Harbinger Of Glory

[A couple days later]

Robin Park felt different today.

The usual noise was still there—groups huddled around the railings, some with disposable coffee cups, others balancing paper-wrapped sausage rolls, all tossing around pre-match guesses and half-informed opinions—but the tone had shifted.

The chatter had grown more curious, more attentive.

Wigan U21s had become... interesting.

And not just to family members or coaching staff.

They were now playing an attractive brand of football that interested all passersby to stay and watch for a while.

”I’m telling you, that kid’s sharp,” one older man in a flat cap said, not for the first time.

”He’s the one they brought in. Small lad. Plays like he’s allergic to wasting time on the ball.”

His friend nodded, barely looking up from his newspaper.

”Leo, right?”

”Yeah. Leo something. And that winger, Ezra—the flashier one. The kids love him.”

Sure enough, further down the line of spectators, a group of boys in Wigan kits were arguing about exactly that.

”Leo’s class, but Ezra’s tekkier,” one of them said, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

”He nutmegged two players in the last match,” another chimed in.

While they went back and forth, the players started to walk out onto the pitch.

Sheffield United’s U21 side didn’t look like a team that got rattled.

Calm, uniform, sharp-eyed—they were top of the league for a reason.

But one of them, a solidly built midfielder with cropped black curls, let his eyes trail across the stands.

The noise wasn’t for them.

It was for someone else.

Then he heard it again—”Leo.”

Chanted lightly by some of the older fans.

Pointed out by strangers with nods toward the Wigan side.

He followed the fingers and eyes until he spotted the boy they were all watching.

Number 17. Calm expression and a little smile dancing on his face.

Limbering up beside a few teammates.

”Hey, Cartwright,” one of his teammates jogged up beside him.

”What’re you staring at?”

Cartwright just smirked, adjusting the tape on his wrist.

”Just watching something interesting.”

”Coach is calling,” the teammate said, before jogging back toward the huddle.

Cartwright didn’t move immediately.

He turned once more to get another look.

The Wigan 17 wasn’t doing anything special.

Just stretching, swinging his legs, talking with the others.

Leo, for his part, didn’t notice the attention, at least not consciously.

But as the final part of the warm-up drill came in, a pass zipped from Ezra’s boot, and he turned to meet it.

The ball came in quick and slightly behind.

Without looking, Leo hopped back a step, lifting his foot and cushioning the ball with the front toe area of his boot, keeping it just in front of him before guiding it away.

A soft clap came from the side.

One of the kids had seen it.

Just a small bit of applause, but enough for Leo to glance their way with a tired smile.

Ezra jogged past, nudging Leo with his elbow. ”Show-off.”

Leo exhaled a laugh but said nothing.

He stretched his arms overhead, rotated his shoulder, and got ready to move again.

At the far end of the stands, two men had taken seats near the back, keeping to themselves.

No introductions.

No small talk.

Just quietly observing.

Dawson sat with his arms folded, coat zipped to the chin.

Beside him, Nolan had a notepad on his lap but didn’t write anything.

The two of them sat like shadows, and no one seemed to notice.

That was the point.

Having the head coach of the senior team in the stands could change how these boys played—make them too eager or too stiff.

That wouldn’t help anyone.

So, Dawson stayed silent. Watching.

He wasn’t watching the league leaders.

He wasn’t even really watching the whole Wigan side.

He was watching a certain number 17.

And Cartwright, back on the other side of the pitch, was watching that same number.

The players walked out again, all pre-match protocol already done in the tunnels.

No ceremonial music or photo ops needed—just the quiet thump of boots on turf and the occasional grunt as someone tightened laces or adjusted shin pads.

The Sheffield players turned towards the officials and started briskly shaking hands.

Glove taps. Bare palms. Muted nods.

When Cartwright reached Leo, though, he lingered, his grip staying a half-second too long, eyes steady, almost as if trying to measure something.

Leo either didn’t notice or just didn’t bother to acknowledge it.

His hand dropped back to his side, his gaze already flicking down the line at the others.

Then it was over, players trotting into their respective halves.

Wigan moved with a quiet efficiency, like a side that had gotten used to each other—Ben bouncing on the balls of his feet in midfield, trying to burn off the nervous energy he always carried into big games.

Ezra adjusting his socks one last time and muttering something under his breath.

Leo turned and signed something quickly to the left-back, just a simple gesture about positioning, before catching Ben’s eye and nodding.

Ben nodded back.

He looked like he was ready to puke.

The referee lifted the whistle to his lips and blew, and Sheffield kicked off.

From the first pass, they played like a team that had been on top of the league for a reason—short touches, measured movements, passing lanes snapped open and shut like traps.

One of their wingers, tall and wiry, darted down the right flank with pace that looked almost unfair, pushing Leo to drop in and cover.

Wigan were reactive, falling into their shape, giving up space in the opening minutes.

Leo kept scanning—his eyes darting across the pitch in quick bursts.

But Sheffield kept it tidy.

That winger, on the other hand, just kept asking questions of the Wigan fullback with every sprint, and for a few minutes, Wigan just had to hold on.

Five minutes in, though, the tide started to wobble.

A few loose Sheffield touches here, a bad switch there, and suddenly Wigan’s confidence bloomed.

Kadou started stepping up.

Ben began demanding the ball more.

Even Jake, who had a reputation for shrinking against stronger sides, started backing into defenders, throwing his weight around.

The home fans felt it.

”That’s it, lads! Press ’em!” someone shouted from the right-hand railing.

A few claps followed.

Then, louder: ”Is that all Sheffield’s got? Top of the table my arse!”

It echoed, bouncing off the modest stands.

The kind of local jeering that could inflate you if you weren’t careful, and Wigan bought into it.

They started pushing more men forward.

A few overzealous presses, a couple of passes that tried to force the game open.

For a moment, it looked like they might steal something early.

Until Sheffield reminded everyone why they were top.

Their left-back, quiet until now, pushed up with zero hesitation, brushing past Ezra on the sideline.

One touch, two, and then a quick overlap with their central midfielder before driving all the way to the byline.

The cross that followed came in like a whip crack.

The striker in the middle timed it cleanly, leaping above Kadou, his header bulleting toward the bottom corner—

Clang!

It smashed off the post.

Gasps spilled out across the crowd.

Leo had tracked back just in time to see it hit the woodwork.

He narrowed his eyes, watching how the movement had unfolded—watching something else, too, something harder to name.

Then he shook his head and then jogged back into position.

”On me,” he said, drawing the attention of his mates.

He was getting the feeling that if Wigan weren’t careful, the table wouldn’t be the only thing Sheffield would be on top of by full time.

The match continued in the same tone but with a twist.

Wigan had the ball, yes—but it meant little.

Possession without penetration.

They passed sideways and back, probing the flanks, trying to recycle play through Kadou and the fullbacks.

But every attempt to break Sheffield down died at the feet of someone stronger, sharper, and more composed.

From the touchline, the Sheffield coach cupped his hands and barked, ”Higher! Push up! Don’t let them settle!”

And his players obeyed.

The press tightened like a noose.

Most of Wigan’s defenders, not used to this kind of heat, started to panic.

The ball, once moved carefully through midfield, now left their boots in the air more often than not.

Hoofed clearances. Panicked switches.

Desperate long balls over the top meant to turn the game on its head, but they never did.

Sheffield’s backline read them like open books.

They were taller, rangier.

The aerial duels weren’t even contests.

Time and again, the ball came down, and time and again it landed at the feet of a red shirt.

Leo was growing restless.

”Play on the ground!” he shouted, his voice cracking from the cold air and frustration.

He threw both arms out as if demanding sense return to the game.

”Stop floating it! We can’t win it up there!”

But it was getting harder.

Harder to pass through lines when the passing lanes vanished before the ball even reached them.

Harder to move under the pressure, with Sheffield cutting off options, shadowing angles, and pressing in coordinated, calculated bursts.

Kadou—usually composed—had pushed forward to help build from deep, drifting into the defensive midfield zone to relieve pressure.

He didn’t see Cartwright ghosting toward him.

Too slow on the turn.

Too long on the ball.

The touch was heavy, and Cartwright was there, fast and hungry.

He pounced, shoulder-to-shoulder, winning the ball clean and yanking it away from Kadou like he was stealing candy off a distracted child.

One touch to control.

Another to send the ball out wide.

And Wigan were caught scrambling.

The winger didn’t waste time.

He skipped past the fullback with a neat touch and squared the ball low and hard into the box, where the Sheffield striker was already peeling off his man.

No wasted motion.

No hesitation.

He struck through the ball like it owed him something.

Boom.

It rifled into the net, leaving almost no chance for the keeper.

The away bench rose to their feet, and a few Sheffield fans in the stands howled their approval.

Wigan stood frozen, caught between disbelief and resignation.

Leo turned slowly, eyes flicking across the pitch as he tried to reset himself.

He could feel the weight settling in the pit of his stomach, and unless Wigan figured it out fast, it was going to be a long match.