Harbinger Of Glory

Leo reached Reyes before anyone else and grabbed him by the back of the neck, pulling him forward as the two of them jogged back toward the Wigan half.

”Move,” Leo said simply.

Reyes moved, but unhurried, his eyes drifting across the stands as they went, taking inventory of the reaction he had generated, which was the reaction of fans who hadn’t come expecting to be irritated and were now irritated.

On the pitch too, the AC Milan players were staring at him, particularly Yunus Musah, who stood at him from the centre circle and had had his eyes on Reyes since the moment he scored.

Reyes looked back, held the stare for a moment, and then blew a kiss.

Musah scoffed at that before turning his attention to the challenge currently ahead of them, which involved drawing level.

The referee got the game moving again, and Milan came forward with a new purposeful energy, trying to reclaim their edge as the bigger side on the pitch.

They got better in stretches while the quality in their passing, even with the younger players Allegri had fielded, was visible and consistent, and for several minutes, they kept the ball and moved it smoothly.

During the span of their stretches with the ball, they kept trying to exploit the lines Wigan had left, but every time, they failed and yet, when they failed, they still got the ball by some ability or luck, whichever one you chose.

And that was until Wigan won it back after a failed attempt at meeting the cross from outside the box.

Wigan played through the early press and did their best to escape from their box without losing the ball.

The moment they got the ball, Adeeko looked forward and sent the ball to Reyes, but the moment he got the ball, Yunus Musah got to him, and when he got there, he didn’t arrive to press.

Instead, he arrived to make a point.

The challenge came in low and late, catching Reyes right below the shin, even when the ball had already gone away from the Portuguese.

Reyes went to the ground with the theatrical commitment of someone who had been waiting for the opportunity to make this exact statement, and the San Siro responded with delight.

The referee’s whistle cut across it, and before Yunus could get off his feet, the former appeared in front of him and stuck his hands into his pockets.

”Yellow card for Musah,” the commentator said.

”And I don’t think that was by accident. A very good call by the official.”

”I am not condoning it,” the co-commentator said, ”but I can understand the frustration. Reyes has been winding him up since the moment he scored, but that is not the way to handle it, and the referee is absolutely right to book him.”

”It never is,” the main commentator agreed.

”And Reyes will know exactly what he’s done there. Whether you find it charming or infuriating probably depends on which shirt you’re wearing.”

After that, the rough play caught fire and spread across all parts of the pitch with the physical edge bleeding through the game in the way it does when one incident gives everyone else permission.

What came next were slightly bad challenges and contact that was technically legal and practically designed to send a message.

The referee absorbed as much of it as he could before letting some of it go because the stoppages were beginning to outnumber the football, and nobody had come to watch the whistle.

”The referee is trying to let the game breathe,” the commentator noted, ”and I understand the logic, but some of these challenges are testing the definition of a free kick.”

After one sudden stretch of chaos, a loose ball broke from a midfield collision and skipped across the turf, and both Leo and Chukwueze went for it simultaneously, Chukwueze sliding to win it, but at the last second, Leo burst to get to the ball.

The moment he got there, he rolled over the ball in one smooth motion, his body turning with it as Chukwueze committed fully to the slide.

For a split second, the winger must’ve thought he’d nicked it, only for his leg to carve through nothing but grass while the ball stayed glued to Leo’s feet like it had followed him through the spin.

By the time Chukwueze was on the turf, twisting to find where the ball had gone, Leo was already beyond him, still carrying the move forward.

The sound from the stands came out after that was on instinct.

A sharp collective inhale swept through the stadium after they saw Leo spin away from Chukwueze, and for a second, allegiances disappeared from the reaction around the ground.

What replaced it was something simpler and much older than football.

The joyous reaction to a spectacle, because some things with a football bypass loyalty entirely.

At that speed, with that kind of control, the roulette didn’t even look real at first, but the person who had done it was right in front of them and was still going.

Back on the pitch, Leo felt the shift in the atmosphere as he carried the ball forward.

He felt the game beginning to tilt toward him with every stride, the run feeding itself now, drawing on the noise and the anticipation of where the ball would end up.

So instead of releasing the ball, he kept going.

Ricci stepped across to meet him, planting himself in the lane with Pobega narrowing in beside him, and for a second, it looked like Milan had finally managed to close the door.

”Leo Calderón again,” the commentator burst out, still riding the energy of the roulette from seconds earlier.

”First the spin on Chukwueze, and now he’s into the stepovers. Listen to this crowd!”

Leo slowed just enough for the ball to fall completely under his spell.

One stepover came lazy, almost dismissive.

The second arrived quicker.

Then the third snapped across the front of the ball so sharply that Ricci’s feet twitched before he’d even realised he’d reacted.

And so Leo kept going.

Four.

Five.

His boots blurred around the ball in tight circles, hips swaying one way while his shoulders sold another, each movement dragging Ricci fractionally further off balance as the defender tried desperately to read which touch would actually matter.

By six, Ricci was no longer defending the ball.

He was defending possibilities.

But by the seventh, Leo took him out of the equation.

With no warning, he jabbed the ball through Pobega’s legs into the exact pocket Ricci had abandoned while shifting across.

”Oh, he’s torn them apart!” the commentator yelled as the crowd erupted properly now. ”That is outrageous from Leo Calderón!”

The stands were on their feet now, and whatever casual atmosphere the preseason had carried was completely gone.

Leo burst through the gap he’d created for himself, reached the edge of the box, and felt the ball rise perfectly into his stride.

Then he drew his leg back.

”He’s going to hit it!” the commentator burst out, the noise in his voice rising with the crowd around him.

And Leo did.