Harbinger Of Glory

The two men entered the office where Dawson’s paperwork lay scattered in neat, purposeful piles.

Nolan stepped in behind him, the quiet shuffle of the assistant retreating back down the hall, leaving only the two of them in the room.

Without a word, Nolan set the two envelopes down on the desk.

The weight of them seemed heavier than the paper they were made of, the crests stamped on the front catching the light, unmistakable in their formality.

Dawson glanced at them once, halfway through pulling off his coat, and paused. He reached out slowly, his chair groaning faintly as he sank into it, his fingers brushing the thick card.

”What’s this, then?” he asked, but Nolan didn’t answer, and he didn’t have to.

Dawson’s eyes lingered on the crests etched on the envelopes a moment longer before a low chuckle escaped him.

”Now this is fun. Both want him, huh.”

He leaned back in his chair, tapping the edge of one envelope against the desk before looking up at his assistant.

”You’ve not shown him these yet, have you?”

But Nolan shook his head.

”Good,” Dawson said, nodding firmly.

He pushed the envelopes together and slid them to one side of the desk.

”No sense in rushing him. We’ve got Millwall to worry about first. We’ll sit him down when the time’s right, after Middlesbrough. That’s what... twelve days from now?”

”Just about,” Nolan replied quietly.

”Right.”

Dawson rose from his chair again, the legs scraping softly against the carpet as he opened the drawer and slipped both envelopes inside.

The sound of wood on wood clicked shut like a decision being locked away, as his voice came again.

”Until then, we focus on the football. The rest can wait.”

Nolan nodded, the lines at the corners of his mouth easing slightly, as Dawson came around the desk, clapping an arm around his colleague’s shoulder with an easy familiarity.

”Now then,” he said, his voice lighter, teasing. ”How’s the wife?”

Nolan’s expression faltered, just for a second, his brow tightening before he muttered, ”Don’t have one.”

Dawson’s chuckle rolled out, unbothered.

”Aye, I know. Just wanted to rub it in. Mate, you have got to be quick. You aren’t exactly getting young.”

He gave Nolan’s shoulder a light squeeze before letting go, the grin still tugging at his face as he made for the door.

Nolan could only shake his head, a faint smile breaking through despite himself, before following.

Together, they stepped back out into the corridor, the door clicking shut behind them, leaving the quiet office and its sealed drawer behind.

2 days later, the gym at the Wigan complex hummed with the layered sounds of effort and distraction, weights clinking against rubber plates, the low whir of a treadmill, and the rise and fall of voices that all seemed to orbit around the television mounted on the far wall.

On it, Millwall versus Wigan played out in sharp colour, every pass, foul, and challenge drawing glances from the group of players scattered across the room.

Jake and Ezra were side by side on the mats, going through a set of core exercises, sweat darkening their training tops, while Benjamin had claimed one of the rowing machines, but his eyes were fixed more on the screen than his split times.

A couple of the U21 lads sat against the wall with medicine balls, half-heartedly tossing them between one another, their focus firmly tuned into the match commentary.

The door clicked open, and Leo stepped in, the shuffle of his slides against the floor announcing him before his voice did.

He raised a hand casually, offering a wave toward Jake, Ezra, Benjamin, and the cluster of younger boys.

A few of them nodded back, some raising hands in return, though no one peeled their attention fully from the screen.

Leo crossed to the bench near the mats before swapping his slides for trainers.

”Evening,” he murmured as he laced up, his tone calm, a contrast to the atmosphere that buzzed in the gym.

Jake flashed him a grin between breaths.

”Evening,” Ezra added, not breaking rhythm with his planks.

Leo settled beside them, lowering himself onto the mat, his body already moving into position.

His arms locked out, core engaged as he held the plank steady, his breathing controlled.

A glance flicked toward the TV where the match commentary picked up pace, before his eyes returned to the floor, back straight, discipline sharp.

The minutes ticked on like that, the match flowing in the background with snatches of commentary and bursts of fan noise filling the silence between clinks of weights and measured breaths.

Then it happened.

The referee’s whistle cut through the speakers, sharp and decisive, and the gym seemed to still for a beat as the official pointed towards the spot.

Groans broke out almost instantly, as the youngsters stopped their work, their attention now fully on the screen.

”You’ve got to be kidding me,” one of the U21 boys muttered, tossing the medicine ball down harder than he meant to.

Benjamin exhaled through his teeth, shaking his head, while Jake dropped from his plank into a sit-up, frustration clear on his face.

”That’s soft,” he grumbled. ”So soft.”

Ezra, still holding his position, only cursed under his breath, his jaw tightening, while Leo, who hadn’t been focusing much on the game, turned his head towards the TV, his body pausing mid-stretch.

On screen, the Millwall striker was already placing the ball down, calm as if the whole thing had been rehearsed a hundred times before.

The whistle blew again, the run-up came, and in one clean strike, the ball was buried into the bottom corner.

The gym fell into a kind of collective sigh with the lads muttering in irritation, some calling it unfair, others too drained to say anything at all.

Leo watched the replay once, before a quiet scoff slipped out of him, dry and dismissive.

He shook his head slightly, then dropped back into his routine, locking into the next set of stretches without another word.

Around him, the complaints carried on, but Leo’s focus seemed to have shifted firmly back to the floor beneath him, his movements precise and deliberate, as if the game on the screen was just another piece of noise in the room.

Eventually, the players moved towards the Cafeteria for their meal, with some staying and watching the game while others, like Leo, made their way living wing, the faint buzz of the overhead lights mixing with the distant echoes of laughter from somewhere else in the complex.

Inside, the room was still like he had left it.

He dropped his bag just by the desk, letting it fall with a dull thud before peeling off his sweat-soaked shirt.

His muscles ached in that good way that came after a proper session, the sting of worked fibres still humming beneath his skin.

Without much thought, he grabbed a towel and shuffled into the small bathroom tucked into the corner of his room.

The shower hissed alive, and soon the steam curled up around him, the heat washing away the day’s grit.

Beads of water traced down his back and shoulders, and for a few minutes, Leo let himself simply exist in the rush of warmth, eyes half shut, his mind blank except for the muffled rhythm of droplets striking tile.

When he finally stepped out, hair damp and towel cinched at his waist, he felt lighter, fresher, though not entirely awake.

Back in his room, he tugged on a loose T-shirt and shorts, then reached for his phone on the bedside table.

The screen unlocked almost immediately after Leo brought it to his face, and the little notification banner told him all he needed: still 1–0 to Millwall, the clock crawling deep into stoppage time.

A low sigh escaped his lips as he set the phone back down with a soft clink against the wood, stretched out on his bed, and sank into the mattress.

The day’s fatigue pressed against him, his eyelids heavier with every passing second.

Sleep hovered just within reach, close enough that he could almost fall into it.

But then a sudden, unmistakable eruption of noise cut through the stillness of the complex.

It rolled in waves, muffled but unmistakable, bouncing off the walls of the building like distant thunder.

Leo’s eyes snapped open.

He blinked, then pushed himself upright, his heart giving a little jump.

He reached for his phone again, the device glowing in his hand as he refreshed the score.

There it was. 1–1.

Wigan had found an equaliser, right at the death.

Another sigh left him, but this one carried something softer, a thread of relief woven into it.

A game that was not supposed to be challenging had almost cost them all the points.

His shoulders dropped back against the chair he’d slumped into, his body loosening as though the news had untied a knot he didn’t realise he’d been carrying.

For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the numbers on the screen and letting the tension bleed out of him, before settling back on the bed.

He let the phone slip from his hand, landing quietly on the mattress before he stretched out once more, eyes tracing the ceiling before finally fluttering shut.