Harbinger Of Glory

The smiles that had disappeared a while ago were now replaced by gloomy faces.

”Burnley aren’t an easy team. I am sure that as a team that was promoted alongside us, they’ve watched every minute we’ve played this season.”

His gaze settled briefly on Leo before moving on again.

”They know us because they spent last year trying to stop us and they did do so. They beat us 3-1 when we were on a roll and supposedly couldn’t lose back in the championship!”

”The clubs we’ve beaten so far had ninety minutes, a week at most to work us out, but Burnley have had far longer than that. If they’ve beaten us once, I am certain that they can do so again without a doubt!”

Seeing his words get to his men, Dawson nodded once.

”Good. Because if anyone in this room thinks tomorrow’s going to be easier because they’re Burnley...you’ve already lost the first battle.”

He clapped his hands once before shaking off the father-like tone he’d used in addressing his players.

”Right. Now let’s get to work.”

And work they got to.

It seemed everyone was eager to prove that they were the one to be on the starting sheet for the game.

Even the substitutes took a shot, playing like they’d been told they were going to win the Ballon d’Or.

By the end of the session, the players had their minds on one thing and one thing only.

How they were going to win against Burnley.

Matchday eventually arrived beneath a grey Lancashire sky, and in it, Leo left the apartment before the others.

Vittoria was still getting ready, with Sofia, Mia and Gianna due to pick her up later, and she caught him as he walked past the bedroom.

”Behave yourself for today, okay. Last match wasn’t very fun to watch when I thought you were going to fight against that Everton player!”

Leo smiled.

”I think I would have won that one,” Leo said while Vittoria glared at him.

”I was joking,” he said, laughed, leaned in to kiss her forehead and headed out before she could think of another comeback.

As part of not joining the morning cohort at the Wigan complex, Leo had to commute himself to the DW.

The ride was shorter than usual, maybe because he was just zoning through the driving, but the overbearing shape of the DW, despite how small it was to other stadiums, brought him back.

Inside, the staff around moved quickly through the corridors carrying crates, equipment and bundles of programmes.

Security greeted familiar faces without slowing down, while volunteers hurried toward the turnstiles hours before they were due to open.

Leo nodded to everyone who greeted him on the walk inside before pushing open the dressing-room door, and he was glad it was empty.

”First,” he muttered, thinking about how YouTube comments had started being recent.

He dropped his bag beside his seat and checked the time before pulling out his phone.

Jake answered after two rings.

”We’re nearly there,” he answered after Leo asked where the team was.

Leo ended the call, changed into his Wigan tracksuit instead of training gear and sat back for a moment, enjoying the rare silence.

It lasted exactly four minutes as the familiar hiss of the air brakes sounded outside.

Then 3 minutes later, voices started to converge.

The dressing room filled all at once as the players settled.

Leo had just stepped outside when Dawson appeared beside him.

”How are you feeling?” he said as Leo shrugged.

”Ready or not, I guess,” Leo said. ”I just want to get this done and over with.”

Dawson held his gaze for a moment and then nodded.

”My thoughts exactly,” he said and handed his bag across to Nolan without looking away from Leo.

”We’ve got the media room first. We have a few obligations before Burnley arrive.”

He paused and tilted his head slightly toward the growing sound coming from outside the stadium.

”Judging from that,” Dawson said, ”I’d say they’ve already arrived.”

Leo nodded before following behind Dawson right as the manager turned away.

The media room had already filled by the time Leo and Dawson walked in, cameras trained on the front table while reporters shuffled notebooks, adjusted recorders, and exchanged quiet conversations before things got underway.

A row of microphones waited between the two chairs, the familiar setup of another Premier League press conference.

Leo took his seat beside Dawson as flashes from a few cameras flickered across the room.

Then the moderator stepped forward, welcomed everyone, ran through the usual housekeeping, then opened the floor.

The first hand went up almost immediately, and it was directed at Leo, not Dawson.

That, these days, was becoming more common than either of them found surprising.

”Leo, there have been comparisons made this week to players like Yaya Touré and Frank Lampard, specifically because of your goal return from a deep position. Five goals in six Premier League games. How do you feel about those comparisons?”

Leo nodded at the question, his answer already in mind, but decided to take a few seconds to act like he was thinking about it before releasing.

”Honoured,” he said.

”Both of them are players I have a lot of respect for. But I think my game is quite different. I’m less focused on getting on the scoresheet and more focused on controlling the tempo, predicting what’s going to happen before it happens.” He paused.

”If I’m being honest, I have more confidence in my passing than my shooting. The five goals have come from good positioning and some luck. The four assists feel more like me.”

Several heads went down to write something, and the questions that followed moved through Wigan’s run, Leo’s development, the game in hand, the table.

Leo answered each one, taking his time and expressing his maturity with the questions.

As usual, there were a few to trip him up, but he just glossed over them or just didn’t say much.

Then a journalist stood and turned to Dawson, who’d been turned into a spectator for the better part of the press.

”What are your thoughts on the game tonight, and what can we expect from Wigan?”

Dawson looked at the journalist for a moment.

”I can’t predict anything,” he said.

”I never can, really. What I hope is that what we’ve worked on this week translates into a good result at the DW. That’s as far as I’ll go.”

The moderator glanced at the clock and then looked at the room.

”That’ll be all for today. Thank you both.”

Leo and Dawson stood, nodding slightly towards the journalists as the cameras followed them out of the room.

They stepped into the corridor, and the noise from inside the stadium was considerably louder than it had been when they’d gone in.