Harbinger Of Glory

Leo burst forward, switching into a level of speed he hadn’t shown all match.

His first stride cut through the gap between Ramsey and Gomes, with the two trying to hold onto his shirt, but he just shrugged them off, causing Ramsey to tumble to the ground.

”Here he goes again. Italy break through their young midfielder, and look at the pace he’s found.”

Colombo, who had replaced Pellegrini earlier, peeled off toward the right while Carlo mirrored him on the opposite side, both stretching England’s backline until they were caught between tracking runners or stepping toward the ball.

The England players were caught up, not knowing who to follow, and so Cresswell boldly made the first move.

He pushed up, trying to slow Leo before the danger grew, but Leo let the ball run half a step ahead, nudged it past him, and burst around the defender as if the challenge barely registered.

”He’s got options on both sides here, plenty of support if he wants it,” the commentary followed as Leo accelerated further, but he didn’t look interested in either flank.

He touched the ball forward again, just enough to set it in front of him, like he was slipping it through to the duo ahead, but then, in a split second, his body leaned into the strike even before Cresswell finished turning.

From just outside the box, he hit through it cleanly.

The ball burst off his boot and swerved, the spin unpredictable, like it was half bad and half good, but then it clipped the heel of Harwood-Bellis as it flew past, with the deflection throwing Bursik off balance.

The keeper reached anyway, but the ball bent away from him and sank into the corner of the net.

And the stadium erupted next.

”Oh, an effort that will live long in the memory. His first goal for this Italian side, but what a strike from the young midfielder. A touch of luck with the deflection, but the power and intent were all his.”

Leo stayed where he was for a moment as his chest rose and fell with the effort, but he didn’t celebrate right away.

He just looked at the ball resting in the net, as if studying something he’d painted himself.

Then his teammates crashed into him.

He stumbled under the weight, bent forward, huffing breathlessly as arms wrapped around his head and shoulders.

In the stands, the Italian section went wild.

Flags shook.

Chants rose without rhythm, and mixed in the noise were confused voices asking the same thing.

”Who is number seventeen?”

The other Italian players were familiar faces, boys tied to big clubs, names spoken about for years.

Leo wasn’t.

Half the fans had no idea where he played or who he belonged to, only that he was dominating a match he had no right to dictate like this.

The team finally eased off him as Leo pushed himself upright again, brushing grass from his sleeve, still catching his breath.

Then Colombo slapped the back of his head while Carlo grinned and jogged past him toward their half.

Leo followed, drifting behind them, the noise of the stadium still rolling around him.

On the England bench, Jerome Havne sat forward with both elbows on his knees, shaking his head as if his vision needed adjusting.

”No, I wasn’t dreaming it!”

”That’s Leo,” he muttered under his breath. ”Has to be.”

He looked back toward the pitch, watching number seventeen jog into position for the restart.

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The face, Jerome knew, he wasn’t imagining it.

Before he could say anything else, England’s assistant manager stepped in front of him.

”Jerome. Get ready. You’re going on.”

Jerome blinked once, then nodded.

”Yeah. Alright.”

He stood up and jogged down the touchline to loosen up, rolling out his shoulders, trying to focus.

But every time he glanced toward the centre of the pitch, his eyes settled on Leo again, as if confirming over and over that it really was the same boy from the Manchester United academy.

After a quick stretch, he headed back to the bench where a staff member already had his jersey out.

Jerome took it, tugged it on, and fastened the shorts properly.

Play continued, and Italy kept the ball moving until Leo received a pass in midfield with Balogun closing in from behind.

Balogun’s first challenge glanced off him, but the second clipped his shin cleanly, sending Leo down with a grimace.

The whistle came right after as the referee jogged over, pointed to the spot of the foul, then turned toward the fourth official and signalled for the substitution.

Jerome took one last breath, stepped forward, and approached the touchline as the board went up.

And the game paused for him to enter.

”England, with substitute Jerome Havne, who is coming on for Olivier Skipp. Maybe he could be a spark for something good for the English side. Let’s hope so for them.”

England tried to steady themselves after the last Italian wave, pushing higher up the right flank through their newly introduced winger.

He drove at the fullback, cut inside, and rolled a pass into the feet of their striker, who took a touch and tried to spin into space.

But the Italian back line held its ground, funnelling him toward the edge of the box where he still managed to slip the ball wide for an overlapping run, and the crowd rose in anticipation.

The cross came in, whipped with good pace, but the header flew wide, and the Italian fans let out a relieved roar.

England came again a minute later.

This time, they worked the ball through midfield with quick exchanges, trying to drag Italy out of their structure.

Their number eight lifted a diagonal toward the far post, where the winger timed his leap well.

He nodded it down, hoping for someone to attack the second ball, but Fagnoli reacted first and hacked it clear to the halfway line.

England’s bench clapped in frustration, urging their players to keep at it, but they all knew it was easier said than done.

”England is trying to force something here, but it has been an uphill task. Italy have controlled most of this match. They’ve been sharper mentally, calmer with the ball, and their number six has been a level above everyone else on the pitch. He has been absolutely unplayable tonight.”

Leo stood deeper than most for the rest of the game, scanning the moment he received the ball.

He didn’t even need to take a touch before redirecting it out to Fagnoli on the left.

The crowd hummed at the speed and calmness of the decision while the commentary returned, almost with a smile in their voice.

”This is what sets him apart. Look at the awareness. Most players see that pass a second later. He sees it before the ball even reaches his feet. His passing range is one thing, but the speed of thought is on another level.

This game has truly been a revelation for us as we got to discover a player like this who can be truly valuable to Italy in the near future should he go on like this, and personally, I think he can and will do so.”

Italy went back on the move while the words were still hanging in the air.

Carlo was already accelerating down the flank, carrying the ball with the confidence of someone who felt the need to be rewarded.

Max Aarons, in for Djed Spence, chased him but could not get tight enough, and so Carlo slowed, turned, and rolled the ball back toward the inside channel where Leo had stepped up.

Leo did not hesitate.

He flicked the ball over the backline again, the weight perfect, dropping into the same space Carlo had sprinted into.

The crowd gasped as the timing clicked for the second time in a minute.

Carlo stretched for it and struck through it with his instep just as the ball bounced off the grass.

The shot beat the keeper but kissed the outside of the post as the stadium reacted with a loud groan.

”That is the third time he has hit the post tonight,” the commentator said as Carlo stood with his hands on his head. ”He wants that goal badly. You can see it on his face.”

Carlo laughed at himself under his breath as he jogged back, shaking his head as one of his teammates patted him on the back and muttered something that made him roll his eyes.

England restarted, but the life had gone out of the match.

Their passes were slower, their forwards less willing to gamble on long runs, while Italy kept their shape and let the clock drift.

The fans began to clap, enjoying the final moments without any real tension.

The referee lifted his whistle to his lips after the added minutes expired, and a shrill blast followed, cutting through the noise and bringing the night to a close.