Harbinger Of Glory

The meeting had been running for forty minutes and was in the middle of something important when the assistant came through the door.

She crossed the room with purpose, weaving between chairs and conversations before stopping beside Mike Danson.

Leaning down, she murmured something into his ear, her tone low enough that the rest of the table caught none of it, but the fact she’d interrupted at all suggested it wasn’t something that could wait.

Whatever she whispered earned a reaction.

It was there and gone in an instant, surprise breaking through before years’ worth of experience in managing his facial expressions buried it again.

When he looked up, he was already smiling, sending his assistant away with a casual wave as though nothing at all had happened.

”Apologies,” he said, to nobody and everybody.

”Please continue,” he said as he turned back to the meeting.

The woman who had been interrupted previously nodded, not making too much of it as the meeting continued.

Nobody in the room asked what had been said, but from their expression, Mike knew that several of them wanted to.

Under the table, Danson’s hand found his phone.

....

It had now been almost an hour since the game ended, and the evening air outside Stamford Bridge felt much colder than it should have.

In his Wigan puffer jacket, Leo stepped out of the underground tunnel leading to the lot with his bag slung over one shoulder, looking to get inside the bus quickly, but he had only made it a couple of steps when he was forced to stop.

Cameras.

Not one or two but dozens pointed at him, though not just him.

The flashes started before he fully registered what he was looking at.

White light burst across his vision in a flurry, and soon voices followed, all talking over each other.

”Leo, over here!”

”Leo, how does it feel to win at Stamford Bridge?”

”Did you expect to be playing centre-back today?”

”Was that free-kick routine planned?”

”Are you surprised by how quickly you’ve adapted to the Premier League?”

”Two goals and two assists in two games. Did you expect this start to your season?”

”Did Pep Guardiola really call you after the FA Cup Final?”

”Are the rumours about Manchester City true?”

”What did you say to Ashley Fletcher after the injury?”

”Leo! Leo! Just one question!”

The questions crashed into each other before answers could even exist.

Leo stood there for a moment, blinking through the flashes still caught offguard and it looked like he would still stand there if not for the hand that appeared at his elbow.

One of Wigan’s media staff dragged him back and then forward.

”Keep moving,” the man said quietly as Leo glanced at him.

”What?”

”Trust me. Keep walking,” another flash exploded just as the man finished.

”Leo, are Wigan in a title race?” another reporter got in.

That one was ridiculous enough to earn a laugh from somewhere in the crowd.

Leo shook his head automatically as he allowed himself to be guided forward, and despite the metal bars barring them from getting closer, the reporters still moved with him.

Eventually the bus came into view, its doors folding open as Leo climbed aboard.

The moment the door shut behind him, the noise outside became distant, muffled and manageable.

He dropped into his seat and looked out through the tinted window, and even now, some of the cameras were still pointed at the bus.

”That was hectic,” Dawson, who followed behind Leo, muttered just as he got into the bus and settled into his seat.

”Get us out of here, will ya’?” Dawson asked, receiving a nod from the driver, but before the engine could start, Ezra’s voice run through the bus.

”Where’s Jake?”

At that, eyes snapped towards the seat Jake was supposed to be in but that wasn’t all.

Carlo, from across the aisle, also spoke.

”And Reyes?”

That again caused the gazes of the Wigan players to find the seat that Reyes was also supposed to be in.

Dawson, who had been talking to Nolan at the front, turned around and looked at the empty seats.

He didn’t know why, or maybe he expected it, but in the next moment, his gaze turned to the side as he looked out the window.

A few yards away, Jake and Reyes had become trapped in front of a camera.

Neither seemed particularly upset about it.

The reporter standing with them was young, impeccably dressed, and possessed the sort of smile that made both men suddenly discover a deep interest in answering questions.

”So be honest,” she was saying, microphone held between them.

”At what point did you start believing you could actually win this game?”

”Right after I put the ball in the back of the net,” Jake replied immediately, getting a laugh out of the reporter.

From there, the two players began trying to one-up each other, and around them, cameras continued flashing.

”One more then,” she said.

”Who was the better player today?”

Jake immediately pointed at himself, and so did Reyes.

”Interesting,” the reporter said.

”It’s not interesting,” Reyes replied. ”It’s obvious.”

”She asked who was better, not who talks the most.”

”Also, I scored today. You didn’t!”

”Well, I think an assist is more important than a goal!”

”Pfft,” Jake scoffed.

”You always think that until you score. Also, that assist of yours shouldn’t even be counted as such. All you did was just push the ball, and Leo did the rest!”

The photographer nearby nearly missed a picture because he was laughing.

By now, neither Jake nor Reyes seemed remotely concerned with the interview itself.

They stood shoulder to shoulder on the pavement outside Stamford Bridge, trading arguments they had no intention of winning while the reporter attempted, with diminishing success, to keep the conversation football-related.

Dawson watched them for a moment.

”These guys,” he said, and turned back to the front.

Then, ”Let’s just leave,” he said to the driver, his hands plastered across his face, already tired of the two.

A second later, Jake and Reyes began running to catch up to the bus that was already making its way out of the underground tunnel.