Harbinger Of Glory

Reeves left without another word a few moments after he finished the conversation with Jonas.

The door clicked shut behind him, softer than it should have been, and Jonas stayed where he was, eyes fixed on the empty space the man had occupied.

After a few seconds, he dragged a hand down his face and leaned back in his chair, letting out a long breath that sounded like it had been sitting in his chest all morning.

”This can’t keep happening,” he muttered to no one.

He straightened almost immediately, as if the thought itself had pushed him upright.

His chair creaked as he leaned forward, already reaching for the phone.

”We have to get this in order,” Jonas said under his breath. ”And we have to be quick.”

He dialled, waited through one ring, then spoke clearly.

”Yeah. Can you put me through to the sporting director, please? Tell him it’s about a player we let go.”

He set the receiver down and stared at the file again while the line connected.

....

A few days later, the Wigan players were locked in training, just a day after the quarter-finals of the World Cup.

The players jogged in loose clusters, breath puffing out in uneven rhythm.

Conversation drifted easily, louder than usual now that the World Cup had given everyone ammunition.

”So that’s it then,” one of the foreign lads said, grinning as he glanced at Jamie Jones.

”All that noise about bringing it home, and France sent you packing.”

Jones rolled his eyes. ”You say that like we didn’t lose by one goal.”

”Whatmough laughed. ”Doesn’t matter how,” he said. ”Out is out.”

A couple of others joined in, piling on just enough to be annoying without crossing the line.

Jones shook his head, pointing out all of the players one by one.

”You lot have been waiting for that, haven’t you?”

”Of course,” came the reply. ”You’d do the same.”

Before it could spiral any further, a voice cut through the chatter.

”Am I missing something?” Dawson said, stepping into view, hands on his hips, ”Or did the jog suddenly turn into a social club?”

The laughter died down fast.

”If you’ve still got that much energy,” he went on, eyes sweeping across them, ”then clearly I haven’t worked you hard enough.”

A few groans followed, but Dawson still made them follow through without another session of extra running.

Off to the side, Leo, Ezra, and Jake were stepping out of the rondos, shoulders loose, sweat starting to bead at their temples.

Leo caught Ezra’s eye and smiled.

Ezra leaned closer. ”England going out must’ve hurt him,” he said quietly.

”This feels personal.”

Jake snorted. ”He’s definitely taking it out on us.”

Leo glanced back toward Dawson, who was already barking instructions again, and shook his head with a faint grin.

”Lucky us,” he said.

They fell into line with the others as the session rolled on.

.....

”We need to talk about targets.”

Dawson had barely taken his seat before the words landed.

Two board members sat across from him, folders open, pens already in hand, like the outcome was supposed to be tidy.

He listened, arms folded, as they outlined it.

Youth integration.

Minutes for academy players.

A visible pathway.

The sort of language that sounded good in reports and interviews.

By the time they finished, Dawson’s face had tightened.

He exhaled through his mouth and leaned back slightly.

”You want me to start promoting kids,” he said.

One of the men nodded. ”It’s important for the club’s image. And long-term planning.”

Dawson let out a short breath and looked from one to the other.

Then he smiled, faintly, the kind of smile that carried more restraint than warmth.

”Sure,” he said. ”In a year. Maybe. If I am still with the club, that is.”

Both men shook their heads almost in unison.

”No,” one of them said. ”Sooner.”

That smile disappeared.

”With respect,” Dawson replied, leaning forward now, elbows on the table, ”that’s not realistic.”

They tried to interject, but he was already going.

”Look at where we are,” he said.

”Look at the run we’re on. We haven’t lost a game. The squad is settled, confident. You don’t destabilise that just to tick a box. And may I remind you that I have already handed 4 youth players, excluding Leo Calderon, a debut with another one on the cards.”

One of the board members frowned. ”No one is asking you to destabilise anything.”

”You are,” Dawson said calmly. ”That’s exactly what you’re asking.”

He straightened in his chair.

”A couple of months ago, I was this close to being shown the door,” he continued.

”You remember that, right? Results were bad, and pressure was coming from everywhere. The only reason I’m still sitting here is because this group turned it around.”

The room went quiet.

”If I start throwing lads in before they’re ready and it goes wrong,” he added, ”it won’t be your heads on the line. It’ll be mine.”

Dawson stood, the eyes of the men looking up at his frame now.

”I’m not against youth,” he said, calmer now.

”Never have been. But they earn it. If they show me they’re ready, if I can trust them on the pitch, then they’ll get minutes. They’ll get chances. Proper ones.”

He reached for the back of his chair.

”But I won’t play players just because someone upstairs wants a reaction.”

He nodded once, polite but final, and turned toward the door without leaving room for them to talk back.

Behind him, the silence stretched, edged with frustration.

Out in the corridor, Nolan was waiting, arms folded, shaking his head as Dawson approached.

”That’s the third time,” Nolan said.

Dawson scoffed quietly.

”They don’t have anything better to do, and that is why they always decide to cause trouble.”

”They’re not going to drop it.”

Dawson kept walking.

”They don’t have to like it or me. As long as I am bringing results, it’s hard to find any basis to try and harm my career here at Wigan.”

”We can’t afford to fold to pressure from up top,” he said. ”Not when what we’re doing is working.”

Nolan nodded. ”Agreed.”

Dawson squared his shoulders and headed down the hall, already thinking about Rotherham, who they played next.

....

The following day, noise hit first at the AESSEAL New York Stadium.

It rolled down from the stands as the tunnel doors opened, a sharp mix of boos and drums and voices that carried no warmth for the visitors.

Rotherham’s crowd made sure their feelings were clear, leaning over railings, arms raised, shouting as the two teams stepped out side by side.

Wigan walked into it without breaking stride.

Up in the commentary box, the broadcast found its rhythm and in plenty too.

”Plenty of edge in the air here,” the lead commentator said.

”Rotherham at home, and they’ll fancy their chances against anyone in this league.”

The camera swept across the away end, packed tighter than expected.

White and blue scarves waved above heads, a few hundred strong, maybe pushing into four figures, singing through the noise.

”But Wigan arrive in frightening form,” his partner added. ”One defeat since early October, and we’re now deep into December. Two games left before the year closes, and they’ve barely taken a step back.”

The players spread out across the pitch, studs biting into the turf as they went through their final touches.

Rotherham’s goalkeeper bounced on his line while Wigan’s back four exchanged quick words, familiar and calm.

”And a huge part of that run,” the commentator continued, ”has been this young man in midfield, who has been vital especially in their recent run of form against tougher and tougher opponents.”

The camera cut to Leo, who stood just inside the centre circle, hands on his hips, eyes fixed ahead and a smile that only told anyone who saw it that he was just glad to be on the pitch.

”Leo Calderón,” came the voice. ”Still only seventeen, but playing with the composure of someone who’s been in this division for years. Game by game, he looks more assured, more influential.”

Leo rolled his neck once, glanced toward the touchline, then back to the referee, who had now made his way over to the centre of the pitch after having to fix some issues with his refereeing equipment.

”If Rotherham are going to find a way to slow Wigan down today,” the co-commentator said, ”they may have to start there. Close his passing lanes, stop him from dictating the tempo, because as we’ve seen from previous games, if Calderon gets in the groove, the home side might have a lot of answering to do.”

The referee checked his watch as the players took their positions.

The noise rose again, sharper now, anticipation cutting through the cold afternoon.

”Everything set,” the commentator said. ”We’re moments away from kick-off at the AESSEAL New York Stadium.”

The camera lingered on the Rotherham Striker kicking off for a second longer before pulling wide after the referee’s whistle sounded.