After the restart, Leo kept moving, drifting in and out of channels like a ghost no one else could see.
He was always on the move but glided half a step ahead of the rhythm and half a second too early for passes that never ca.
His runs weren’t flashy—they were intelligent, designed to pull defenders or create lanes—but none of that mattered when no one else saw the sa blueprint.
Another pass ca into midfield.
Another hoofed ball forward.
Another thud as the Sheffield center-back won the header cleanly and nodded it to a teammate.
Leo turned away from it before the ball had even landed, jaw tightening.
"On the ground!" he shouted, voice cutting sharp through the rising noise from the stands.
"Play it on the bloody ground!"
No one responded.
Or maybe no one heard.
The air was heavy now—less with excitent, more with confusion.
Wigan had the ball, technically, but not really.
It was like watching a dog chase its own tail.
They passed sideways, then backward, then inevitably panicked and launched it forward, like they were hoping the ball would solve the problem by itself.
The only problem was—Sheffield weren’t having it.
The table-toppers weren’t even breaking a sweat still.
Their lines were still compact.
Their forwards pressed smartly, forcing Wigan into mistakes.
Their midfield hunted in packs and their defenders ate up every long ball like it was breakfast.
Leo dropped in deeper, almost beside Kadou, just to get a touch.
He turned, scanning, seeing where Ezra was trying to drift wide, where Ben was fidgeting and cutting inside, wanting the ball on his right.
But they weren’t getting it.
The ball wasn’t getting there.
Because every long pass, every hopeful diagonal, t the forehead of a Sheffield player and bounced away like it had never belonged to Wigan.
Leo gritted his teeth.
Cartwright was smirking again.
The number 8 was everywhere—pressing high, clogging passing lanes, making sure the midfield stayed congested.
He was a nuisance.
A smart one.
And the fact he seed to enjoy it only made it worse.
The crowd was getting testy.
Not resigned yet, but the early excitent was draining.
Kids were shifting in their seats.
Wigan adults were folding arms, grumbling to each other.
"What’s the point of having the ball if we don’t do anything with it?" soone muttered behind the dugout.
Leo caught the tone, even if he didn’t hear the exact words.
He could feel the match slipping into that dull zone.
The one where the stronger team waits, and the weaker one doesn’t know it’s already losing.
He started shouting again.
Directives.
Instructions.
"Ezra, hug the line!"
"Ben, stay patient!"
"Kadou, inside—not square!"
It wasn’t working.
They weren’t seeing what he saw.
They didn’t see it.
And Leo was starting to get mad—not angry, not petulant.
Just... irked.
Because he did.
He saw it all.
But he was starting to feel like he was alone on a chessboard with teammates playing checkers.
After a lost throw-in, Ezra jogged over, exasperated.
"Oi, Leo. What now?"
Leo opened his mouth.
Closed it and then shook his head.
Because at that mont, a mory clicked.
A few weeks ago.
Sowhere quieter.
A training pitch, rough grass under his boots, wearing so kit that wasn’t even fitting.
Dawson standing nearby, arms crossed, watched silently as Leo pinged passes with surgical precision in a rondo that barely challenged him, a step up from his previous self in a short ti.
Leo had stopped the ball with his foot and looked over.
"What do you do," he’d asked, "when you’re playing with people who don’t get it? Like... when you see sothing—and they just don’t?"
Dawson didn’t answer imdiately.
He just chewed his gum, looking at Leo like he was surprised the kid didn’t already know.
Then he gave a small shrug like he was talking about tying your laces.
"You dumb it down," he said.
"Make it simple. That’s your job, mate. Not to be a genius—but to make the rest survive with you."
Leo blinked. "Dumb it down?"
"Yeah," Dawson said.
"What, you think you’re too good to pass square sotis? Smart ain’t useful if no one else can co with you."
The words had stuck.
He hadn’t liked them then.
He hadn’t fully understood them.
But now... now they clicked.
Back in the present, Leo’s focus sharpened like a blade.
Alright then.
If they couldn’t see it, he’d make it obvious.
He’d draw the arrows.
Connect the dots and spell it out.
He could still control this match.
Sheffield were coming forward again.
They were pressing higher now, confident.
Kadou received the ball just inside the Wigan half with Cartwright closing fast.
Leo moved—quick and sharp—showing for the ball not just with movent but voice.
"Kadou! Ball! Now!"
It ca.
One touch, then another.
Cartwright lunged and the mont he did, Leo took a half-step back, then flicked the ball straight through the midfielder’s legs.
Nutg.
The crowd gasped.
Not loud, but enough to feel it.
Cartwright turned, stumbling, caught too high.
While Leo stepped up and didn’t even look back.
He already knew what ca next.
Ezra had tucked in.
Ben had widened.
And Leo, now free, drove forward with intent before sliding a perfect, flat ball into Ben’s path on the left wing.
Ben didn’t even need to break stride.
"Go," Leo muttered under his breath, already jogging into the next phase, eyes scanning the reaction of the Sheffield line.
Sothing was cracking now.
And Leo, with calm defiance, was starting to write the narrative in clearer ink.
The ball zipped across the turf toward Leo again, and with it ca the shadow — Cartwright.
Persistent.
Stubborn.
Bitter.
He wasn’t just marking space anymore.
He was tracking Leo.
Close, touch-tight, with the kind of hunger that made your skin crawl.
You could almost hear him breathe now, short and hard through his nose like a bull gearing to charge.
The Sheffield lad wanted the ball, the duel, the pride.
He wasn’t going to get it.
Leo shifted his weight.
Cartwright responded, overcommitting slightly.
That was all Leo needed.
A gentle tap with the inside of the foot, letting the ball slide across his body as Cartwright lunged in.
Leo let him co, then calmly stepped away, dragging the ball with the sole of his boot like it was on a leash.
Cartwright skidded half a step, reaching—
Too late.
The crowd stirred — not with a roar, but that hush of anticipation.
That ripple of sound like wind moving through tall grass.
Leo had them now.
But this wasn’t just about him and Cartwright anymore.
This ti, Leo didn’t spin away to make space for himself.
He slowed.
He waited.
And then he pointed.
"Ezra! Inside. Tuck in, yeah?"
Ezra blinked from the right flank.
Confused.
Leo pointed again, more firm this ti, his finger slicing through the air like a blade.
"Inside! Let the full-back push! Just do it!"
Ezra obeyed, drifting closer to the half-space.
Leo turned.
"Jake — stay central. Don’t drift. Hold the line!"
Jake was already moving, nerves twitchy, always pacing like a striker waiting to be fed.
Now, with direction, his feet settled.
Leo turned again, back to Cartwright who was stalking him once more, annoyed now — that little extra tension in his gait giving him away.
"Ben!" Leo called, glancing wide left.
"Don’t cut in yet. Hug the touchline!"
Ben raised a hand in acknowledgnt.
And now — now — Leo moved.
Cartwright lunged in again.
Desperate to disrupt.
But Leo didn’t take him on with flair.
He just let the lad bite.
A quick touch forward, then back.
Letting Cartwright close in — too close.
Letting the second Sheffield player, the midfielder, charge in from the side.
Leo saw them coming.
Heard the shouts.
Felt the press close like jaws snapping shut.
So he dumbed it down even more.
A roll of the sole.
A drop of the shoulder.
Then the picture.
A clean, flat pass, not complicated, not flashy — but perfect.
It split the two Sheffield players clean, like parting reeds in a stream.
Jake burst through the seam.
Space opened.
The center-back was too late.
The keeper rushed.
Jake could’ve taken it himself.
But this ti, he didn’t force it.
He followed Leo’s rhythm.
Slowed the mont, looked left, and saw Ben arrive.
He slipped the ball to the winger and the next second the net rippled.
Robin Park erupted albeit smaller— raw, raucous, close.
Fans pounded the tal railings with open palms.
Soone scread, "That’s what I’m talking about!"
Even a couple of the quiet ones started chanting Ben’s na — but Jake was pointing elsewhere.
At Leo.
Always Leo.
A/n: Okay. We are continuing. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit. I won’t lock the Chapters for a few more Chapters or until Leo goes to the Main team so don’t worry and keep supporting the book.
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