CHAPTER 148: FOOTBALL’S COMING HOME.

Nolan and Dawson stood just off the touchline, arms loosely folded as the session carried on.

The sound of studs cutting across the grass and shouts from players filled the gap between Dawson’s last instruction and the small patterns that were forming on the pitch.

In play, Leo picked up a loose pass on the far side, rolled his shoulder to slip past one player, then used a soft heel touch to wrong-foot another before sliding the ball between two defenders.

It wasn’t flashy for the sake of it.

It just looked unavoidable, like the series of movements that had just happened had all played in his mind before this.

Nolan let out a short breath and shook his head.

"He’s getting better every day," he murmured. "Even with the second group, he’s running circles around the starters."

Dawson didn’t look surprised.

"He’s hungry," he said. "And he actually likes football. Not the idea of being a footballer. The sport itself. It’s nice to see guys like him getting the chance."

"Well, thanks too to the people who see and give that chance," Nolan said as he nudged Dawson a bit, to which the latter snorted.

Leo darted between spaces again afterwards, offering for a return pass before laying it off and moving straight after.

Darikwa, who had been tailing Leo, gave up the chase with a laugh and shoved his bib up to wipe his forehead.

"Commitment like his is rare," Dawson continued.

"When he was at that Italian camp, he sent me tactics he’d drawn. Actual diagrams. Asking how I’d react to certain patterns if I were the opposing coach."

Nolan turned to him.

"He sent you work to grade during an international break?"

"Asked me what I’d change. What I’d exploit. Stuff most players won’t ever think about. Leo doesn’t just play the game. He lets it run through him. He’s part of it in ways the others aren’t yet." Dawson paused, watching another neat give-and-go from Leo.

"He’s going to be the type that ruins teams when he’s not on the pitch. His teammates lose their bearings without him."

Nolan raised an eyebrow.

"I don’t know if that’s a good thing."

"It is," Dawson said.

"Players like that have strong foundations. They’re not fragile, at least from the ones we’ve already seen. Think of Busquets or Pirlo. And currently, Rodri too.

Take them out, and the whole structure collapses, but they hardly ever break down physically or mentally. They’re constants."

Nolan nodded slowly as he watched Leo point towards the space ahead of Ezra before slipping the ball the other way, after his opponents turned towards Ezra.

Dawson muttered almost to himself, "Now we just need to find a constant position for him."

The play finally fizzled out, and Dawson lifted his voice.

"Okay, boys, come on, let’s reset. New group on."

Leo stopped his run immediately, placed the ball down where he’d taken his last touch, and jogged off as the next set of players stepped in.

The days leading up to their next game slipped by quietly for Leo, until the afternoon before Wigan’s league match on the twenty-second, which was the same day England were playing their opening fixture in the World Cup in Qatar.

He made the short trip to Ezra and Jake’s apartment, which sat above a row of old shops just off a busier street.

The place wasn’t big, but it was homey for three people plus an extra guest.

Ezra was the first person he saw after entering the apartment.

The winger stood behind the narrow kitchenette counter, unwrapping containers from the takeaway bags and stacking them beside the stove.

The smell of fried chicken and rice drifted through the room, as Leo kicked off his shoes and slid into a pair of extra slides by the door.

"When did Ben head out?" Leo asked as he made his way over to the couch.

Ezra glanced over his shoulder while tearing open a sauce packet.

"Earlier. Went to his girlfriend’s. Said she wanted to watch the England match with him."

"Poor dude," Leo said sarcastically as he dropped onto the couch, the cushions sinking under him.

The TV was already set to the pre-match buildup, the stadium filling the screen with its bright reds and whites as pundits chatted in the background.

The sound was low enough not to drown out the rustling from the kitchen, and Jake appeared a moment later with a crate of drinks balanced on one arm.

"Before you complain, I got the usual. Soda for this one," he said, tilting his head toward Ezra, "and juice for you because apparently you’re eighty years old on the inside."

Leo smiled and shook his head.

"Tell that to Thompson when you do your weekly weigh-in."

"You’re missing out," Jake replied, dropping the bottles onto the small coffee table.

"Sugar carries you through life."

Ezra brought the food over, nudging Jake aside with his hip so he could set everything down properly.

"You two can argue after the game starts. Sit."

They settled in without much fuss.

Ezra took the armchair to the side, while Jake folded himself into a corner of the couch, remote still in his hand.

The volume rose as the broadcast switched to the stadium’s ambience, and soon, the commentators’ voices cut through the room, speaking about lineups and tactics as the players walked out from the tunnel.

"It is coming home, surely," Jake said, to which Leo chuckled at.

"That’s what you guys said a lifetime ago."

.....

A couple of hours later, Jake’s voice bounced around the apartment with no restraint at all.

He was half-standing on the couch, chest puffed out like he was leading a street parade, shouting the chorus at the top of his lungs.

"Football’s coming home!"

"Football’s coming home!"

"Football’s coming home!"

Leo rubbed his forehead and glanced at the screen.

"Why are you celebrating this?"

Jake didn’t hear him, or pretended not to and just belted the line again.

Ezra, sitting on the side, just snorted.

"It’s Iran. England were always winning this, so don’t act like that."

"That’s not the point," Jake replied, still grinning.

"Let me enjoy greatness."

Before Leo could respond, both his phone and Ezra’s buzzed on the table.

The sound cut through Jake’s noise sharply enough that even he stopped mid-chant.

Leo reached for his phone first.

"Squad list just dropped," he said, eyes shifting to Ezra, who was already checking his own screen.

That pulled Jake down from the couch entirely.

"What list? What’s happening?"

Neither Leo nor Ezra answered right away.

Leo scanned through the names until he found his.

He wasn’t shocked to see himself on the bench, but he still felt a small pull of disappointment in his chest.

He breathed out slowly and locked the screen while Ezra didn’t say anything either.

His eyes were fixed on one line, then another, as if he was making sure he was reading it right.

Leo leaned toward him.

"Congrats," he said quietly. "You’re starting."

Ezra blinked a couple of times and looked up.

"Yeah. First one."

Jake stepped in, impatient.

"What’s going on?"

He reached out and took Ezra’s phone from his hand before anyone stopped him.

His eyes landed on Ezra’s name near the top of the list.

"Oh," he said. "Not bad."

Then he looked at Ezra with a crooked grin. "I’m still better, though."

Ezra shoved his shoulder lightly. "Sure."

Leo pushed himself up from the couch and stretched afterwards, muttering, "I should get going. Need to rest before tomorrow."

Jake crooked an eyebrow. "Right now?"

"Matchday," Leo said, slipping back into his shoes. "And I’d rather get some sleep in than play around with you."

Ezra gave him a small nod.

"See you in the morning then. Make sure to grab the case by the door. Your PlayStation is in it."

Leo nodded, moving towards the black case by the rack near the door.

"Thanks," he said, picking it up and then moving towards the door.

Once he stepped out, the cold air made him want to go back inside, but it seemed others didn’t care much.

Down the street, the aftermath of England’s win was still spilling out of the bars.

A few groups in white jerseys drifted along the pavement, arms thrown over each other’s shoulders, voices hoarse from shouting through all six goals.

Someone tried starting a chant, but it fell apart halfway through, turning into laughter while another pair jogged across the road, waving plastic flags they’d clearly picked up on their way out.

Leo chuckled under his breath and zipped his jacket a little higher before heading down the street.

A cab rolled into view not long after, its headlights sweeping across the pavement.

Leo raised a hand, and the driver pulled over.

Once he got in, the warmth of the heater washed over him and cleared the rest of the night air from his face.

"Wigan complex?" the driver asked, glancing at him through the mirror as he had recognised him.

"Yeah," Leo said. "Thanks."

The cab pulled away from the curb, leaving the noise of the celebrations behind as the city eased into a quieter stretch leading up to the Wigan Complex.