Harbinger Of Glory-Chapter 179: FA Cup.

Jake opened the apartment door with one hand still on his phone, and his attention half turned towards the living room.

He paused when he saw Leo standing there, arms full.

A Pasta container was tucked under one elbow and a paper bag with chicken in the hand.

And in the other hand was a carton of juice which he had held up to Chest Level.

Jake blinked.

Then stepped aside.

"Right. Come in before you drop all that."

Leo moved past him without a word, nudging the door closed with his heel as Jake followed and shut it properly behind them.

"So," Jake said, leaning his shoulder against the wall, eyes already flicking toward the food, salivating a bit.

"How’s life on the spectator side? Been a minute, hasn’t it?"

Leo didn’t answer straight away.

He set the bags down on the small dining table with care, unwrapped the carton of juice, and then turned toward the kitchenette.

He opened the fridge, pulled out a bottle of water, and slowly twisted the cap off.

"Feels weird," he said finally before setting the bottle on the counter.

From the living room, the sound of boots scraping turf carried through the open doorway.

The crowd noise followed, steady and loud while the camera panned towards the pitch.

Jake raised his voice. "Ezra’s on."

Leo took another sip of water and made the short walk over, stopping just inside the room.

The television showed the pitch at Kenilworth Road, players jogging, stretching, and passing in tight circles.

Ezra crossed the screen in a training bib, bouncing lightly on his toes, focused.

Leo leaned his shoulder against the frame while the commentator’s voice rolled in, smoothly from the sound system.

"Good afternoon and welcome to Luton, where we’ve got a third round tie on our hands. Home side full of confidence, and Wigan arriving with something to prove after the New Year’s break."

The camera panned across the stands, where flags were waving and scarves were raised on the side.

Jake dropped onto the couch. "They’re up for it."

Leo nodded once, eyes still on the screen.

As the warm-ups continued, the commentator shifted tone slightly.

"One notable absence for Wigan today is Leo Calderon, who misses out entirely."

Leo felt a sharp pride in his chest after his mention.

"Guess my absence is recognisable in the lineups now," Leo muttered.

"I’ll be honest," the commentator continued, "I don’t quite understand it. He was instrumental in their last outing. Two goals against Blackburn and a Man of the Match performance."

Jake glanced back at Leo but said nothing.

Then the analyst came in calmly.

"There are a few angles to it. This is the FA Cup. Different context, different demands. Also, it isn’t really their main focus as already clarified by Coach Dawson who said they will do what they can but won’t force it.

"And we have to remember Calderon is only seventeen. For someone so young, he’s played a lot of football recently."

The camera cut to Wigan’s bench, coats zipped up, hands tucked into pockets.

"It could simply be rest," the analyst went on.

"Managing minutes. Especially with league priorities still very much alive."

Leo shifted his weight, arms folding loosely across his chest.

The commentator though, wasn’t fully convinced.

"Possibly. But even then, you’d think he makes the bench. Gives you an option. Someone to change the game if you need it."

Jake let out a low breath. "That’s what I said."

On screen, the teams began to head back toward the tunnel while the crowd noise swelled again, louder now, impatient.

"Well," the commentator said, "the manager’s made his call, and now he has to live with it. Luton at home are not forgiving. If this gets tight later on, he’ll need to hope he doesn’t regret leaving a player like Calderon out."

The analyst hummed in agreement.

"Especially with the way he’s been playing."

Leo exhaled slowly through his mouth.

He didn’t look away from the screen.

Not until Jake reached for the pasta. "You eating?"

"In a minute," Leo said.

But he still stayed where he was, watching all the players disappear into the tunnel.

...

[Kenilworth Road]

The whistle cut cleanly through the cold January air, and the ball rolled back from the centre circle as Wigan kicked things off.

"Wigan get us underway here," the commentator said, voice rising above the noise.

"Third round of the FA Cup, and an early test away from home."

The opening minutes were sharp without being clean.

Passes zipped across the grass, then skipped away under pressure.

Luton pressed high, loud and aggressive, their crowd feeding every sprint and every tackle.

Wigan tried to play through it, moving the ball from side to side, looking for space that refused to open.

Down on the touchline, Dawson stood with his hands in his coat pockets, eyes fixed, jaw set.

A few minutes later, Luton had the first real moment of the game.

A quick turnover in midfield followed by a diagonal ball pushed into the channel, and suddenly Wigan were scrambling back.

The cross came early, fizzed low across the box, but it ran just behind the striker and out the other side as the home fans groaned in unison.

"That’s the warning," the commentator noted. "Luton already on the attack"

Wigan responded with a spell of possession.

Their midfield dropped deeper, trying to draw Luton out.

A few neat passes stitched together, confidence building with each touch.

One move ended with a lobbed ball toward the far post, being met by a glancing header from Broahead but it bounced wide.

"You can see what Wigan are trying to do. They are trying to control the game but Naylor alone is cutting it."

The game never quite settled.

It swung back and forth, each side landing small blows without ever fully taking control.

Tackles flew in and so the referee’s whistle punctuated the rhythm.

Midway through the half, Wigan came closest.

A loose ball fell kindly on the edge of the box and was struck first time through a crowd of bodies by Max Power.

The keeper saw it late but recovered and got down quickly getting a touch to push it just past the post.

"Ow, almost," the analyst called from the gantry.

Wigan’s players raised their arms, urging numbers forward as Cousins walked towards the corner flag but that corner came to nothing.

"Better from Wigan," the commentator said. "But still no real grip on this game."

As the clock crept toward halftime, both sides looked stretched.

The ball spent more time in the air, cleared rather than passed.

Then, just when it seemed the half would limp to the break, Luton found their moment.

It started innocently enough with a short pass into midfield.

Wigan stepped up, a fraction late and in the next moment, the ball was slipped through the inside channel, splitting the line.

The runner took it in stride, drove toward the box, and pulled the defence with him.

"He’s got support," the commentator warned and surely, the cutback came hard and low.

The shot followed instantly, drilled toward the far corner and before the keeper could fully dive, the ball rippled the net sending the ground into joy.

"There it is," the commentator shouted over the roar. "Luton Town strike just before the break."

Luton players sprinted toward the corner, arms out, swallowed by the noise while the Wigan players stood still for a beat, hands on hips and heads tilted back in frustration.

The analyst was quick to point it out.

"That’s the danger of these games. One lapse in concentration and you will be punished."

The referee after the goal, glanced at his watch, then blew for halftime moments later.

Luton jogged off with energy, clapping the crowd while Wigan followed more slowly, shoulders slumped and the sound of the home fans ringing in their ears.

"One-nil at the break," the commentator said as the players disappeared down the tunnel.

"And right now, Luton have their noses in front."

.....

Leo finally leaned back into the couch, the tension draining out of his shoulders in one slow breath.

He had spent the entire half pitched forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the screen like he could will the game into changing shape.

Now the whistle had gone, leaving the room filled with advertising skits running on the TV.

Beside him, Jake was far more relaxed.

He twisted his fork into the last of his second helping, lifting a mouthful of pasta and slurping it without shame.

After a while, Leo reached for his phone, thumb already tapping the Twitter icon.

There, he scrolled a stream of blue and white comments as well as halftime reactions filling the screen.

—

On the other side of things and in the away dressing room of Kenilworth Road, a few players spoke over each other, voices sharp with frustration.

Others sat quietly, staring at the floor or at nothing in particular.

Dawson though, stood near the centre of the room, arms folded before getting his men to calm down.

"Alright. Settle down."

The room slowly obeyed as Dawson took a step forward.

"Breathe," he said. "We’re fine."

He let that sit for a second, eyes moving from one player to the next.

"Now," he continued, tapping the board once with his knuckle, "let’s talk about the first half."