Harbinger Of Glory

Out of the view of Dawson, Leo stepped into the departures hall, the low hum of morning travel immediately swallowing him.

Rolling suitcases clicked over tiles, coffee machines hissed somewhere to his left, and a tinny voice echoed overhead, announcing another flight to Lisbon.

He paused for a moment, scanning the crowd, faces half-hidden by caps, masks, and hoods, families, business travellers, kids clutching plush toys, trying to spot the player he’d been told he was flying with.

A name had been mentioned somewhere in the email from the Italian FA, but right now, he couldn’t remember it.

He checked again, eyes flicking across the hall, but nothing.

No sign of anyone familiar or even remotely footballer-looking.

He sighed, adjusting his bag on his shoulder.

Maybe he’s running late.

Either way, they were both supposed to take the same shuttle to the training camp after landing in Fiumicino.

They’d eventually meet there.

With that, he let it go and made for an empty row of seats by a charging station.

He plugged in his phone, though the battery was still almost full, thumbed through messages, andscrolled aimlessly through clips and posts he’d already seen the night before.

Every few minutes, he glanced up at the flight board just above the gate.

Eventually, the intercom crackled.

”Flight 7-5-9 to Rome–Fiumicino is now boarding. All passengers, please proceed to Gate 12.”

Leo stood, unplugged his phone, wound his charger into his pocket, and joined the stream of passengers lining up.

The line shuffled forward, always the same: passports, scanners, the soft click of boarding passes, the muted greetings of attendants.

Eventually, he made his way through the Jetway and found his seat near the middle of the plane, by the window, slipping his bag into the overhead compartment before sitting down.

Next to him, a boy roughly his age, taller, lean, with dark curls tucked under a hoodie, was already there, arms folded, eyes closed like he’d been asleep since check-in.

Leo blinked, realising this had to be him.

The other player.

He thought about saying something, maybe a casual hey or you with the U21S too?, but the guy’s steady breathing made him think twice.

He didn’t want to wake him for no reason.

Instead, Leo slid his phone into aeroplane mode, pulled on his headset, and leaned back into the seat as the chatter faded to a hum while the cabin slowly filled with the soft shuffle of passengers getting settled.

A moment later, the captain’s voice came through the speakers, calm, warm and assuring.

”Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard flight 7-5-9 to Rome. We’ll be taxiing out shortly, so please fasten your seatbelts... And enjoy the flight”

Leo adjusted his buckle, eyes flicking once toward the window as the plane began to ease backwards from the gate.

The engines rumbled softly beneath his feet, the runway lights stretching like a trail of stars ahead.

He set his playlist, tilted his head back against the seat, and let the low hum of takeoff wash over him.

....

A sharp rap sounded against the wooden door — toc toc toc.

Inside, a low voice answered, ”Avanti.”

The door eased open, and a man in staff gear stepped in.

”Mister, most of the players have arrived,” he said, his accent thick, his tone brisk but polite.

”All except a couple.”

Behind the desk, the older man didn’t look up right away.

He was hunched over a small monitor, scrolling through a list of arrivals, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose.

”Mh,” he murmured, half to himself.

”Those must be the additions flying in from outside the country.”

The staffer nodded once, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

”Capito, yes. Should I get the shuttle ready to meet them at Fiumicino?”

The man behind the desk finally leaned back, tapping the side of his pen against the folder in front of him.

”Aspetta un attimo[Wait a moment],” he said, thinking for a second.

”Better check with the transport coordinator first. He should have the flight times. Va bene?”

”Sì, Mister,” the younger man replied with a small nod.

The older man gave a faint, approving hum, already returning to his monitor.

”Good. Let me know when you hear back. We can’t afford to keep them waiting too long after they land.”

”Certo.”

With that, the staffer turned on his heel and stepped out into the hallway, the faint click of the door shutting behind him breaking the quiet.

He exhaled through his nose, glancing down the long corridor where voices and movement spilt faintly from the main room.

He muttered something under his breath,andiamo, sempre di corsa

,[We are always in a hurry]before heading off down the hall, clipboard in hand, to check with the personnel in charge of the arrivals....

[Mid A/N: How I would have loved to add, Che La Luna, the song right here to begin]

The wheels touched down with a soft thud, and the plane rolled to a slow crawl across the tarmac of Rome’s Fiumicino Airport.

The familiar chime sounded, and passengers began unbuckling, standing, and stretching.

Leo stood up, removing his bag from the compartment and then swinging it over his shoulder as he glanced to his right.

The kid who had slept through most of the flight was also up now, running a hand through his messy hair and checking his phone.

He didn’t say anything, but once outside, Leo noticed they were both heading toward the same gate and following the same directions on the signs, which confirmed it.

That was the other player.

No words were exchanged.

Just a quick glance that neither tried to hold.

They followed the flow of passengers through customs and baggage claim, the airport a blur of chatter, bright signs, and the low hum of rolling suitcases.

The air that hit them once they stepped outside was different, warmer, richer, smelling faintly of coffee and exhaust.

Leo dragged his smaller bag behind him until he reached the curb, then stopped, setting it upright before sitting on top of it.

The breeze tugged lightly at his hoodie strings as he scrolled through his phone, checking for any messages from the team back in Wigan.

A few meters away, the other boy stood with his hands in his pockets, posture relaxed, earphones in, no attempt at acknowledgement.

It was fine by Leo; he wasn’t in the mood to force conversation either.

Five minutes passed, maybe less, before a small white minibus pulled up along the curb.

The Italian flag and the crest of the Nazionale U21 were printed boldly along its side.

Heads turned almost instantly, a couple of bystanders slowed their pace, phones subtly raised for photos, trying to guess who the young players were.

A man in a dark team jacket stepped out of the bus, scanning the curb before spotting them.

”Ragazzi!” he called, waving them over.

His accent was thick but friendly.

”Venite, forza!” (Come on, let’s go!)

Leo stood, grabbed his bag, and started toward him.

The other player did the same, falling in line a little behind.

The bystanders kept watching, whispering, pointing, but turned away only after the minibus doors closed and the engine revved, carrying them out of view.

Inside, the air was cooler as Leo took the seat by the window, setting his bag at his feet.

The man who had waved them over was up front, now chatting with the other boy in rapid Italian.

Leo tried to catch on to a few words, allenamento

(training?), arrivato, maybe campo, but it was like trying to listen through water.He gave up after a while, just looking out at the Roman traffic sliding by.

Then the man turned toward him with a grin.

Switching to English, he said, ”You must be Leo, yes?”

”Yeah,” Leo replied, nodding quickly.

The man reached over the seat and offered his hand.

”Good, good. Welcome. I am Marco.”

They shook, the man’s grip firm.

Then, turning back, Marco added something in Italian, ”Magro, eh?”

The other boy snorted, breaking his calm for the first time, laughing under his breath.

Leo blinked.

”What did he say?” he asked to no one in particular.

Marco just smiled.

”It means... skinny,” he said, making a gesture as if he were measuring a stick with his fingers.

”Oh,” Leo said flatly, trying not to look overwhelmed.

”Nice to meet you, too, Marco.”

The man chuckled, shaking his head.

”Don’t worry. We fix that. In Italy, we feed our players bene, very well.”

Leo shrugged, smiling a little. ”I’ll take your word for it.”

Marco nodded approvingly, then leaned an elbow on the back of the seat.

”You’re not living in Italy, right?”

”No. Manchester,” Leo said.

”Ah. Then you will need to learn the language. È importante.” (It’s important.)

”Already started,” Leo said, reaching into his bag and pulling out a yellow book, Italian for Dummies.

Marco blinked, then laughed loud enough for the driver to glance up from the rearview mirror.

”Perfetto! I like you already. A sense of humour is good. Keeps you alive here.”

Leo grinned, tucking the book back into his bag.

After that, Marco turned forward, tapping something on his phone as the bus rolled out of the airport and toward the highway.

The other boy had gone quiet again, scrolling through whatever on his phone that had made him sit upright.

”Cool,” Leo muttered to himself after seeing everyone on their own devices before pulling his out.