Harbinger Of Glory

In the stands, among the clusters of scouts, staff, and curious onlookers, the two Italians were still seated side by side, coats zipped to their necks, coffees gone cold between them.

One of them let out a low whistle, an impressed and amused look on his face.

”Che giocata...” he murmured, then switched to English, lips curling.

”That nutmeg. That was nice.”

His companion, older and calmer, didn’t look up from the pitch replay still flickering on the screen above the tunnel.

He just nodded slightly.

”He’s got courage,” he said in that dry, measured way, as though courage was a currency he’d seen spent too many times.

”Maybe too much for someone his age.”

The first one smirked, leaning back in his seat.

”You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

”Sometimes it is,” the older one replied, eyes still fixed on the empty half of the field.

”Sometimes it’s exactly what you need.”

They fell silent after that, their conversation fading into the background hum of halftime chatter.

Around them, fans were returning from concession stands with steaming cups and foil-wrapped pies, shuffling past knees and muttering apologies.

The stadium speakers played a faint rhythm, some pop song dulled by the wind and chatter, before the announcer’s voice broke through, clear and booming.

”Alright, Latics fans, let’s hear you again! The boys are on their way back out!”

The two Italians looked up at once.

”So soon?” one of them said, blinking at his watch.

The other checked his as well, lips twitching.

”Fifteen minutes already gone,” he said.

”Time moves quickly when your mind wanders.”

They both straightened in their seats as the tunnel began to stir with life.

The first wave of Wigan players emerged, jogging out into the light, their blue kits catching the soft gleam of the late afternoon.

The home crowd rose in a chorus of applause, short but spirited as the players lingered just outside the tunnel and in between was Leo who had taken off his undersleeves at the half, with just the plain number 22 shirt clinging to his frame.

He jogged out beside Theo Aasgaard, the two speaking quietly and gesturing with their hands toward each other as they crossed into position.

From the commentary box above, the voices came back on air, crisp and composed.

”The players returning to the pitch now for the second half here at the DW Stadium,” one said.

”Middlesbrough leading by a goal to nil, but it’s still finely balanced. Wigan showed flashes near the end of that first half, flashes that could grow into something more if they find a bit of composure.”

His partner picked up the thread.

”Yes, and one of those flashes came from young Leo. He’s been tidy since coming on showing no fear in his touches, good energy off the ball.”

”We’ll see if he can build on it now,” the first added lightly.

Down on the pitch, the players were spreading out, the defensive lines adjusting, the midfield pointing and calling out assignments.

Leo crouched once, tugging at his socks, then glanced across to the touchline where Dawson stood, arms folded, nodding slightly in his direction.

Aasgaard gave him a pat on the shoulder as they took their spots.

The referee looked around, then raised his whistle to his lips as the stadium got rowdier with the fans preparing for the second half.

A brief pause came before the shrill sound of the referee’s whistle, invaded the pitch.

And just like that, the second half was underway.

Both sides were going at it, punch for punch, but still, like the first half, there was a faint edge to Middlesbrough’s play, that crispness in their touches and the way they moved the ball.

Still, Wigan refused to fold.

Every tackle, every block, every loose ball, they fought for it as if it meant everything.

Leo was in the thick of it.

It wasn’t his flashiest performance so far, but it was one that demanded sweat, awareness, and fight.

He kept drifting across the midfield, combining with the others, always offering himself as an outlet.

When Wigan were under pressure, he was there, checking into space, cushioning passes, and turning to buy his teammates a few seconds of air.

Perhaps the opponents were subconsciously looking down on the Leo but that wasn’t bothering him because he took advantage of it.

Every little touch helped the team settle.

Every pass was a small act of relief.

At one point, he slid in hard to stop a Boro break, too late, just clipping the man instead of the ball.

The whistle pierced the noise.

”Careful there, son!” the referee warned, holding up a finger but keeping his card in his pocket.

Leo just raised his hand in apology and jogged back into position, jaw set.

The crowd roared in approval anyway.

That kind of grit, was something they loved.

Boro were pushing again minutes later.

Their midfield was slick, and Watmore darted infield, looking to play a one-two.

The move was clean, until Leo came flying in.

He read it early, sliding across the damp turf, intercepting the pass just before it reached Watmore’s foot.

The fans reacted instantly, a deep, rolling cheer that shook the lower stands.

”Superb interception there by the youngster!” the commentator’s voice rose above the noise.

”Timed it perfectly, and now look at this, he’s away!”

Leo spun up from the ground in one fluid motion, shaking off a challenge as two Boro players closed in.

His boots scraped over the grass, cutting between them with a low turn that drew another round of applause.

For a moment, everything around him slowed, the shouting, the pressure, the movement of red shirts swarming back and then out of the corner of his eye, a shadow darted up the far flank.

He didn’t think.

He just felt it.

With his body angled awkwardly, Leo slid his foot through the ball, threading it diagonally between the midfield and defensive lines, a narrow, defying pass that seemed impossible until it rolled perfectly into the stride of McLean on the left wing.

”Brilliant vision from Leo! He’s split them open!”

McLean took one touch, looked up, and whipped a curling cross into the box where Will Keane was already on the move, ghosting past his marker.

The whole stadium seemed to hold its breath as Keane brought it down with his chest, the defender right on his back, and then made the turn.

”Keane... still Keane... oh, he’s going for it!”

Keane wrapped his right foot around the ball, sending it arcing toward the top-right corner as the fans behind the goal rose.

The keeper launched himself across the goal, fingertips stretching to reach the ball but then the ball smacked off the post with a hollow clang.

Groans and gasps filled the air as the rebound bounced wildly into the box.

”Off the woodwork! So close for Wigan!”

Before anyone could clear their heads, Leo was there again.

The loose ball fell to his feet thirty yards out, and without hesitation, he struck it cleanly, laces through leather, a low, fierce drive curling toward the bottom corner.

”Leo again, he’s hit it!”

The Boro keeper reacted sharply this time, diving low to his right before pushing the shot wide with his fingertips.

A roar erupted from the stands, the noise going up a crescendo as Leo jogged toward the corner flag, chest heaving, pointing to the crowd as they rose in unison, clapping, chanting his name.

The cameras caught his grin, something that unconsciously seemed to swell up on his face whenever he was having fun.

”He’s fired up, this lad,” the commentator said, voice steady again. ”Wigan needed that. He’s lifting them.”

He placed the ball by the corner flag, wiping the sweat from his forehead as the wind from the open stand brushed against his shirt.

The fans behind him were on their feet now, a sea of blue and white scarves waving above their heads.

He took a few steps back, eyes scanning the box.

Whatmough, towering near the penalty spot, raised a hand, a signal as Leo exhaled slowly, then whipped the ball in with his right foot.

It spun fiercely through the air, curling toward the near post, dipping just enough to tempt the keeper but swerving out of his reach.

”Lovely delivery from Leo!” the commentator called out as the crowd gasped collectively.

Whatmough burst through two red shirts, muscles straining, and met it cleanly with his forehead.

The contact was perfect and maybe too perfect.

The ball smacked against the upright with a sharp thud, bouncing straight up before spinning harmlessly over the crossbar.

”OOHHHH!” The whole stadium groaned in unison as Whatmough stood there with his hands on his head, Leo frozen at the corner flag, and the Boro keeper still on his knees, glancing back to see if the ball had snuck in.

”So close again for Wigan!” the commentator’s voice carried the mix of disbelief and thrill.

”That’s twice they’ve hit the post in the past minute! Middlesbrough living dangerously here!”

Leo turned, clapping toward Whatmough with a small grin, trying to lift the mood.

The fans responded immediately, applauding, chanting louder than before.

A/n: Okay, I just couldn’t think of a title. Bear with me