Harbinger Of Glory-Chapter 176: What Is He On?

The noise didn’t drop after the goal.

"What’s he on?" a voice shouted from a few rows back, half laughing, half stunned.

"Honestly, where did we find him?" another followed.

The chant that rolled out of the Wigan slowed.

It was like a crowd trying to catch up with what they were watching.

A kid, really. Their kid.

People started filling in the gaps aloud, stories everyone had heard but never quite believed.

"Four grand a week, they said."

"United let him go, just like that."

"No buyback. Nothing."

A man in a flat cap shook his head, smiling now.

"Mad, that. Makes you wonder what they’ve got up there if this wasn’t enough."

Someone else chimed in, louder. "Or maybe they just didn’t see him."

What had sounded risky in August suddenly felt like a steal now.

Should Wigan pay him more?

On the pitch, the game edged toward its end.

Blackburn pushed without real ’umf’ behind their balls, which were sent forward just for the sake of that only.

Wigan stayed compact, happy to let the seconds bleed away.

Eventually, four minutes went up on the board, and the crowd responded with a roar that shook the stands.

"See it out!"

"Just keep it!"

And the final whistle came wrapped in noise.

"There’s the whistle," the commentator called over the din.

"And that’s it. Wigan Athletic beat fifth-placed Blackburn Rovers and finish their year with a statement. Three points tonight moves them up into eighth, and what a performance to close things out."

On the pitch, celebrations were simple but full.

Fist bumps.

Quick hugs.

Dawson clapped from the touchline, satisfied, already turning away to meet the Blackburn Coach.

"Once again, thank you for the advice," Dawson said as he took the hand of Jon Dahl in his.

"But I think we’ll manage," he continued before letting go and turning towards the pitch again.

Then the stadium announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers.

"Your man of the match... Leooooo!"

The roar that followed rumbled the grounds.

"Cal-der-on! Cal-der-on!"

Cameras found Leo as he walked toward the lower stand.

He pulled his shirt over his head, sweat-soaked and creased, and scanned the faces pressed against the barrier.

A kid near the front held up a piece of cardboard, smiling as Leo stepped closer and handed him the shirt.

"Merry Christmas," he said, soft enough that only those nearest heard it.

The kid beamed, leaning over the railings to press her cheek against Leo’s sweaty one, while Leo supported her to keep her from falling.

Then he turned away in just his sports vest, jogging back toward the tunnel as the applause followed him.

In the stands, Vittoria watched the whole thing, lips pursed.

"I wanted it, though," she muttered, barely audible.

A second later, she caught herself and shook her head, pressing her fingers to her temple.

"Grow up. You’re fine," she said, almost scolding herself.

"You can literally ask him."

"Yes, I can and I will," she said resolutely.

A few seats away, Gianna had seen all of it.

The pout.

The recovery.

The internal but not-so-internal argument.

She laughed quietly and shook her head.

"This girl," she said, fond and amused as the noise rolled on around them.

....

The television went quiet at Carrington.

Jonas set the remote down on the low table and leaned back, eyes locked onto the frame of Leo as the latter walked off the pitch.

Then, without looking away, he spoke.

"What do you think?"

The man beside him stayed silent.

Long enough that he should have before he finally exhaled heavily.

"Jonathan did us bad."

Jonas nodded once.

They sat with it for a few seconds.

The screen flickered as the broadcast rolled into post-match analysis, praise piling onto a player who should have still been theirs.

John Murtough rubbed his jaw and sighed.

"I was convinced," he said at last. "But what about the others?"

Jonas turned to him then.

"We’ll need to convince them of the potential we let go," Murtough continued, voice lower now.

"But first, we let Wigan know we’re interested, but we don’t make a show of it."

"We’ve bought worse, but if you are convinced of him, then let’s do it, but first, let us show it to Erik."

Jonas listened, already a step ahead.

"At this time of year," Murtough went on, "most clubs aren’t shopping. Squads are set, except for a few teams with the resources whose seasons are going very well, like us. The kid’s still under the radar, so let’s keep it that way."

Jonas nodded.

"If other clubs catch wind," Murtough said, "they’ll start pulling tapes. Scouts will ask questions. Suddenly, the price goes up because everyone realises he’s worth it."

Jonas allowed himself a small smile. "Way ahead of you."

Murtough looked at him.

"I’ve already seen him live," Jonas said.

"Put in a request for his tapes, too. Full match footage, not highlights. And a letter of intent to their side, too."

"They didn’t send the tapes," Murtough said.

"Not yet, but we could expect it in the next couple of days."

Murtough considered that, then nodded.

"Good. Keep me updated."

He stood, straightened his jacket, and paused at the door.

"Quietly," he added.

Jonas watched him leave, then turned back to the screen where Leo’s name sat at the bottom of it, bold and unavoidable, in the Man of the Match graphic.

—

[Behind the DW Stadium]

The parking lot behind the stadium was thinning out when Leo came through the doors in the club tracksuit, boots slung over his shoulder.

The cold hit his face as he breathed it in, and it got him rubbing his palms together.

They were waiting where he had said they should.

Carlo spotted him first and raised both hands.

"So," he said, laughing as Leo walked over, "I come to watch you once, and you score two."

Leo grinned.

"Can’t let the trip go to waste."

Carlo pulled him into a quick hug, thumped his back, then stepped aside as the others crowded in.

Mia mostly ignored him while talking to Sofia, causing Leo to wonder if his sister had contracted bipolar disorder, because of how she stood up to his opponents only to ignore him when they were alone.

Vittoria hung back a little, arms folded, watching him, with Gianna beside her.

Leo spoke with Carlo for a moment, then stopped mid-sentence.

"Hang on."

He turned and opened his kit bag, digging through it before pulling out a folded shirt.

Clean and untouched.

It was his spare for the game.

He held it out to Vittoria, leaning forward a bit.

"Thought you might want it."

She blinked, caught off guard, then took it with both hands.

"Thank you," she said softly.

She folded it carefully, like it was something fragile, and slid it into her bag while Leo nodded, satisfied.

"Bus is probably leaving soon," he said, already stepping back. "Get home safe, yeah?"

Carlo pointed a thumb toward the lot.

"We’re good."

Leo jogged off, bag knocking against his hip before he disappeared back toward the players’ entrance.

Carlo and Gianna, after that, walked to their car, the Lexus ES 350 sitting under a flickering light, with the former of the two opening the passenger seat for his girlfriend after settling in his seat.

Then the doors closed, the engine started, and they pulled out smoothly.

Across the lot, Sofia unlocked her Opel Corsa, bright yellow and unmistakable even in the dark.

Mia climbed in first, still buzzing, while Vittoria took the passenger seat, hand resting on the bag on her lap, before Sofia also pulled out of her parking space.

....

The next day, Leo pushed himself upright from the edge of the bed.

His muscles felt sore, but it didn’t bother him.

His feet met the floor, and he stood there for a moment, letting his body catch up to his head.

The mirror across the room caught him as he brushed his teeth.

His eyes looked clearer than usual.

The brace replayed in fragments without asking.

He rinsed his mouth, leaned closer to the sink, and spat.

"I feel good," he muttered to himself.

After that, he slipped on his runners and made his way out of the complex, jogging through the area surrounding the complex, just enough to wake the muscles, to remind them they still worked, before he stopped and went back to his room before heading for the showers.

The water washed the sweat away, steam filling the room as his thoughts finally slowed.

Back in his room, he picked up his phone from the nightstand.

A few notifications sat there, untouched.

He ignored them and opened his messages instead.

Good morning.

He sent it to Vittoria, set the phone back down, then pulled on a hoodie, jeans, and clean white sneakers.

When he was done, he checked the chat, but there was no reply from Vittoria.

"Sleepyhead," he muttered before he grabbed his keys and stepped out, closing the door behind him.