Harbinger Of Glory

Leo knew he had left it two days longer than he should have, and the reason was simple.

Each day, he’d thought Dawson would just reappear when given enough time.

And by the third day, together with all the suggestive glances he got from Nolan, that logic expired.

The moment he got to his apartment after training, he picked up his phone and called Dawson.

The phone rang for a while, beeping like it was never going to get answered until a *click* sound came through.

”Leo,” Dawson answered as Leo sighed.

”Where are you?” Leo said as a sigh also came from the other side.

”Home.”

”You’ve missed three sessions.”

”I know.”

Leo sat on the edge of his bed in the accommodation block and looked at the floor.

”So what’s going on, coach?”

”It isn’t anything that a little protest can’t fix,” Dawson began, ”but the club has made it clear they’re open to offers for you. As long as the number is right, they’ll consider it.”

”Again,” Leo said tiredly.

”I thought that talk was over. I mean, it’s nice to have attention around you, but I already told them I wasn’t leaving, and definitely when we are on the brink of making it into the Premier League. Are they that strapped for money, and I thought it was just Manchester from that bit a while ago?”

”They’ve already had other inquiries,” Dawson said, his voice getting a bit groggy.

”They even went to Noah asking about your stance. Trying to make it look like you want to leave so the supporters don’t turn on them for selling.”

”What the f-, they can’t make me go if I don’t want to,” Leo said. ”Can they?”

”No,” Dawson said.

”They can’t force you out. But they can make things difficult.” He exhaled.

”If my protest doesn’t land the way I need it to, they can sack me. Bring someone in who won’t play you. Freeze you out until the situation becomes uncomfortable enough that leaving starts to feel like the better option.”

Leo’s jaw tightened. ”Would they actually do that?”

”They’re a football club, Leo. They’ve done it before, and they’ll do it again if the money is right.”

Leo stood up and moved toward the window where the floodlights were still on over the empty training pitch.

”The fans won’t stand for it,” he said.

”Half of them are already unhappy with how the club is being run. The only reason it hasn’t boiled over is the results we gave.”

”Which is exactly what I said to them,” Dawson replied. ”Whether they listened is another matter. The club had been nearing an administrative sentence, and I have been hearing something about new owners, but until then, those old fucks up top are going to keep running this club to ruin for their profit.”

”But why haven’t you told the boys. At least, Darikwa and the oldies, if not us,” Leo said as Dawson stayed quiet over the phone for a second.

”I thought about that. But if I tell them before the playoffs, it becomes a distraction. It affects the dressing room, affects the preparation, and then if the results suffer because of it, the club uses that as ammunition against me.”

”So you’ve just been sitting on it alone for three days.”

”More or less.”

Leo pressed two fingers to his forehead and said nothing for a moment.

”Well, it isn’t all bad. We can leave hints for the fans,” he said finally.

”We won’t talk outright about it, but rather point them in that direction. Still don’t disappear because Nolan’s a bad liar and he’s making it look like you have cancer or something.”

Something that sounded like it might have been a laugh came down the line.

”I’ll be there tomorrow,” Dawson said before Leo ended the call!

”We’ve got to make it to the Prem,” he said with a hint of excitement at the challenge ahead.

...

The next morning, the knock on Leo’s door was more of a series of rapid thuds that suggested whoever was on the other side had opinions about waiting.

Leo had his compression top half on when the door swung open, and Jake came through it like he owned the corridor.

”Look who made the first team,” he said, pointing at himself with both hands.

Leo stood there with one arm through the sleeve and looked past Jake at Ezra, who was leaning against the doorframe with the expression of a man who had been listening to some version of this since approximately 9 pm, of the previous day.

Ezra gave a small shake of his head that confirmed everything.

”He wanted to rant to you yesterday, but I was able to convince him otherwise.”

Leo looked back at Jake, still not sure, searching his face for the sign that this was one of his bits, but he didn’t find it.

”Serious?” Leo said.

”Deadly,” Jake said.

Leo pulled the compression top down and reached for his training shirt.

”Congratulations.”

”That’s it? Congratulations?”

”What do you want, a parade?” Leo sat on the edge of the bed and reached for his slides.

”Thompson’s going to be fuming, by the way. Dawson keeps pulling his players.”

”Thompson will survive,” Jake said, dropping onto the chair by the desk without being invited.

”Twenty-two goals in nineteen games. What was he going to do, leave me in the twenty-ones forever?”

And there it was.

Leo had caught wind of the numbers Jake had been putting up over the last few months, and he had to say, it was beyond impressive.

And from what he had heard, it wasn’t scrappy ones either.

Thompson himself said Jake had become something different from the player Leo had practically had to drag by the collar when they first played together in the U21S.

The talent had always been there underneath the attitude, and somewhere in the months since Leo and Ezra had moved up and left him behind, something had clicked.

Leo knew what that kind of solitude did to a competitive person.

Ezra, who had already entered the room, appeared in the fray again now with a small milk carton at his mouth, and straw already in.

”Are you done yet?” he said to Leo. ”Because if I have to hear about the amount of goals he’s scored one more time before we get to the pitch, I’m going to lose my mind.”

”I’m done,” Leo said, standing.

The three of them moved out into the corridor where Jake fell into step beside them, still humming something tuneless and self-satisfied.

Leo glanced back at him as they walked.

”You deserve it,” he said quietly.

Jake nodded, trying to play it off, but Leo could see his hands tapping at his sides.

10 minutes before the time for the training session was up, the players made their way towards the pitch, gathering near one of the goal posts.

A moment later, Dawson appeared in front of them, and immediately, the murmuring started.

He stopped in front of them and looked around the group.

”Right,” he said as the noise quieted.

”I’ve got a team in front of me that can make the Premier League.”

”I believe that. But if you don’t believe it yet, you will by the time we’re done.”

He looked across the faces before nodding towards the other coaches.

”We’ve got work to do. Let’s get on with it.”

The players split off doing their positional training with the various coaches around.

They stretched, worked and made sure every part of their bodies felt loosened enough for what was to come because the intensity went up in the second half of the session and didn’t come back down.

The rondo in the middle had been running for six minutes, and Jake was everywhere in it, pressing the man on the ball, closing the passing lanes, throwing himself into every transition like the game was already on.

Dawson had structured it deliberately, not giving anyone a moment to breathe between drills, and the players who had been through it before knew to pace themselves.

Jake had not paced himself.

By the time the rondo broke and they moved into the possession phase, the signs were already there.

The heavy breathing.

The hands dropping to the knees for a second before straightening back up.

Leo caught it from across the pitch, same as Ezra, and all they could do was laugh.

Then, during the break between sets, Jake sat himself on the grass and then lay back, chest rising and falling like a man who had made some decisions he was now reviewing.

His arm went across his eyes, but just as it did, shadow fell over him.

He moved his arm and saw Dawson was standing over him, looking down with a blank stare.

”This won’t be enough, son”, Dawson said.

Then he turned and walked away with a small smile that Jake couldn’t see playing at his lips.

Jake lay there for a second.

Then something shifted in his face.

He was on his feet before the next drill was called.

It didn’t go unnoticed.

”Oi, he’s back,” Fletcher said from the far side as the drills carried on.

”Where did that come from?” Whatmough muttered, watching Jake drive into the next press.

”That’s more like it,” McClean offered, clapping once.

”Give it two minutes,” Ezra said under his breath, but two minutes passed.

Then five.

Then the session moved into its final phase, a high-intensity eleven versus eleven across two-thirds of the pitch, and Jake was still going.

Still pressing, still arriving late into challenges, still calling for the ball when he got the chance and driving with it when he got it.

The legs had nothing left in a technical sense, but he was running on something else now.

The need for the Coach’s approval.

When Dawson finally blew the whistle to end it, the players bent over, grabbed their knees and let the effort drain out of them.

Dawson looked across his squad, nodding with a pleased expression.

”Very good,” he said before he began walking away with Nolan beside him!