Harbinger Of Glory

The tunnel was cooler than the pitch, but the heat still clung to them like a second skin.

Shirts soaked through, socks sagging, muscles already stiffening.

Leo walked in behind Whatmough and Sze, a quiet beat to his steps, the adrenaline finally starting to drain from his legs.

Inside the dressing room, the noise hit first, not wild, but charged.

Laughter.

Thumps of boots against benches.

Broadhead joking with Bennett about nearly falling on the volley clearance and Fletcher mimicking a diving header he never actually attempted.

McClean walked past Leo, a towel slung over one shoulder.

He gave him a light slap on the back, not hard, not soft — just solid.

"That's how you get your name on the team sheet," he said under his breath, then kept walking without waiting for a response.

Leo let a smile slip.

He sat on the edge of the bench and finally peeled his boots off.

Someone tossed him a water bottle.

He took a sip, then poured half over his head.

"You meant that pass?" Sze asked from across the room, toeing off his right boot.

"It came to you didn't it," Leo called out.

"Oh, you meant it," Fletcher chimed in, stretching one leg against the wall.

"That chip? That's not luck. That's bloody orchestration. Where were you all this while?"

"Forget the pass and where he was," Bennett cut in.

"That tackle, though — you go sliding like that every match, and the physio's gonna start charging you."

More laughter echoed afterwards but that wasn't the end.

"It's not every day you see Pedro look up and panic. You did well Leo," Cousins added.

Leo chuckled quietly and leaned back, letting the moment settle.

It wasn't loud praise but it was still praise and it was nice to hear things every once in a while.

The ride back to Wigan was quiet, mostly.

Music hummed through the speakers of the team bus, and a few phones flickered with match clips.

Leo sat with Sze, watching the replay of the second goal.

The clip looped — tackle, scoop, thigh control, chip, chest, volley.

"Can't lie, looks better the fifth time," Sze mumbled.

Leo grinned. "You'll get tired of seeing it before I do."

By the time they reached the training ground, it was almost midnight.

No team talk.

Just "see you tomorrow" from the staff as they all peeled off into the night.

When Leo got back to his place, he dropped the ball they had all signed for his first assist on the floor next to his bed.

He lay back, arms folded under his head, and stared at the ceiling for a few minutes, eyes wide, body still buzzing.

He didn't check his phone yet and just let the silence catch up to him for a bit before he rolled over and turned it on.

The screen lit up like a Christmas tree.

Mentions.

Clips.

One from Wigan's official account showing his assist with the caption: "Calderón threads it. Sze buries it. Academy to first team."

He tapped through and began a slow scroll through the news with fans calling for him to start the next match and others calling him the best passer the club had seen in years despite him playing a combined total of just 57 minutes for the first team.

Even a few neutrals chiming in: "Who is this kid? Man of the Match on only his second senior appearance?"

Another clip — a pundit talking over highlights.

"That's what you want in midfield. Control. Clarity. Intelligence. The kid plays like he's thirty."

Some of it felt like noise.

But not all of it.

He let the screen fade and went to sleep with the hum still in his head.

"I could get used to this," he uttered just before drifting to slumberland.

...….|.

By morning, Wigan's training facility felt unchanged.

The same gravel crunches underfoot.

Same flap of wind tugging at the gates.

But inside, there was a difference — subtle, but there.

A few youth players nodded as Leo walked past.

The kitchen staff smiled a bit longer when handing him his breakfast tray.

Even the kitman, tossed him a new pair of training bibs with a look.

"You sleep well, superstar?"

Leo smirked. "Like a rock."

"Good. Don't get used to it."

Sze was already seated, halfway through eggs and toast.

"You see the latest?"

Leo pulled out his phone.

There it was — the post-match interview with Dawson in a tight polo and his arms crossed looking like he didn't want to be there.

"The kid earned his minutes," he'd said.

"End of," and that was it.

Yet it said everything.

The rest of the day moved fast.

A light recovery session in the gym, some media work for the club's socials — just a quick two-minute post-match chat.

Leo stood in front of the club backdrop, hair still wet from the shower, answering questions with one-word confidence.

What did the assist feel like?

"Right."

"Right?" the interviewer intoned.

"It was the right ball."

"Did you know Sze would be there?"

"I would have shot the ball but I saw him moving into space and the scoop was how I knew I could get the ball to him."

After the cameras cut, the media officer laughed.

"We'll work on your quotables," they said but Leo just shrugged.

He wasn't here to talk.

Later in the day, during the staff meeting, they posted the training schedule for the week — and beside it, the matchday squad for the upcoming clash.

Leo's name was there again.

Not as provisional as it used to be but bench.

First-team. Confirmed.

He stared at it for a second.

Then turned away.

As he left the building, he passed McClean again, who came in with his boots over his shoulder.

"You've got the hard part done," he said.

Leo looked at him.

McClean added, "Now comes the harder part."

"Which is?" Leo said but McLean didn't answer because he knew Leo knew.

The hard part now was staying in the first team and performing like his life depended on it every match.

….…

The call ended with a flat tone.

Noah Sarin didn't move right away.

He sat there, slouched over the bar like a coat draped on the wrong hook, eyes fixed on the muted screen above the liquor shelf.

Devon, his long-time friend raised his glass towel.

"That's the deal?"

Noah gave a single, shallow nod.

"Client jumped?"

"Agent switch," Noah muttered.

"Dad wants someone closer to London. Said I was too 'independent.'"

Devon snorted. "That's polite for washed."

"Mm," Noah said, raising his pint halfway, then putting it back down. "That was my last striker."

"You still got that Portuguese kid?"

"Signed with an agency out in Porto last week. Didn't even tell me. I saw it on his story."

Devon stopped wiping the counter. "Shit."

From the booth behind them came a grunt.

That was Jake — the third man in their sad little trio.

Former physio turned car salesman.

He raised his glass in Noah's direction.

"Well, buddy, I guess it's official. You are completely and totally… clubless."

Noah let out a weak laugh.

"Man, I'm thirty-eight. I've repped Champions League players. I was in Monaco three years ago negotiating bonuses with clubs I couldn't spell. Now I'm sitting in a pub in Portsmouth with two guys who peaked in 2014."

"Hey," Jake protested, "I peaked in 2016. Briefly. Physically."

Devon leaned in. "So what now?"

Noah stared at the worn wood under his hands.

"Maybe I come work here with you."

Devon didn't even look up. "You mean for free?"

"I mean, if you've got a spot."

"Oh, I've got a mop. Hell, I've got two. But unless one of you knows how to turn Guinness into gold, this place ain't handing out salaries."

"Brilliant," Jake muttered.

"The three of us running a ghost pub in a dead part of town. What a comeback tour."

Noah cracked a smile.

A real one this time.

"Been looking, though," he said.

"Digging through academy match tapes, scouting reels, clips agents post on X like it's gospel. Everyone's taken. Every kid who can trap a ball's already been priced out."

"Don't say that word," Devon groaned.

"What word?"

"Ball. My wife hears enough about football as it is. Wakes me up talking about inverted fullbacks. I swear, I hear 'midfield box' one more time and I'm moving into my car."

Jake raised his glass.

"Remind me — who's she support again?"

Devon shook his head like he regretted everything.

"Wigan."

Noah blinked. "Wigan? Couldn't she find anything closer?"

"Yeah. Northern loyalty, trauma, or masochism. Take your pick. She grew up, up there"

"They still playing?" Jake asked to which Devon shrugged.

"Apparently, they've bounced back recently. Lost four straight when half the team got crocked, but just won two away. She says something's changed."

Noah reached for his phone again, scrolling almost on instinct.

Jake cocked an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

"Just checking."

"Christ, Noah—"

"Let him have his spiral," Devon said, pouring himself a Coke.

"We all cope differently."

Noah tapped the screen, eyes scanning.

Wigan 2 – Watford 1

He tapped again, reading the match overview, then the player ratings.

One name popped out.

Leo Calderón – 8.8

No image.

Just a grey silhouette.

A position. A number. A rating.

He tapped it and just, Age: 17

Noah frowned.

"He's got no profile," he muttered.

Jake leaned over. "Who?"

"Kid. Calderón. No image. Seventeen. Had the best rating on the pitch."

Devon raised an eyebrow.