Harbinger Of Glory

”The enemy of my enemy,” Dawson said, and left it there.

He turned back to the pitch where the ball was dropping from altitude, a long clearance from the Milan goal that had gone high and was now coming down in the middle of the park.

And waiting below it were Leo and Ricci.

The two players had their heads up, waiting for the drop before they both lunged off the grass, or at least, Ricci thought Leo did.

He pulled out of the jump at the last second, a fraction before Ricci had committed, and Ricci’s leap carried him past the ball entirely, his timing built around a contest that had been withdrawn, and the ball bounced on the turf.

Before it could come up again, Leo had his sole on it, holding it down.

Then, before anything else, he turned and found Tilt, who had come on for one of the Wigan youngsters and played it back simply.

Tilt to Adeeko, one touch back to Leo, with the Wigan players playing around the Milan players like a rondo.

”Wigan working it through the lines here,” the commentator said as the ball moved again.

”And this is much better from them, much, much better.”

Leo received it with his back to the goal and turned away from pressure in the same movement, barely seeming to look up before the picture formed in his head anyway.

Then he sent the ball where he had in mind.

The pass left his foot with whip and height, moving snakily as the AC Milan players around Leo watched it bend wide around players and curl into the space behind the Milan backline with the kind of precision that made the crowd react before Carlo had even reached it.

”Ohhh, that’s outrageous,” the commentator burst out. ”That is a ridiculous ball from Leo Calderon. He never even faced the flank properly, but that isn’t going to stop him!”

On the left flank, Carlo was already flying onto it.

His first touch slowed the ball, carrying him further towards the left and then straight at Jiménez after he got the ball under control.

The San Siro rose slightly in anticipation as the defender squared himself for the duel.

One stepover came, but Jiménez held his ground.

Then came the second, Carlo’s hips and shoulders moving with the ball in tight little circles, the rhythm slow enough to feel almost casual, but controlled enough that the defender couldn’t fully settle.

Every touch kept threatening a different direction.

Inside.

No, outside.

No, maybe inside again.

Jiménez started reacting instead of reading, his stance narrowing for a split second as Carlo shaped his body toward the middle, but that right there was the mistake.

The instant Carlo saw the defender lean, he slipped the ball the other way with the outside of his boot, not far but just enough to slide it past the planted leg before exploding after it himself.

”Oh, he’s done him there!” the commentator shouted as Jiménez turned to recover, but Carlo was already gone, shoulder dipping as he burst into the open grass beyond him while the noise inside the San Siro climbed another level.

The noise inside the stadium jumped with him as Carlo drove toward the byline with green space opening in front of him.

”Carlo’s flying now,” the commentator said, the words almost tripping over the pace of the move. ”Jiménez cannot get back to him.”

He looked up once, slowing down to increase his precision, and when he got enough, he measured it and whipped the cross toward the far post with wicked pace and perfect height.

”Oh, that is a delicious ball!” the co-commentator burst out before Ezra arrived at full stretch, and then connected.

For one suspended second, the entire stadium thought it was in, until Sportiello went down full length and got his hand to it somehow, from a position that had looked impossible, and clawed it away.

”Sportiello!!!,” the commentator said, and stopped, and then continued, ”I genuinely do not know how he has saved that. That is a stretch of denial!”

Before Ezra could sulk, the ball broke loose.

Milan got to it, and with it they went immediately, the counter breaking at pace before the Wigan players had finished processing the save.

Loftus-Cheek drove it forward with the purposeful directness of a player who understood that the value of a counter is its speed and that speed was the thing to protect above everything else.

He found Pulisic on the right, and Pulisic went at Robinson, not with tricks but with pace, the pure acceleration of a player who knew he was faster and used it simply, going past Robinson on the outside and into the box.

The cross came in grounded and fast, and Tilt went for it, but his momentum carried him fractionally beyond it, his trailing leg behind him, and the ball ran under that leg and through.

Unfortunately for him, Leão was already there, and Tilt could only watch as the ball dropped into his stride like it had been waiting for him.

”Leão...” the commentator began, voice tightening slightly, as if he already knew what was coming but couldn’t stop himself from following it.

With the ball sitting beautifully in front of him, Leao stepped up and smashed it towards goal.

The ball travelled through bodies and half-turned reactions, past the stretch of a defender who was already too late before he even committed, and into the net with a certainty that made it feel inevitable the moment it left his boot and with it came the inevitable cheer of the fans.

The stadium broke into one sound, all at once, rising and filling every corner of the ground until there was nothing else left in it.

Arms went up, seats were abandoned, and the noise became something physical, something that pressed against the pitch.

”GOAL! Rafael Leão!” the commentator said immediately, now fully lifted by the moment.

”AC Milan pull one back! It’s two-one! You cannot give them that space, you cannot give Leão that kind of run because he will punish you every single time!”

The crowd was still building as he continued, refusing to let the moment settle.

”That counterattack was instant. Loftus-Cheek wins it, plays it perfectly, and once Leão is through like that, there is no recovering. One touch, one finish, and this match has just been thrown wide open again!”

The Milan fans, who hadn’t even liked the prospect of watching the game, were now fully invested.

A man in a Milan shirt who had spent his time watching, trying not to like the game, sighed.

”This,” he said to the stranger beside him, gesturing loosely at everything happening in front of them, ”is getting fun.”