Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

The locker room after the Fiorentina match was a symphony of shouts and laughter. It was a beautiful, chaotic noise, a stark contrast to the quiet despair of our previous loss to Barcelona.

Julián Álvarez, his face a mix of pure joy and utter exhaustion, came over and wrapped me in a tight hug. "Leo! You're a wizard, man!" he yelled, his voice hoarse from shouting. "I can't believe you did that!"

"We did that," I said, a genuine, joyful grin on my face. "It was a team effort. We never gave up."

"Yeah, but you were the one who saw it," Cole Palmer said, his calm, collected demeanor a soothing presence in the chaos. "That last goal... it was unreal. I don't know how you saw that coming."

I just shrugged, a small, knowing smile on my face.

My Vision was a secret, a private world that only I could see, but I knew that my teammates believed in me.

They had seen it with their own eyes. They had seen the passes, the runs, the goals. They had seen the magic.

Even the veteran players, the ones who had seen it all, were in awe. Lautaro Martínez, our captain, clapped me on the back, a deep, respectful look in his eyes.

"You're a different kind of player, Leon," he said, his voice low and serious. "You're not just a footballer. You're... a force of nature. And I'm glad you're on our team."

Coach Chivu walked into the room, a rare, genuine smile on his face.

He didn't yell, he didn't give a long speech. He just looked at us, at the happy, exhausted faces of his team, and he nodded. "Men," he said, his voice a low growl. "You did it. You fought. You showed them what we're made of. And I couldn't be more proud."

The players erupted in a final, joyous roar. We had won.

We had fought back from a two-goal deficit and we had won in the last minute of the game. It was a victory that felt more important than any trophy.

After the celebration died down, we all grabbed our phones, and the room went quiet, a new kind of nervous energy filling the air. We were all checking the scores of the other matches, the league table, the news. The league was a tight race, and every point mattered.

"Napoli won," Julián Álvarez said, his voice a little defeated. "They beat Bologna 2-0. We're still in second place."

A collective sigh of disappointment went through the room. We had fought so hard, we had given it our all, but we were still in second place.

The league title, once a dream, was now a tantalizingly close, but still out of reach.

Coach Chivu, seeing our despair, clapped his hands loudly, a sharp sound that cut through the silence. "Men! Listen to me!" he said, his voice sharp and clear.

"We're in second place! We're still in the fight! This isn't over! We have a lot of matches to play, and we have a lot of points to win! This is not the end of the story. This is just the beginning."

He looked at us, a firm, determined look on his face.

"And now... now we have to prepare for the next battle. The next war. We have a week to prepare. A week to rest. A week to get our minds right. Because in a week's time, we're going to the Camp Nou. We're going to face them again. And this time... this time we're going to win."

A new energy filled the room, a quiet, focused determination.

The Barcelona match, the crushing 4-3 loss, was still a raw wound, but now, with a new win under our belt, it felt like a challenge we could meet.

We had a plan. We had a new kind of tactical weapon in my Vision, and we had a team, a family, that would fight until the very last second.

The players started to get dressed, a low hum of conversation filling the air. They were talking about the flight, the hotel, the stadium. They were talking about the game, the second leg, the final battle.

....

The morning after the Fiorentina match was a beautiful thing. I woke up with a new kind of energy, a sense of quiet confidence that had nothing to do with my physical strength. My leg, which had been a constant ache for months, felt strong.

I went downstairs to find my mom in the kitchen, a huge smile on her face. She was making my favorite breakfast—pancakes with fresh berries and maple syrup.

The scent was a warm, welcoming presence that filled the entire house.

"My champion is home," she said, her voice a soft, melodic sound that always made my heart sing. She pulled me into a tight hug, a familiar comfort that had always been my rock.

"We did it, Mom," I said, a genuine, joyful grin on my face. "We won."

"I saw," she said, her eyes shining with pride. "That last goal... it was a miracle. You're a miracle, my love."

We ate in comfortable silence, the only sound the clinking of forks and the low hum of the refrigerator.

After breakfast, I went to my room and started packing my bag. The flight to Barcelona was in a few hours, and I wanted to be ready.

The match against Barcelona was a different beast. This wasn't just a game; it was a war. A war for redemption, a war for the league title, a war for a chance to prove ourselves.

I came back downstairs and my mom was standing by the door, her eyes a little misty. "You're going to win, my love," she said, her voice a low whisper. "You're going to win this for me, for us, for everyone who believed in you."

I pulled her into a tight hug, a final moment of peace before the storm. "I'll be back," I said, my voice a little choked up. "And I'll be back with the win."