Harbinger Of Glory

[Premier Inn, Wigan Town Centre Hotel]

Noah sat on the edge of the hotel bed, phone pressed against his ear.

The lamp threw a weak yellow circle over the table, half-lit papers and a half-finished cup of tea scattered there.

”Yeah,” he said quietly, ”I already spoke to him. Gave him my card.”

Devon’s voice hummed back, light with curiosity.

”And? How’d he take it?”

Noah leaned back, staring at the cracked ceiling.

”Didn’t show much. Kid’s cautious. Which is good, I suppose. And I didn’t push. Couldn’t. If I looked desperate, I’d spook him, so gotta keep it steady.”

On the other end, there was a long pause, then a slow chuckle.

”That’s you all over, mate. Cool face, furnace inside.”

Noah smirked despite himself.

”Don’t make it sound noble. Truth is, I need him to trust me. And that takes time.”

Devon hummed again, the kind of sound that carried both agreement and thought.

”Well, you just keep at it. And if you ever need more of the funds, you tell me.”

Noah’s jaw tightened.

”Dev, you’ve already done too much. That £3,500 a couple of days ago is... it is going to keep me breathing for at least a month and a couple of weeks, that’s if I spend a lot. I can’t—”

”You can,” Devon cut him off, firm but easy.

”And you will. Listen, I’m not doing you a favour. It’s an investment. When, not if, when you get back on your feet, I know what that means. Dividends, mate. Bigger than numbers.”

He laughed then, not unkindly.

”Besides, don’t think I forgot who picked me up when I was circling the drain. Who fought with my bank when I couldn’t even open the letters anymore. You gave me space to stand again. This?” He exhaled.

”This is just my turn, and I am sure the other guys are just waiting for an opportunity to repay you.”

Noah rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand.

He couldn’t find words, so silence stretched between them.

From the background of Devon’s side came a shout — his wife, sharp but ordinary.

”Honeey! The diaper’s not going to change itself!”

Devon groaned theatrically, the phone picking up his laugh.

”See what I’m dealing with? From high finance to diapers. My empire.”

That laugh pulled a small one from Noah, too.

”All right,” Devon said, softer now.

”You let me know how the boy turns out. And don’t overthink it. You’ve still got the eyes. You’ll know if he’s worth the gamble.”

”I’ll know,” Noah echoed, his voice carrying that fragile belief left inside him.

”Good. Now go eat something. And not gas station crisps.”

Before Noah could reply, the line clicked off.

He lowered the phone slowly, staring at the blank screen.

His lips twitched into something close to a smile, but his eyes betrayed the heaviness behind it.

If others believed he could do it, why would he doubt himself?

”Let’s get to work,” he said, glancing at the pile of papers behind him, and for the first time in months, Noah felt like he could do something.

...

[Wigan Complex]

”Last one, Leo!”

The voice of Coach Thompson cut across the floodlit training ground.

The rest of the complex was quiet now, shadows stretching long across the turf.

The senior squad had already wrapped up their evening session, but Leo was still out there, boots biting into the grass, dragging his aching body through another sprint drill.

His teeth clenched, his chest burning, but he pushed on.

One last push.

His legs screamed, but he refused to stop until he reached the cone, and when he got there, he stumbled through the line and collapsed, arms splaying wide as he hit the turf, gasping for air.

A whistle cut the night air, then a click.

Thompson had stopped the timer.

The older man jotted something on his clipboard, his face as unreadable as ever, before stepping closer to the boy.

He looked down at the teenager stretched flat on the pitch.

”You do realise,” Thompson said dryly, ”you don’t fall under my jurisdiction anymore. So if Dawson keeps handing you to me for this nonsense, I’m charging extra.”

Leo, still spread across the grass, managed to lift his head a little and smirk.

His voice came out broken between gulps of air.

”That’s only... because you’ve got a good body... and you used to be... a long-distance runner. That’s the reason why Dawson put me with you. He says you can help me with the endurance.”

Thompson squinted at him.

”Who taught you that line?”

Leo turned his head just enough to grin faintly.

”Dawson. He said if you ever asked why you’re not getting paid extra, I should flatter you. Apparently, it works every time, and I don’t know if what is creeping up on your lips is a smile, but I think it is working.”

Thompson, hearing Leo’s words, realised that a smile had been tugging at his lips.

”Mhmm hmm,” he cleared his throat, wiping the smile off before turning to Leo.

”Dawson’s mouth gets sharper every year.”

He tucked the clipboard under his arm and looked back toward the stopwatch.

”You were better than yesterday. Not by much, mind. But better. That’s how it goes. Small paces, little improvements, over and over. Consistency builds endurance, not hero runs.”

Leo nodded where he lay, finally dragging himself upright.

Sweat still clung to his forehead, but his breathing had steadied.

”Got it,” he muttered, brushing his hands down his shorts.

”Good. Now go shower. You feel icky even from where I am standing.”

That drew a short laugh out of Leo, enough to shake off the fatigue a little as he trudged toward the entrance of the training complex.

Inside, the corridors were quiet; the senior squad had moved on hours ago, but the faint echo of voices and the smell of food guided him deeper.

The locker room was empty when he stepped in.

He peeled off his training kit, the cold sting of the rushed stadium shower earlier still fresh in his mind, and stood under the spray in his unit for a while longer this time.

When he finally towelled off and pulled on casuals, the pull of food was stronger than exhaustion.

The cafeteria buzzed with chatter.

Most of the senior players were there, trays in front of them, some with a few plates stacked higher than usual.

A late supper had been agreed on after Dawson’s evening session, training hard made eating together feel necessary, almost ritual.

When Leo stepped through the door, heads barely turned at first.

Most eyes were glued to the big TV on the far wall.

Manchester United were playing, or rather collapsing, again.

The headline was brutal in itself: Brentford 2, United 0.

Fifteenth place in the table.

They were having one of their worst start in decades.

”Oi, Calderón!” Fletcher’s voice rang out, breaking through the room’s laughter.

He leaned back in his chair, grinning as Leo moved down the buffet line with a tray.

”Tell me how in God’s name, how our old club’s fallen that far. How they have become so trash, it is hard to say something in their favour anymore.”

The table erupted in chuckles, with Whatmough slapping the table and shaking his head.

”Sometimes I even forget, Fletcher too played at Manchester United,” he said as Leo looked over at their table with a sly grin on his face.

”The whole system’s crooked. Otherwise, how’d they let a generational talent like me slip through their hands?”

That brought the jeers in full.

Plates banged against the table as laughter bounced off the cafeteria walls.

”Generational, eh?” someone shouted.

Mclean, who had appeared behind Leo a while ago, smacked him on the back of the head with a heavy hand.

”Talent, maybe. Generational? Not until you fix that shooting. Couldn’t hit a barn door last week aside from that lucky post shot in that Stoke game.”

Leo rubbed the back of his head, turning with mock indignation.

”Yeah, well... at least my tackling’s better than a veteran who used to be a left back.”

”Ooohhh!” The whole squad howled, half rising from their seats.

Spoons clattered as even Cousins, across the room, let a rare smile crease his face.

Mclean clutched his chest in fake pain.

”Kid’s getting cheeky now.”

Leo chuckled, shaking his head as he finally piled food onto his plate.

He found a seat beside Chris Sze, the two exchanging a nod.

But as the noise of the cafeteria carried on, his eyes couldn’t help drifting back toward the TV screen.

There it was, in bold letters: Manchester United 0–2 Brentford.

Another nail in their season.

For a brief second, Leo’s grin faded.

His fork hovered over the plate, thoughts pulling elsewhere, not just about United, but about where he was now, where he could be, and what it might take to really become what he had just joked about.

”Feeling sorry for them,” Sze asked.

Leo turned towards him, a smile creeping up on his face.

”Hell no!” he said, causing the other at his table to chuckle before digging into his food.