Harbinger Of Glory

Trafford, in goal, watched on as the ball skimmed over every head in the middle and continued toward the far side of the box where Carlo was arriving, but so was someone else.

From the moment he’d won possession in his own half, and made that pass, he’d kept going, and nobody had noticed.

Burnley’s midfield had stayed with the runners in front.

The centre-backs had focused entirely on Jake.

Carlo had pulled one defender toward the back post.

By the time anyone realised Leo had continued his run from halfway, he was already there, and he didn’t wait for the ball to drop.

His body left the ground completely, bandaged head leading the way as he threw himself at the cross and the connection thundered through the stadium.

Trafford saw it, but what he saw was more of a blur.

The header exploded toward the near side of the goal with so much pace that the goalkeeper barely managed to lift his hands before it flashed beyond them and crashed into the roof of the net.

For a fraction of a second, the entire stadium froze, but it didn’t stay that way for long.

A second later, the foundations of the DW shook, with a resounding roar that could have dented the walls of Jericho.

Ninety-four exhausting minutes, blood and effort to keep the ball out of their own goal; everything burst out together, and the sound rolled around the ground so violently it seemed to shake the steel beneath the stands.

”GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!”

The commentator almost lost his voice.

”YOU WOULDN’T BELIEVE IT IF WE TOLD YOU, BUT IT IS HIM AGAIN. IT IS LEO CALDERON!”

”IN ADDED TIME!”

”FROM BROKEN...”

”...TO SAVIOUR AGAIN! HE IS JUST UNSTOPPABLE!”

Without the ball even settling into the back of the net, Leo tore toward the technical area, slid the final few yards on both knees before springing straight back up and launching himself at Dawson.

The manager caught him instinctively, and the next second the entire Wigan squad crashed into them.

Coaches, substitutes, medical staff.

Everyone disappeared beneath the pile.

The fourth official had to back away to avoid being swallowed by it, and on the broadcast the co-commentator could only laugh.

”What do you even say anymore?”

The main commentator tried.

”Last week...”

”...a free kick away at Everton.”

”This week...”

”...a flying header in stoppage time after spending forty-five minutes being deliberately taken out of the game.”

”He played almost the entire half with a bandage wrapped around his head after taking a boot to it.”

”And somehow....somehow...he still scored with that same head. He is stronger in adversity. What a player he is.”

The co-commentator paused as replays filled the broadcast.

”Watch him here.”

”The moment he wins that tackle, he never stops and sprints the entire length of the pitch.”

”Every Burnley defender loses him because they’re watching Jake.”

”And by the time anyone realises...it’s too late.”

The co-commentator nodded as the replay froze on Leo suspended in mid-air.

”And I’ll tell you this,” the commentator said as the celebrations finally began to settle.

”Leo Calderon is heading straight for the very top of world football.”

”And somehow...”

”...he’s dragging Wigan Athletic right up there with him.”

Back on the touchline, Leo extricated himself from the pile, but he still wasn’t able to be truly free.

Hands reached for him from every direction as teammates slapped the back of his head, ruffled his bandaged hair, and grabbed his shoulders, but Dawson’s voice cut through the celebrations before they could carry on much longer.

”Enough!” he shouted, waving both arms. ”Back! Back to your positions!”

He pointed toward the centre circle.

”Don’t give him a reason to book half of you.”

That finally got them moving.

Still grinning, the Wigan players peeled away from the technical area and began jogging back toward their own half, exchanging shouts and pats on the back as they went.

Leo lingered for only a second backpedalling to his position.

He turned slowly toward the main stand and there, the rows of faces blurred together as he searched one section to another.

Then he found her.

Vittoria already had her eyes on him.

Beside her, Mia was bouncing excitedly in her seat while Sofia and Gianna laughed at something neither of them could hear over the noise pouring around the stadium.

Leo smiled, raised both hands and formed a heart with his fingers.

Then, without looking away, he blew her a kiss.

The gesture drew another roar from the crowd as the cameras caught it.

Finally, he tapped the left side of his chest, directly over his heart, before pointing toward the stand where she sat.

Only then did he turn and jog back toward the halfway line.

Up in the stand, Vittoria blinked.

The corners of her mouth lifted despite every effort not to let them.

She lowered her head for a moment, cheeks warming as several supporters nearby followed Leo’s line of sight and began looking in their direction.

”Oh...” Sofia said, unable to hide her grin.

”There it is.”

Gianna laughed softly.

”I was wondering who that was for,” she muttered sarcastically as Vittoria tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and tried, unsuccessfully, to hide her smile.

”I suppose...” she murmured, ”...I can forgive him.”

Her voice was quiet, almost embarrassed by the admission as Mia looked between the three women before shaking her head.

Down on the pitch, Burnley kicked off again immediately.

Vincent Kompany had abandoned the calm he’d carried for most of the evening.

He stood almost at the very edge of his technical area, waving both arms furiously.

”Forward!”

”Move it!”

”Quicker!”

His players responded, trying to force one final attack together, working the ball from side to side in search of an opening, but Wigan gave them none.

Every pass met another blue-and-white shirt as the seconds disappeared.

Burnley’s urgency became desperation, but then two minutes later, the referee glanced at his watch...

...and blew for full time.