Harbinger Of Glory

Pep stood with his hands in his pockets, watching the Wigan players walk back to their half.

They didn’t look like a team that had just scored at Wembley.

They looked like a team that had expected to, and their body language suggested that they weren’t even done celebrating.

After watching them for a moment longer, Pep turned towards his players with a questioning look, knowing all of them would sneak a glance or two at him.

And true to his thoughts, most of the players turned to look at him, only to look away once they realised that he was staring.

After meeting eyes with every single one of his players, he turned and walked back to his seat, dropping into it before leaning toward his assistant.

”The tapes we got on that player,” he said quietly. ”Do we have them?”

His assistant hesitated for just a second, wondering what Pep had suddenly become interested in to require tapes suddenly.

After going through all his guesses in that lapsing second, he reached for the tablet on the seat beside him and started going through it.

The Wigan players were already in their half, the referee was almost ready, and the assistant was still scrolling when he finally handed the tablet across just before the whistle went.

Pep took it without looking up from the pitch, then settled into his seat and pressed play as the game on the pitch began.

”And we are back underway at Wembley,” the commentator said.

”Manchester City restarting, one-nil down, and I have to say I did not see that coming quite so early.”

”Neither did I,” his partner said. ”And honestly, I do not think anyone did. Even the Wigan fans, and what makes it more remarkable is that it was Wigan’s first real touch in the final third. Their first effort of the game and it’s in the back of the net.”

”Clinical doesn’t even cover it.”

”No, it doesn’t. And look at how it happened. Fletcher’s run to pull Akanji out of shape. Lang showing his experience cutting across to make Stones hesitate. McClean with the composure to cut it back to the edge instead of whipping it into the box, which honestly, nine times out of ten that ball is going into the box, and City deal with it no problem.”

”It’s ingenuity and telepathy every fan or coach would like to see in their players, with how all players forced the dots to connect for their team. In a normal game without much stakes, I say City come back, but it’s a final, the FA cup at that and what we’ve learnt from finals is that anything can happen!”

”Wigan have fired the first shot,”

the main commentator said after nodding to the words of his partner.”Now we find out how Manchester City respond.”

--

Noah hit the top of the staircase and immediately started patting his pockets.

Keys. Keys. Where were the keys?

He found them in his coat pocket, which was the last place he mostly checked because he couldn’t find it most of the time.

After fiddling for a second more, he got the door open and half fell through it, coat still half on as he crossed the room.

”They said we’d finish early,” he said to nobody as he pulled one arm out of the coat sleeve and then the other before leaving it draped across the chair behind his desk.

”They said we’d be done by two. Now my phone’s dead, and I’ve missed the game—” he paused midway as he took the match ticket that had now become a waste out from his right bottom pocket.

He immediately turned towards the desk where he’d set his phone on charge the moment he entered, and it was now turning on.

He stood over it, watching the screen like he could make it go faster by staring.

But he could swear that everything was suddenly taking longer than it usually did, from the phone catching signal to the lockscreen going away even after entering his pin.

Finally, it did, and when the signal stabilised, his eyes went wide.

What came next was heard very clearly one floor below.

A thud.

Then another thud.

Then what sounded like a grown man making a noise that had no business coming out of the mouth of a human.

Downstairs, a voice came through the ceiling.

”OI. SOME OF US LIVE DOWN HERE IN CASE YA’ DIDN’T KNOW!!”

Noah didn’t hear it.

He was already on his knees on the floor with his phone in both hands, staring at the 1-0 notification from Wigan’s feed, and when he tapped it, the live feed opened as Leo appeared on screen, moving with the ball.

After that, Noah pressed his hand over his mouth and just watched.

On the phone screen and simultaneously at Wembley, Leo slowed as he received the ball in midfield.

Numbers were swarming, but he couldn’t care less.

The Manchester City players had gotten wary of him, and even if they were close, he knew they weren’t going to charge in recklessly, so he was going to take advantage of that.

After getting enough time to find where he wanted to go next, he lifted his hand and pointed right.

Lang, seeing the point, knew it was for him.

One step, then two and before he knew, his legs had carried him just around Kevin De Bruyne, who had dropped to cover for Ruben Dias, who was backpedalling.

”Another chance building for Wigan here, Leo with the ball, Lang making the run—”

The touch wasn’t flashy, but it settled just ahead of Lang, giving him time to think of what he wanted to do.

But even with the thought time, Lang’s effort fizzed toward the bottom corner before cannoning into the side netting.

”OOOOOHHHHHHHH!!” both commentators groaned as the ball rolled to a stop.

And it was a groan that the Wigan fans mirrored around Wembley before being followed almost immediately by applause from the same Wigan fans.

Lang turned back toward Leo with his palms up, apologising without words.

”Wonderful ball forward from Calderon,” the commentator cried.

”And City, who have been controlling this game since the first minute, are suddenly finding themselves on the back foot and asking each other questions they don’t have answers to yet.”

On the City side of things, Gundogan was already talking to Rodri, towards the space they give Leo when they press and the same thing they do when they don’t press, while Ortega grabbed the ball from the ball boy and held it, taking his time.

On the sidelines, Pep finally lifted his eyes from the tablet and sat with whatever he’d seen for a moment, very still, while his assistant waited beside him.

Then Pep said, ”I made a mistake.”

His assistant turned, wondering what his boss could mean by that.

Pep was still looking at the pitch.

”We need a back four.”

Oblivious to the pending machinations of his coach, Ortega placed the ball down and stepped back.

Then he smashed it long and direct with no ceremonial air.

The ball was pushed right past the City midfielders, who were tracking the ball, and then further deep into the Wigan setup.

As he settled in front of Haaland, he felt a tug on his shirt and, in reaction, held onto the patch near the waist of Haaland.

Whatmough was a lot of things, but he wasn’t one to shy away from a duel.

When the ball finally got near the Wigan final third, it began to drop, and as it did, Whatmough began to go for it.

When he did so, he found out he was a bit limited as he had still held on to Haaland, who in turn had done the same, and that little bit made all the difference as in the next second, Whatmough felt the ball clip the top of his head instead of meeting it cleanly.

The Manchester City fans got to their feet in anticipation as the ball bounced forward, and suddenly, Haaland was free.

”Haaland. He’s in!!” the commentary snapped alive on the broadcast, but around the stadium, the Wigan fans watched without immediate alarm.

Leo was back.

Bennet was across.

Darikwa was covering, and Tilt was there.

They looked covered.

Except Leo felt it before anyone else did.

He was already moving differently, tighter, more urgent, while the others around him were still processing the situation rather than reacting to it.

Haaland took the ball toward the box, and Bennet stepped out to meet him, but in the next second, Haaland just rolled through him.

Not around him but through him, like Bennet was a suggestion rather than a defender.

Seeing this, Tilt reacted quickly and came from the other side, but Haaland shifted his weight, and Tilt bounced off him the same way.

Leo had anticipated the whole scene to the best of his abilities.

Unlike his mates, he hadn’t forgotten the freak of nature Haaland was and covered the shooting angle as best he could, getting his body across, making himself as big as possible.

Haaland didn’t care.

From 9 yards, he swung his leg, and in the next instant, the ball went into the roof of the net between Amos’s hands with the kind of force that made the net snap back like it had been insulted.

Amos hadn’t moved and couldn’t have moved.

”EERRRRRRLINGGGGGGGG!!!! HAALAND!!!!!!!! UHHHHHH.”

”WHAT DO YOU EVEN DO ABOUT THAT? 3 PLAYERS ON HIM BUT THAT IS NO PROBLEM FOR THE NORWEGIAN CYBORG!”

The commentator said it like a genuine question.

”Ben Amos had no chance,” his partner said immediately. ”It was ridiculous, but with Haaland shooting like that, he had none.”

The City players swarmed him from every direction, and the blue end of Wembley finally had what it had been waiting for.

The noise came down in one long, sustained roar as Haaland jogged away from the goal with his arm raised, calm as one would like.

On the other side of things, the camera found Leo, who was standing exactly where he’d been when the ball hit the net.

Then he turned.

And on the broadcast, the camera caught his face and his wry grin.

What were we supposed to do about that?

Thatwas what his face seemed to tell before he turned and began walking forward!