"...I’ll text you after dinner, alright?"
Mia’s voice on the other end was soft, a little reluctant.
"You better. And get so rest. I know you won’t, but at least try."
Leo smiled, lying back against his mattress, his free hand behind his head.
"I’ll try. Promise."
"Don’t overthink things," she added gently.
"Just keep playing how you’ve been playing. Eyes up, feet quick, and don’t let them catch you flat."
"You’ve been talking to my coach?"
"No. But I listen when you talk." She paused.
"I’m so glad you are my brother, Leo."
The words settled over him with a warm finality, like the last note of a lody he hadn’t realized he needed.
"I’ll call you later," he said quietly.
"Goodnight."
"Night, trouble."
The line went dead.
Leo sighed, thumbed off the screen, and sat up just as three sharp knocks landed on his door.
He opened it to find Ezra already mid-nod, thumb jerked over his shoulder.
"Team eting. Coach wants everyone down now."
Leo grabbed his hoodie without a word, slipping it on as he followed Ezra down the narrow dormitory corridor.
The hush of the building at dusk, a few doors cracked open with music or conversation floating out, felt worlds away from what awaited them in the eting room.
The entire U21 squad was already filing into the video analysis room by the ti they got there.
A flat-screen TV glowed at the front, casting blue light across rows of folding chairs.
Coach Thompson stood in front of it with his arms crossed, the clipboard tucked under one arm like it was a permanent part of him.
No one dared speak once he turned to face them.
"All of you. Sit."
They obeyed.
Leo and Ezra found seats toward the middle as a few players entered late, mostly Jake and his cohort.
The air was stiff with silence, and the tension was unmistakable.
Thompson let it hang for a mont.
"You know where we are in the table."
His voice was calm. Not raised, not angry—just heavy with a disappointnt that hit harder than shouting ever could.
"North Professional Developnt League. Twelve teams. We’re in tenth. Behind us? Barnsley, eleventh. Crewe Alexandra, bottom."
He tapped the whiteboard beside the screen, where the table had been handwritten in bold marker.
The losses in red. The draws in yellow. The wins—few as they were—in green.
"We’re not here to coast. We’re not here to survive. And this"—he pointed at the standings—"is survival football. Which ans so of you will lose minutes. So of you will lose your spots. Because that’s what pressure does. It filters."
He began pacing now, slow and deliberate.
"We’ve had a look at Barnsley’s shape. They sit deep, break in wide triangles, and press late in halves when we drop our line.
But they’re beatable. We beat ourselves last ti by losing focus after halfti. That cannot happen again."
The room remained frozen.
Then, without missing a beat, Thompson turned slightly and looked directly at Leo.
"You."
Leo straightened in his chair.
"Starting next match."
A subtle shift in the room. Eyes glanced his way.
A few teammates sat up straighter, others looking at him like he had wronged them.
"You’ll be deployed higher up in this match. Shadow role. If Barnsley’s line drops like I expect, you’re going to be the one threading the press.
I want movent off the ball, constant scanning, and I want you to take responsibility when we turn it over."
He stepped closer now, his tone sharpening without getting louder.
"You’ve shown flashes. Enough to earn this. But I’m not handing it to you like a prize. I’m giving it to you because I think you’re the type who grows under weight—not crumbles."
Thompson’s gaze swept the rest of the room again.
"And the rest of you—pay attention. Positions are earned. Not owed. Leo’s not playing because he’s new blood, or because I’ve gone soft, or because so of you believe in nepotism. He’s playing because he’s influencing gas in training. I need that influence against Barnsley. I need bite. And I need belief."
He paused, then pointed at the board again.
"Crewe and Barnsley are circling. We lose again, and we’re in that bottom two. That ans etings upstairs. Questions about our structure. About our academy. About you."
He let the weight of that land.
Then finally: "Training tomorrow, 9 a.m. sharp. Matchday squad announcent before lunch. Co ready."
With a flick of his hand, the eting was dismissed.
Chairs scraped softly as the players got up.
Leo remained seated a second longer, his heart steady but purposeful.
The mont wasn’t too big—it just ant it was finally ti.
Ezra leaned toward him as they stood up together.
"Told you," he said with a quiet smirk.
"Coach doesn’t do complints. That’s as close as you’ll ever get."
Leo exhaled once, then nodded.
"Fine by ," Leo said as the two made their way toward the Cafeteria for their dinner.
...
[The Next Morning]
The hour-long session had left a fine sheen of sweat on Leo’s brow, but the cold breeze rolling in from the northwest kept his skin from overheating.
It had been a focused drill-heavy morning—positional plays, ball circulation, simulated press triggers. No frills. Just repetition until instinct took over.
He peeled off his training bib as he reached the narrow hallway that led toward the academy offices.
The corridors were quieter now, most of the other lads either hitting the showers or still on the pitch doing extra shooting drills.
Leo stopped just outside a wooden door marked Player & Admin Liaison – M. Ward, gave a brisk knock, and heard the familiar voice from inside.
"Co in."
The door creaked open, and Malachi stood up from behind his desk, one hand still on the armrest of his chair.
"Well, now. Was wondering when I’d get to see you properly," Malachi said with a warm grin.
"You look like you’ve been here a month already."
Leo smiled lightly. "Feels like it, too."
"Good session this morning?" Malachi asked as he motioned for Leo to take the chair opposite.
"Yeah."
"That’s good to hear," he said, settling back down.
"So, what can I do for you, lad?"
Leo leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees.
"Coach Thompson said to check in. For my jersey."
"Ahh, right," Malachi nodded, reaching for a folder on the edge of his desk.
"ans you’re matchday squad, then. I figured. You’re here early, though—I like that."
He flipped open the folder and pulled out a printed list of current squad numbers.
Several were blocked out in red—already in use, or reserved for first-team call-ins.
"Normally, I’d ask if you had a preference," Malachi said, pen in hand.
"Lucky number? Soone you idolize?"
Leo just shook his head.
"I’m good with anything that’s free. Doesn’t matter to ."
That answer earned a faint chuckle from Malachi as he glanced down the list.
"Alright. Humble one, eh?" He circled a number.
"You’ll be Seventeen. Worn by a lad nad Fraser before he got bumped up last season. Good player. Tireless. Bit of a scrapper."
He reached into the bottom drawer and pulled out a folded jersey in Wigan’s ho blue, the number freshly printed in white on the back.
"Here you go," Malachi said, handing it over.
"The first one’s yours to keep. And let’s hope you make it an sothing."
Leo ran his fingers over the badge stitched into the chest.
He didn’t say much—just offered a grateful nod before standing.
"Thanks. I’ll wear it right."
"I know you will," Malachi said quietly.
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