo came out of the bathroom with a towel around his neck, the steam from the shower still hanging in the air.

His hair was damp, falling slightly over his forehead as he moved toward the wardrobe.

He pulled out a plain white T-shirt, slipped it over his head, and then reached for the second pair of bottom tracksuits folded neatly on the chair.

The fabric was still a little stiff from its newness, but it was comfortable enough.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, sliding on a pair of white socks, followed by his black and white striped slides, before turning to look around, his side of the room still tidy and almost too tidy compared to the muddled half that belonged to Carlo.

He picked up his phone, checked the time, then tossed it aside.

Training had gone well.

His body ached pleasantly, the kind of soreness that meant he’d done something right.

He was just starting to stretch his legs when the door suddenly opened as Carlo came in looking like he’d just sprinted through the hallway.

His face was a mix of relief and panic before he froze when he saw Leo sitting there, then awkwardly cleared his throat, trying to compose himself.

”Afternoon,” Carlo said quickly, voice a bit too high-pitched.

Leo blinked, not sure what to say.

”Hey.”

Carlo nodded once, too briskly, and made a beeline for the bathroom, shutting the door behind him a second later.

The sound of the lock clicking echoed through the quiet room.

A few moments passed before Leo heard the low rush of the exhaust fan kick on, and he understood.

He frowned slightly, shaking his head with a small, bewildered smile.

”Right,” he muttered under his breath.

He turned back to his bag, unzipping the main compartment.

Inside were his notebooks, neatly stacked, one for tactics, another for journaling, and the new one he’d picked up before he came to Italy.

He took the new one out, ran his hand over the smooth cover, then opened it.

The pages were blank, fresh, and in the clean slate most books had before they were run through.

He grabbed a pen from his desk, flipped to the first page, and wrote his name in the corner.

Beneath it, he jotted a few words: Italian U21S.

He sat there for a bit, the quiet of the room broken occasionally by muffled sounds from the bathroom.

Leo ignored them, his attention on the page, already scribbling small diagrams, rough shapes of formations, arrows, player numbers.

His mind was still on the pitch, replaying moments, small details that only he seemed to notice.

After a while, he stood, stretched, and glanced at the clock again.

Almost time.

He slid the pen into the notebook’s spine and grabbed his slides, putting the former into his excessively large pocket.

The bathroom door was still closed, but he didn’t bother saying anything.

He slipped out of the room, the hallway light spilling onto his face as the door closed quietly behind him.

Then he started toward the meeting room, the one they’d be using for the first tactical session of the camp.

As Leo pushed open the door to the small conference room, a few players were already scattered around, some slouched in their seats, others chatting quietly in pairs.

The faint blue light from the projector on the ceiling gave the room a soft tint.

As he stepped inside, the heads in the room turned his way.

He gave a quick nod at that before heading straight for the back row.

He slid into it, leaned back, and pulled out his phone, where a few unread messages were waiting.

One from his aunt and sister, a couple from Jake, and a few from the Wigan Team group, but those were mainly about matchday and training arrangements.

Then he spotted another from Noah, which he tapped open first.

Noah: ”Yo, did you make the accounts yet?”

Leo exhaled softly, realising he’d completely forgotten.

He stared at the message for a second, thumb hovering over the keyboard, before typing back:

Leo: ”Shit, no. I’ll do it now.”

Noah’s reply came fast.

Noah: ”All good. Just don’t forget again, yeah?

Leo smiled faintly, then sent a thumbs-up emoji, locked his phone, and set it face down on the table.

The door creaked open again as more players came in, chatting in rapid Italian, and soon the seats filled up.

Then Marco walked in.

”Alright, let’s go, ragazzi,” he said.

His voice carried easily, sharp enough to quiet most of the room.

A few seconds later, Carlo slipped in, almost on cue.

He looked slightly flustered, like he’d come straight from fighting a war.

Marco turned just as he walked through the door.

”You’re lucky it’s me and not the Mister,” Marco said dryly, a hint of humour in his tone.

”If he were here, you’d be out already.”

Carlo grinned sheepishly, raising his hands in mock surrender.

”I know, I know. Won’t happen again.”

”Uh-huh,” Marco said, not convinced, but he gave a small nod and turned back to his laptop.

Carlo moved through the rows, offering a brief nod to Leo, who nodded from the back, watching Carlo settle somewhere in the middle.

Marco hit a button near the wall, and the lights dimmed slowly until the room was left in a muted glow.

The projector flickered, the blue screen shifting to an emblem of the Federazione Italiana Giuoco Calcio.

”Alright,” Marco began, clapping his hands once.

”So, technically, this was supposed to be our first tactical session.” He glanced at the players.

”But since I’m just the assistant, and the main coach, who was supposed to arrive today, got delayed, you’ll have to wait until tomorrow to meet him.”

A few murmurs passed through the room while Marco waved them off.

”Don’t worry, he’ll join us the day after. For now,” he continued, adjusting the volume on the laptop, ”we’re going to talk about something else, something more important before we get into tactics.”

He looked around the room, his expression settling into something firmer.

”Discipline. Italian discipline.”

Marco stepped to the side of the screen, arms crossed.

”Let’s begin.”