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Harbinger Of Glory

Chapter 46: Price For Genius · Oct 18, 2026

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Chapter List (629)

Page number / 13

1 Chapter 1: Once Upon A Team 2026-10-18
2 Chapter 2: The Shift 2026-10-18
3 Chapter 3: An Olive Branch 2026-10-18
4 Chapter 4: Relations 2026-10-18
5 Chapter 5: The Offer 2026-10-18
6 Chapter 6: Resolution 2026-10-18
7 Chapter 7: A New Day 2026-10-18
8 Chapter 8: An Unimportant File 2026-10-18
9 Chapter 9: New Goal 2026-10-18
10 Chapter 10: School- A Means To An End 2026-10-18
11 Chapter 11: Learning The Art 2026-10-18
12 Chapter 12: Extra Work 2026-10-18
13 Chapter 13: Behind The Scenes 2026-10-18
14 Chapter 14: New Dawn 2026-10-18
15 Chapter 15: Wigan’s U21s 2026-10-18
16 Chapter 16: Testing The Waters 2026-10-18
17 Chapter 17: Unfolding 2026-10-18
18 Chapter 18: Sign The Kid 2026-10-18
19 Chapter 19: One Step At A Time 2026-10-18
20 Chapter 20: Player To Be 2026-10-18
21 Chapter 21: Honing 2026-10-18
22 Chapter 22: Possibilities 2026-10-18
23 Chapter 23: The Ball Whisperer 2026-10-18
24 Chapter 24: How It’s going 2026-10-18
25 Chapter 25: The Talk 2026-10-18
26 Chapter 26: Tell Me Everything 2026-10-18
27 Chapter 27: Meet The Calderons 2026-10-18
28 Chapter 28: Contract Negotiations 2026-10-18
29 Chapter 29: Welcome to Wigan, Leo 2026-10-18
30 Chapter 30: Interest from an Old Flame 2026-10-18
31 Chapter 31: First training session 2026-10-18
32 Chapter 32: First training Session [2] 2026-10-18
33 Chapter 33: All eyes on him 2026-10-18
34 Chapter 34: First shirt 2026-10-18
35 Chapter 35: First Game 2026-10-18
36 Chapter 36: Vanishing Act 2026-10-18
37 Chapter 37: A story writes itself 2026-10-18
38 Chapter 38: Paper Boy 2026-10-18
39 Chapter 39 - 3-body Problem 2026-10-18
40 Chapter 40: Method- Acting 2026-10-18
41 Chapter 41: Uncanny Hero 2026-10-18
42 Chapter 42: On the Cusp 2026-10-18
43 Chapter 43: On the Cusp [2] 2026-10-18
44 Chapter 44: Top for A reason 2026-10-18
45 Chapter 45: Dumb It Down 2026-10-18
46 Chapter 46: Price For Genius 2026-10-18
47 Chapter 47: First Team Calling. 2026-10-18
48 Chapter 48: First Team Calling [2] 2026-10-18
49 Chapter 49: Slowly But Surely 2026-10-18
50 Chapter 50: Number 22 2026-10-18

Wigan started to play again, and this time, Leo was the metronome.

He drifted into midfield, always scanning — left shoulder, right shoulder, eyes flicking like a metronome’s arm.

Cartwright still clung to him like a bad echo, shoulder nudges turning into hip checks, little scrapes down the back of the calf, studs that lingered just a moment too long.

The referee let it play.

But Leo played through it.

With every ball he received, he turned just before the bite came.

Cartwright would reach — Leo would be gone.

Pivot, glide, pass.

A subtle pause here, a drop of the shoulder there.

Rhythm, disrupted and restored.

Yet Sheffield were catching on.

The press began to narrow around Leo again.

Not full traps, not yet.

But containment.

Constriction.

The pitch felt smaller, heavier.

So Leo retreated.

He dropped deeper and deeper until he was alongside the left-sided center-back, Kadou raising an eyebrow as Leo jogged past him and settled near the box.

”What’s he doing?” someone in the crowd muttered.

”He’s not a defender,” came another.

But Leo didn’t care for the confusion.

He turned, looked up — and launched a pass.

Long. Laser-flat.

Into the half-space where Ezra was already peeling off his man.

One pass later, and Jake had dropped deeper — only to dart forward again with Wigan’s center-back bombing past him.

A two-top suddenly.

Unorthodox.

Confusing but effective.

From the stands, heads tilted.

”That’s... new.”

”What is he? A number six now?”

The murmurs mixed with the clapping as Wigan’s play began to stretch.

Leo wasn’t just playing from deep — he was dictating.

Then, a miscue.

A Sheffield clearance spun wildly off a boot and dropped, center pitch, bouncing once.

It was a dangerous ball — not quite falling to anyone clean.

A moment of hesitation bloomed.

Leo didn’t.

He charged.

So did a Sheffield midfielder — stocky, brutal, fast.

It was a footrace now, the kind that burns the lungs and stings the thighs.

The crowd surged, caught by the tension of the chase.

Leo got there first, his toe meeting the ball as he slipped it past the incoming player.

But the Sheffield lad didn’t stop.

His leg clattered into Leo’s shin, full-force as a loud yelp rang out on the pitch.

A gasp swept across the stands.

Leo rolled once, gritting his teeth, hands gripping the grass.

The ref let it play.

He could’ve stayed down.

Maybe he should have.

But Leo stood.

No arm was raised for a foul.

No complaint.

He pulled up his sock, looked once at the angry red blooming on his shin, and jogged back into position.

Limping. Shaking it off.

”Oh for fuck sake. Is the referee blind?”

”How the hell was that not a foul?”

”Even my blind grandma can do better.”

As the fans got angry on his behalf, Leo kept looking for the next route to breakthrough and when he saw it, he called for the ball.

Kadou fed it to him short and Leo took the ball in stride — and the world seemed to slow.

There was space.

Not a lot.

Not the kind you usually take.

But gaps.

Slivers.

A slight misalignment in the press.

And Leo moved.

The first touch eliminated Cartwright again and the second got him past a reaching leg.

A third took him between two midfielders who blinked too late.

The stands lifted to their feet.

No words now.

Just the sound of breath being held.

Leo cut inside the last chasing body, close touches, dribbling like his boots were stitched to the turf.

He didn’t look fast — he looked inevitable.

The Sheffield defense scrambled, backing off in panic.

Jake’s movement dragged the center-back just enough to leave a corridor open.

The keeper saw it and rushed out.

Leo didn’t panic.

He remembered and reminded himself of the phrase that he had so come to like.

”Just pass it into the net to score.”

Leo looked up.

And chipped.

Not a flashy scoop, not a rainbow arc.

Just enough lift, enough spin, enough belief.

The keeper backpedaled, clawing at air but it was too late.

The ball nestled into the side netting with a whisper, not a bang.

And then the noise came.

Robin Park exploded with arms up, kids jumping like it was a trampoline park, and Adults yelling names they didn’t even know five weeks ago.

Leo didn’t celebrate.

He walked back halfway, chest rising and falling, one hand brushing the shin where the pain still lingered.

”Come on bruh, do you always have to be flashy?” Ezra said with a smile as he got near Leo, with Ben coming in and ruffling Leo’s hair.

Robin Park was still roaring after the goal.

The goal hadn’t just put Wigan in front— it had shifted it.

Wigan weren’t the underdogs clawing for space anymore.

They were dancing with the leaders, and Leo was holding the baton.

Cartwright jogged past Leo on the way back to restart play, face twisted like he’d bitten into something sour.

”You think that makes you special?” he muttered, just low enough for Leo to hear.

Leo didn’t even look at him.

Just breathed, deep and slow, like he was trying to remind his own heart to calm down.

But Cartwright wasn’t done.

”You’re still a nothing player in a nothing league. That chip? Cute. But try it twice.”

Leo turned, finally to say something but after seeing Cartwright’s face, he figured it wasn’t worth it to agitate an already agitated player so he jogged away.

And Cartwright snapped.

The next few minutes were not football — they were war.

With every touch Leo took, Cartwright lunged.

Every movement Leo made, Cartwright was a step behind, a hand pulling, a knee-knocking.

Sheffield pressed higher, but their midfield was fraying.

Their coach shouted from the sidelines — something desperate, something sharp — but the game was slipping from his grip.

Because Wigan were no longer hesitating.

Ezra ran like he had fire in his lungs.

Ben was skinning his man now, boosted by the goal.

Even Jakw, who had once played like he was waiting to be discovered, was tracking back and fighting in duels.

But it was Leo they all followed.

He started dictating with his fingers, signaling before passes were even made.

He was much deeper now, covering for the bruised shin he refused to show.

Every ball came through him — low, driven, clean.

He was the storm’s eye.

And Cartwright hated it.

The ball came again.

Cartwright closed in too fast.

This time, Leo waited.

He let Cartwright overcommit, then spun, back to goal, shielding with his frame.

Cartwright went shoulder-first into Leo’s ribs, and the crowd gasped.

Leo stumbled — but kept the ball.

The ref whistled.

Free kick, Wigan.

”You alright?” Jake asked, jogging up, wiping sweat from his brow.

Leo didn’t speak.

Just nodded once, like a man memorizing the pain.

”Stay with me,” he muttered back.

Jake blinked but nodded.

From the sideline, Dawson had risen to his feet.

Nolan leaned forward, arms crossed but tense.

They hadn’t moved in over ten minutes.

Sheffield adjusted again, and now Cartwright was joined by another — a midfielder with raw pace, tasked with shadowing Leo the moment he crossed halfway.

And still, Leo moved.

Wigan had found rhythm now, and Leo dumbed it down perfectly.

He didn’t try threading impossible passes anymore.

He shaped runs for them.

Delayed his passes until the cue was unmistakable.

He kept talking. Kept pointing.

But genius always costs something.

The ball broke loose again in the 82nd minute, a heavy touch from a Sheffield sub sending it spinning free near the center circle.

Leo saw it first.

He surged.

Cartwright did too.

It was always going to end this way — not with a flourish, but a collision.

Leo reached it a second ahead, took it on the half-turn, and shifted to break forward.

But Cartwright came straight through him.

No hesitation.

No attempt at the ball.

Just cleats, calf, and contact.

The sound cracked — not a whistle, but a thud.

Bodies. Grass. Pain.

Leo twisted mid-air before slamming down on his side, arms curled around the leg Cartwright had caught.

The whistle came, shrill and too late again.

Robin Park froze.

Then erupted.

Boos. Screams.

Someone throwing a programme onto the pitch.

Wigan’s bench emptied — not to fight, but to run.

The physio was already halfway there.

Leo lay still while Cartwright stood over him, panting, like a boxer who had punched past the bell.

”You finally caught one,” Leo croaked, voice tight with pain.

”Happy now?”

The ref shoved Cartwright back, arm raised — red card.

No hesitation this time.

Cartwright didn’t protest.

He just walked off, head low, jaw tight, like he knew what he’d done but didn’t regret it.

It took three minutes to get Leo off the pitch.

Not on a stretcher — he refused.

He limped, arms around two teammates, face pale and unreadable.

But his eyes never left the pitch.

The final minutes were chaos.

Wigan almost made it 3 on two separate occasions after Jake hit the bar and Ben curled one just wide.

Sheffield held on, determined not to concede and soon, the whistle saved them.

2–1.

But the score was secondary.

Because after the match, the story was all Leo.

Kids in the front row stood on tiptoes, pointing at him like he was a myth.

Fans clapped not wildly, but with reverence, because they would live to tell the day, they saw the birth of a new legend in Wigan.

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