Harbinger Of Glory

As soon as Leo pushed open the cafeteria door and disappeared down the corridor, the low chatter that had filled the room suddenly lifted into laughter and groans.

”Ma dai!” one of the players said, slapping his hand against the table.

”He actually found it?”

”Posate Sporche!(Dirty Utensils)” another chimed in, shaking his head with a grin.

”The new kids’s either lucky or psychic, because nobody ever finds that on their first night.”

The laughter rolled through the room, a few forks clinking as players leaned back in their chairs, still amused.

”Poor ragazzo doesn’t even know what he’s avoided,” said one of the midfielders, his accent thick from Naples.

”We were waiting for him to leave it there.”

Another player, half-laughing, added, ”Yeah, you remember last camp? Giacomo left his plate and had to scrub every dish in here. Every single one.”

A chorus of agreement followed, some groaning at the memory, others laughing harder.

It was tradition, after all.

At clubs, players left their utensils for the staff to come and pick them up at the table, or so was how it went at most clubs, but with Leo at Wigan, it had always been something he had done, taking the dishes to the dirty tray himself, even if others didn’t.

And it was something that had made the staff at Wigan enjoy his presence and politeness.

And so at the Italian U21S, anyone who left their dishes behind got roped into cleaning up for everyone else.

It didn’t matter that the camp had kitchen staff; it was about the ”lesson.”

And by unspoken rule, no one warned the new guy.

Everyone had to learn the hard way.

Except this time, Leo had somehow dodged it.

Across the table, a few of the boys turned toward Regutti, though most of the players around seemed to be calling him Carlo.

”Oh, Carlo,” one of them said, leaning on the table with his elbow, ”you’re rooming with him, right? What’s the deal with the kid?”

Carlo, with a lazy smirk that made everything he said sound like he didn’t care, shrugged.

”Boh.

I don’t know. All I know is his name’s Leo, and that was from Marco mentioning it when we were in the bus coming to the camp.””That’s it?” someone said, incredulous.

”Yeah. Leo something,” Carlo went on, waving his fork idly.

”Didn’t really pay attention. But since we got on the same plane in Manchester, I am sure he plays for a club there or at least a club in or near the region surrounding it all together.”

One of the boys laughed.

”So you’re saying he’s your roommate and you didn’t even ask?”

Carlo frowned for half a second, then sighed.

”I didn’t. Not really, my business is it?”

A few heads turned.

”But it’s good to size up the competition, though,” another player said.

”Ah. Have fun then,” Carlo made a small noise, not sounding much more interested.

There was a brief silence, the group digesting the little information they had gotten before another one piped up, grinning.

”What position’s he play?”

Carlo looked at him like he’d just asked what colour the sky was.

”Did I not just say I don’t know?”

The table erupted in laughter again as one of the players, trying to butter up to Carlo, leaned closer and said with a teasing grin, ”We’ll find out soon enough, eh? They always show what they can do in training.”

Carlo tilted his head slightly, a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth.

”Sure. We’ll see.”

The group nodded, the air around them easing back into casual chatter, before some of the players finally stood, walking with their plates to the dirty tray.

Leo, on the other hand, had been looking for Marco for the better part of twenty minutes, but the latter was nowhere to be found.

He’d checked the cafeteria, the hall, even the small garden by the dorm, but nothing.

Eventually, Leo gave up and wandered out of the complex.

The evening had started to cool, and the light was soft, stretching over the quiet pathways of the training centre.

He found a wooden bench just outside the main building, sat down, and stretched his legs with a quiet sigh.

A few moments later, a buzz from his phone broke the calm.

It was Mia.

”So? How’s Italy? Do people really talk with their hands like in the movies?”

Leo smiled faintly, his thumb moving quickly over the screen.

”Haven’t seen anyone do it yet,” he typed back, smirking to himself.

Then he paused.

He had seen someone do it, Marco, in the car earlier that day, gesturing wildly while arguing with someone on the phone when they were coming to the complex.

A small laugh escaped him as he started typing another reply, but before he could hit send, a loud clatter startled him.

A few meters away, a pile of stationery, folders, pens, and papers had spilt across the walkway.

A man, maybe in his early Fifties, was bent over, struggling to gather everything before the breeze took it all.

Without thinking, Leo stood up and hurried over.

”Here, let me help you,” he said, crouching to pick up a bundle of pens that had rolled toward the curb.

The man glanced at him briefly before taking one of the folders Leo offered.

His eyes lingered on Leo a little longer than normal, sharp, discerning eyes that seemed to study him rather than just see him.

There was a moment’s silence before the man gave a quiet sigh, almost like a decision had just settled in his head.

He didn’t thank Leo, not yet.

Instead, he gathered the last of the scattered stationery and started walking toward the administrative building.

Leo blinked, looking down at the few files still in his hand before jogging slightly to catch up.

They walked in silence while the faint hum of evening insects filled the pause between them.

Leo thought, tried not to look awkward, holding a bundle of staplers and clipboards like a delivery boy who’d gotten lost.

They entered the administrative building through a side door as the man led him up a short flight of stairs and into a wide office lined with filing cabinets and a large wooden desk near the window.

It looked like the kind of place where decisions were made quietly but carried a lot of weight.

”Just set them there,” the man said in good English, gesturing toward the corner of the desk.

Leo did as he was told, neatly stacking the last folder on top.

When he turned back, the man had already sat down behind the desk, adjusting his glasses as he studied Leo again, really studied him this time.

There was a brief silence before the man spoke, his tone neither friendly nor harsh, just deliberate.

”Sit down, Leo.”

Leo froze slightly, his frown forming before he could help it.

It seemed to him that everyone seemed to know his name here, even people he hadn’t met.

It was starting to feel less like a coincidence and more like something else.

Still, Leo stepped closer, hesitated for a second, and then sat down in the chair across from the desk, his curiosity now fully awake.

He leaned back slightly, his hands resting on his thighs, trying to read the man’s expression.

But it gave nothing away.

The only thing clear was that this wasn’t some random office run-in or trivial meet.

”Leo Ravanelli,” the man said again, his voice slow, deliberate, as if confirming something to himself rather than addressing Leo directly.

He nodded once, eyes still fixed on the boy across from him.

”Yes... Leo.”

Then, leaning back slightly in his chair, he gestured toward himself.

”I’m Piatelli, Thomaso Piatelli,” he said, extending a hand across the desk.

”Head of Operations for the Italian youth divisions. Everything from the U21S down to the U16S goes through my desk one way or another.”

Leo shook his hand, trying not to look too uncertain.

The name didn’t ring a bell, but the man had that kind of presence that made you feel like you should know who he was.

”Right,” Leo said, nodding once, mostly to fill the silence.

Thomaso let out a quiet hum, watching him closely.

”I handle logistics, scouting files, travel arrangements... and sometimes I make it my business to know who walks through our doors.”

Leo gave a polite nod again, unsure what to say.

Thomaso’s expression softened a little.

”I’m also a friend of your father’s. Lucio Ravanelli.”

Leo blinked.

”My—what?” He leaned forward, caught off guard. ”Lucio Ravanelli?”

Thomaso nodded once, almost casually.

”We played together years ago. Before I went into management with your father, too, though he left it after some time. We both didn’t exactly make it in management, but here I am.”

Leo stared at him, brow creasing.

”I think you’ve got the wrong person,” he said after a beat. ”My dad’s last name is Calderon, and so am I.”

Thomaso paused, then smiled, a quiet, knowing sort of smile.

He let out a small chuckle, low and amused, shaking his head like someone who’d just heard a child insist that two plus two was five.

”Ah, I see,” he said, still smiling. ”That’s what was also on your paper.”

Leo frowned deeper. ”What’s that supposed to mean?”

”Nothing,” Thomaso said, waving a hand dismissively, though the smile didn’t quite leave his face.

”It’s just... old stories. Old names. Sometimes people choose one over another.”

Leo leaned back slightly, still confused.

”Well, Calderon’s the only one I know.”

Thomaso gave a single, thoughtful nod.

”Of course,” he said finally. ”Of course it is.”

He looked toward the window for a moment, the last of the daylight cutting a thin line across his desk.

Then, he looked back at Leo.

”Still, it’s good to finally meet you.”