Harbinger Of Glory

Back in the stands, Vittoria counted the players emerging for the second half.

One.

Two.

Three.

...

Nine.

Ten.

Eleven.

She frowned and saw that Leo wasn’t there, but soon her frown turned into a sigh of relief.

Maybe Dawson had finally made the sensible decision to take her boyfriend off.

She was about to lean back when another figure appeared behind everyone else with a white bandage wrapped around the side of his head while walking beside Dawson.

Vittoria closed her eyes briefly before dropping back into her seat with a heavy huff as Gianna and Sofia both looked over.

”I won’t let him hear the end of it after this game,” Vittoria muttered with a strained smile, and neither of them doubted her for a second.

When the second half began, it settled into exactly the contest Dawson had predicted.

Burnley stayed loyal to the same defensive blueprint, but only when Leo drifted into positions where he might receive the ball.

The moment he showed between the lines, two claret shirts were already closing the lane before the pass could even be played and just like Dawson had instructed, Wigan simply stopped forcing it.

They recycled possession through Whatmough and O’Shea, switched play from flank to flank, and built almost entirely through Bennet, Seriki, Ezra and Carlo instead.

To anyone watching casually, it looked as though Leo had drifted out of the game.

To Burnley, he remained the first name they searched for every time Wigan recovered possession.

The history of the season had taught them one lesson.

The moment they stopped tracking Leo Calderon was usually the moment they regretted it.

That obsession opened room elsewhere, and Carlo exploited it first.

The Italian slipped inside from the left, shaped one curling effort toward the far corner and forced Trafford into another outstanding save.

Five minutes later he tried again from almost the same position and Trafford somehow reached that one too.

”My word...” the commentator breathed as Burnley’s goalkeeper pushed the ball around the post. ”James Trafford is having one of those afternoons.”

”He has to,” the co-commentator replied.

”Because Wigan have found ways around Burnley’s press now. They aren’t trying to force the ball through Leo anymore. They’re attacking everywhere else.”

Ezra tested Trafford not long after, cutting inside before whipping an effort toward the top corner and once again, Trafford answered.

The applause around the DW away end carried equal parts appreciation and relief.

The game drifted toward its closing stages with Burnley hanging on, and Dawson made his move in the seventy-sixth minute as Will Keane made way for Jake to enter.

And it didn’t take long for Burnley to feel the impact of the change.

Burnley’s centre-backs suddenly had somebody they couldn’t simply move.

Every long ball became a contest, and every cross became dangerous.

Two minutes after coming on, Reyes slipped Jake a pass just inside the box.

The latter used his body to pin his marker, rolled him with surprising neatness and hit the shot early.

The ball almost found itself in the back of the net as Trafford stood rooted, but the post rescued him, and the rebound flew harmlessly away.

”Oh, he’s inches away!” the commentator shouted as Jake groaned into the DW air.

”Jake nearly makes an instant impact!”

Burnley survived, and after that, they tried to calm things down by keeping the ball instead of giving it away like they’d been doing the whole time.

Brownhill dropped deeper, and Cullen joined him.

Their passes became shorter and safer until Bennet stepped in when Cullen tried to get the ball to Koleosho.

He read the square pass perfectly, darted across its path and won it cleanly, and the reaction from Wigan was instant.

Blue and white shirts exploded forward with pace and intent as the Burnley players rushed into defensive positions.

”They’re away!” the commentator yelled. ”This is where Wigan are at their most dangerous!”

Right as he said that, Bennet fed Reyes, who took the ball on the half turn before skipping past Berge, who’d been rendered something akin to a dummy the whole game.

The former drove straight through the middle, carrying the ball thirty yards with Jake already peeling into space ahead of him.

The Burnley defenders retreated as Jake pointed where he wanted it, and Reyes didn’t waste any time clipping the ball ahead to him.

It was a sure-fire chance, but right as Jake kept the ball under control, Trafford came flying out.

Jake stretched, a bit caught off guard as he tried to poke the ball past the keeper, but Trafford reached the ball first.

A split second later, goalkeeper and striker crashed into one another.

Jake tumbled, and in reaction to that, half the Wigan side threw both arms into the air.

”Penalty!” several of them screamed as they slowed, but the referee waved play on immediately.

”No!” he shouted.

”Nothing there!”

But while the Wigan players had their eyes on the referee, Burnley were already breaking, and the commentary changed gear instantly.

”Play continues... Burnley now have numbers with a chance to attack!”

Whatmough was the only defender back, and right behind him was Leo, who was sprinting to catch up.

Everyone else was still recovering from the appeal as Brownhill drove through midfield before sliding the ball into Amdouni.

When Whatmough saw the effort, he stepped forward sharply, hoping to pressure Amdouni into a bad touch, but the Swiss forward skipped past Whatmough with one sharp touch, leaving the centre-back behind him, and suddenly it was two against one.

”Burnley are in!” the commentary rushed as Ben Amos rushed from his goal.

Leo angled his run across, trying to close Amdouni before the pass could come, but Amdouni saw him, waited and then slipped the ball perfectly into Foster’s path.

”Foster!” the commentary bellowed, all excited as Amos committed to closing down Foster, who shaped to shoot...

But then Foster suddenly let the ball run straight across his body, and arriving on the far right side and completely free was Koleosho.

The goal was empty, and the Burnley winger didn’t even need a second touch.

He hit it first time, and behind him, the away crowd was already rising.

”Surely this is—” the commentary tried to say but suddenly found that Leo never stopped running.

The moment Foster let the ball go, Leo moved past the post.

The bandage around his head had already begun loosening again, sweat soaking through the white fabric, but he drove after the ball with everything left in his body.

Every stride hurt, but it mattered.

Koleosho struck it, and immediately, Leo launched himself.

His right leg stretched impossibly across the face of goal—

—and somehow found the ball.