The next few days passed without incident.
Training went on as scheduled.
Sessions were sharp, focused, almost quiet in their efficiency.
No headlines worth clipping, no whispers leaking out of the club.
Dawson kept things tight, the squad responded, and the rhythm of the season carried on without anyone trying to disrupt it.
If there was tension, it stayed away from the squad.
By Friday morning, Leo found himself standing inside Ringway Airport, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, watching people stream past with suitcases and coffee cups.
The departure board flickered overhead, rows of destinations rolling by like a reminder that life did not pause just because football did.
"The other leagues start soon," Leo muttered to himself, thinking about opening weekend, as it had now been almost two weeks since the World Cup final was played.
Vittoria stood beside him, with the two suitcases in tow, as her passport, in hand, rested on one of the suitcases.
She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "I really don’t want to leave now."
Leo smiled and glanced sideways at her.
"Already grown fond of Manchester, have you?"
She scoffed and smacked his shoulder, careful and light, more affectionate than annoyed.
"No, sciocco." [No, silly]
Then, after a beat, she added, "But I have grown fond of the people."
Leo nodded once, instinctively, the thought landing a second late.
He realised how that must have looked and froze, earning a small shake of her head.
"You’re unbelievable," she said, smiling despite herself.
She reached down and grabbed the other handle of her luggage while Leo moved to take it from her, but she tapped his hand away.
"It’s fine," she said. "I’ve got it."
She stepped back, eyes eting his. "I’ll text you when I get back to Italy."
"Yeah," Leo said. "Do that."
For a mont, neither of them moved.
Then Leo leaned in and gave her a quick hug, brief and slightly awkward.
He pulled away just as fast.
"Have a nice flight," he said.
Vittoria blinked, clearly caught off guard, then smiled properly this ti.
"Yeah. I will."
She turned and headed toward departures, disappearing into the crowd after a few steps.
Leo stayed where he was until she was completely gone, then exhaled slowly and made his way out of the airport.
Later that afternoon, a familiar voice drifted out of a car radio as Leo sat in traffic.
....
Across the city, inside Carrington, Jonas stepped into John Murtough’s office and stopped short.
Murtough was on the phone, standing near his desk, shoulders tense.
He turned when he noticed Jonas, lifted a finger in apology, and pointed to the chair opposite him.
"Could you at least consider it?" Murtough said into the phone. "We’re not talking about sothing unreasonable here."
Jonas sat, listening without really hearing.
He caught fragnts, a tone that suggested the answer had already been given.
Murtough sighed, rubbed his forehead, and ended the call after a while.
He set the phone down, unzipped his jacket halfway, and leaned back in his chair.
For a second, he just stared at the ceiling.
Then he leaned forward again and t Jonas’ eyes.
"They’re not interested," he said. "Flat out."
Jonas frowned. "At all?"
Murtough shook his head.
"They said they put a no-transfer policy on Leo. They made that very clear."
He reached for a docunt on his desk and tapped it with two fingers.
"They even sent an email spelling it out. Why they won’t let him go, why the offer doesn’t match their valuation, and why the terms were never going to work."
Jonas let out a breath and leaned back in his chair. "Bloody hell."
"They think we’re trying to be clever," Murtough went on.
"Seventeen million, add-ons, loans. From their perspective, it’s not serious enough. I thought that with their financial troubles, this could alleviate them, but they didn’t even consider it."
Jonas stared at the table for a mont, jaw tight.
"We can’t stop at just this."
Murtough nodded. "I know."
He paused, choosing his words.
"But you also know where we are. The funds aren’t exactly flexible right now. Not after everything that happened in the sumr, you know, after signing Antony for almost 100 million euros as well as Casemiro and Lisandro for a combined total of 120 million euros."
"And the others haven’t been taken into account."
Jonas’s hand ca down on the table, not hard, just enough to make the point.
"This is what happens," he said.
"They always go into the window without a plan and bring back players who just don’t fit the club."
Murtough did not argue.
He simply leaned back again, expression tired but steady.
"We’ll keep monitoring it," he said. "There’s ti. Just not much."
Jonas stood, sighing with his head bobbing as he walked towards the door.
And just like that, the New Year ca and went without much ceremony.
Fireworks faded, streets sobered up, and football slid back into focus almost imdiately.
For Wigan, there was no easing back into it.
The first ga after the break arrived a day into January, an away trip to Luton Town in the third round of the FA Cup.
A tough ground, a loud crowd, and just enough on it for both teams to go all out in hopes of making it to the next round.
Wigan fans were buzzing, eager to enjoy their first ga of the year, 2023.
And so, the away end sold out quickly.
Social dia filled with predictions, lineups guessed and argued over.
It felt like one of those fixtures that could set the tone for the second half of the season.
If they won, they had more montum heading into their first league ga of the season.
Leo felt it too.
At least at first.
He was at the apartnt in Manchester when the squad list dropped, phone in hand, thumb scrolling slowly, already half expecting to see his na tucked sowhere in the middle like it always was.
But it never ca.
He went back up, then down again, more carefully this ti, but still, nothing ca up.
Leo leaned back against the kitchen counter, lips pressed together, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before it could turn into anything else.
He exhaled through his nose, already knowing exactly why.
Training.
The image ca back to him without effort.
It was a small-sided ga at the Wigan complex, and Leo felt good that day in general.
He had taken the ball on the half-turn and felt good.
Too good that he beat one man cleanly, carried it another few steps, and dipped his shoulders as he tried to slip past a second, but he had not seen the third.
Then, Dawson’s whistle cut through the pitch, halting the ga.
"Stop."
Everyone froze while the ball rolled harmlessly away as Dawson stepped onto the grass, hands on his hips, eyes locked on Leo.
"Confidence is good," Dawson had said, voice calm but firm. "We need that from you as the kid pulling our strings."
Leo had nodded, already bracing for the rest.
"But overconfidence kills good things," Dawson continued.
"You go past one player, fair enough. You go past two, maybe. But what happens when they swarm you, and there’s no out ball? No pass. No space."
He pointed to the midfield line.
"You lose it there, they break, and suddenly we’re defending our own box."
Leo rembered nodding again, slower this ti.
He had understood it.
He really had.
"I’m not saying don’t take risks," Dawson said.
"I’m saying pick them. Football’s not about how long you can hold the ball. It’s about what you do before they take it off you."
Then, almost casually, Dawson added, "Keep doing that, and you’ll be off the squad for the next ga before you learn."
At the ti, Leo had half smiled.
It sounded like a warning dressed up as a joke.
Sothing to get his attention, nothing more, but now, standing in his aunt’s kitchen, staring at a squad list that proved otherwise, it felt a lot less funny.
He scrolled through the replies underneath the post.
"Where’s Calderon?"
"Rested or dropped?"
"That’s odd."
"Not really. He hasn’t played in the FA cup, so I understand Dawson’s intent not to start him, but not letting him on the squad is what I do not really get."
"He’s been their best player for a while now. But as a Luton Town fan, I am not complaining."
Leo locked his phone and set it down on the counter.
His brow furrowed for a second, irritation bubbling up, before it eased just as quickly.
He shook his head once and let out a quiet laugh.
"Bastard," he muttered with fondness as he thought of Dawson’s face, probably working Nolan to the bone.
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