Harbinger Of Glory

The Wigan team coach pulled in just after half past three.

Leo, craning his neck, watched from his window seat as the hotel came into view — tall glass, modern stone, tucked into a quiet street off the main road in West London.

It wasn’t glamorous, but it was neat and what a team like Wigan could facilitate.

Outside, a couple of locals in QPR jackets loitered with phones raised, trying to act casual.

The bus doors hissed open, and the staff moved with purpose, lifting kit bags and distributing room keys.

Leo stepped off and adjusted his bag over his shoulder, following the others into the lobby’s soft, polished light.

The inside was quieter than he expected — maybe soundproofed, or maybe just that serene.

The front desk had already been cleared for the club.

A table waited near the elevators where room assignments were laid out by number.

”Calderon, Leo — 414,” someone called.

A laminated key card was handed his way.

He nodded, mumbled a quick ”thanks,” and took the lift up with Chris Sze and two others.

The elevator hummed as Chris cracked a knuckle and shot him a grin.

”Breathe, mate. You look like you’re about to do your GCSEs again.”

Leo smirked but didn’t reply.

He didn’t want to admit how his chest still hadn’t fully settled.

It wasn’t nerves.

Not exactly.

It was the weight of how close he’s gotten and a few maybes in his heart.

The floor dinged open and the players stepped out, each pair moving towards their rooms, a modest room— tightly made twin beds and a big window overlooking a residential block.

Leo dropped his bag at the foot of the bed, pulled off his jacket, and sat on the firm edge of the mattress.

Chris, who had grouped with Leo, tossed his bag onto the other bed and flopped down.

”You eat before we left?”

”Didn’t feel like it.”

Chris gave him a side glance.

”You’re gonna feel it later. Try not to pass out from nerves?”

Leo chuckled, rubbing his hands together.

”Suppose I should get used to being around all this.”

Chris shrugged. ”You don’t get used to it, you should get ready. That’s all.”

A knock came twenty minutes later.

One of the backroom staff: ”Meeting room in ten.”

They both rose, pulled on team-issued sweaters, and joined the shuffle of players down the hall.

The meeting suite was one floor below — a wide, quiet room with blackout curtains drawn, a portable projector set up in front of a large flat screen.

Dawson stood at the front with his arms folded.

Behind him, the screen showed paused match footage — QPR’s defensive line frozen mid-shift.

The players filed in.

Some leaned back with their arms crossed, others leaned forward, elbows on knees.

Leo sat toward the middle with Chris, trying to look focused without looking desperate.

The clips rolled.

Dawson spoke with calm intensity.

”They overload wide areas. Wingbacks high. If we switch off on the flanks, they’ll pin us. Keep your angles. Keep your spacing. Talk. Be loud and cover for your mates. Football is a team sport unless you decide you don’t want it to be.”

The analyst chimed in about their set-piece patterns.

Where they liked to curl corners.

Which players peeled off early?

Leo listened, soaked it in, and nodded occasionally like he’d always been here.

No one looked at him funny.

But no one really looked at him, either, save for James Mclean who would suck air between his teeth and smacking them when he crossed Leo.

Dinner came around just before seven.

Long tables in a sectioned-off room near the back of the hotel restaurant.

Players filed in wearing team tracksuits.

Pasta, grilled chicken, steamed vegetables, fruit, and hydration tablets in little paper cups.

Leo filled his plate modestly and sat with Chris, one seat from the end, while most of the players who had been in the senior team for a while clustered toward the other side of the room.

Conversation drifted — mostly light, but undercut by the unspoken pressure of the table’s recent form.

A loss hung over everything, even in silence.

McClean sat three seats down.

Didn’t look Leo’s way.

But Leo felt the shadow of earlier still clinging to him, heavy and unspoken.

Chris nudged him lightly beneath the table.

”Try the penne. They overcooked the rice again.”

Leo took a forkful and nodded.

It tasted like nothing, but he kept eating.

”Lights out early, okay,” Dawson said, before continuing ”, We don’t want any of you looking like ghosts when called upon.”

The players all nodded before disappearing to the lifts and then up to their rooms.

.....

October 22nd – Matchday Morning

Hotel Lobby, 9:04 a.m.

The air smelled like brewed coffee and new fabric.

Kit bags were packed, zipped, and stacked in quiet rows near the entrance.

Staff double-checked clipboards.

The coach waited just outside, engine idling.

Leo made his way through the lobby with his boot bag slung over his shoulder and his duffle at his side.

A few players were already milling about, tapping phones, slipping earbuds in.

No one was talking much, but as he passed the staircase landing, he heard it.

Tsk.

A sharp, deliberate click of the tongue.

James McClean, seated by the window, arms crossed, coffee untouched beside him.

His eyes didn’t move, but the sound was aimed with purpose.

Leo stopped.

He turned.

Walked back, slow but steady, until he was standing in front of the veteran winger.

”Did I do something to you?” he asked flatly.

McClean raised an eyebrow, still silent.

”Because if I didn’t, then I don’t get why you’ve got a problem,” Leo continued.

”Your words have got other players looking at me weirdly. I don’t care much, but their stares are annoying?”

Now McClean’s gaze lifted — not hostile, just expectant.

”I’m not here because someone handed me a favour,” Leo said.

”I came to play football. The coach wouldn’t have brought me in at 17 if he thought I had nothing to offer. So I don’t care if I’m from the academy, the reserves, or your bad dreams — I’m here because I earned it and because I’m that good.”

Then Leo took a breath — just one — before adding:

”And honestly? I’m a kid. But even I know acting like that toward a teammate makes you look less like a veteran. More like someone who’s got nothing to offer the team.”

He turned before McClean could respond.

Walked toward the bus doors without glancing back.

Behind him, McClean’s face lingered in something unreadable.

The set of his jaw softened.

His eyes narrowed, not in challenge, but in consideration.

Then, slowly, a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

”That’s someone I can work with,” he muttered into his cup as he watched Leo walk off.

The players soon regrouped outside with Leo glancing at Mclean, but the latter wasn’t staring this time.

”You good?” Chris asked, to which Leo nodded as they began climbing aboard the bus.

The engine hummed beneath them, and suddenly everyone was quiet in their own way.

Some had earbuds in, others stared at their knees, and a few gazed out the windows as London blurred past — cranes, rail lines, old brick houses, and endless grey sky.

Leo sat near the middle, bag between his feet, hands resting in his lap.

As the coach turned off the main road, the buildings tightened.

The streets narrowed.

And then the stadium came into view- compact, wedged between terraces and alleys, but alive.

Loftus Road.

Home of Queens Park Rangers.

A tight box of noise and steel and footballing history.

Leo leaned toward the window.

He could feel it before he even heard it — the throb of drums, the chant of home supporters, maybe fifteen thousand already inside.

It wasn’t just the volume.

It was the shape of it, the way the sound curled around the air like something territorial, and he couldn’t look away.

In the front of the coach, Dawson turned from his seat and watched Leo for a moment.

Dawson smiled faintly before turning to face his front.

The coach pulled behind the stadium, descending into the shadowed ramp of the underground parking.

Steel pillars. Concrete. Staff in high-vis jackets waving them in.

The engine slowed, brakes hissed, and slowly, Dawson rose.

He stood in the aisle, looking down the line of players.

His voice was clear. Calm. Heavy with purpose.

”Gentlemen,” Dawson said, pausing just long enough to let the silence thicken.

”We’re here.”

A/N: I don’t have any excuse save for lack of sleep and being a bit busy. Didn’t know that our second semester was going to be this hard. Sorry for the sporadic release. Things haven’t really been smooth sailing but as I said, I’ll try in earnest to fit this into my schedule. Sorry for locking the Chapters without warning. I wanted to wait a bit more before locking them but NovelFire reminded me to set the premium. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit