Maya adjusted the lens without thinking. Click. Zoom in.
One moment, he was surrounded, a sliver of blue among the red shirts.
The next—he vanished.
A sharp twist of the hip.
One defender overcommitted, stumbling as Leo dipped low and spun out like a dancer on turf.
The second tried to recover, but Leo's touch dragged the ball just past his boot, forcing a misstep.
The third lunged, but once again Leo shifted the ball with the outside of his foot and escaped, smooth as oil between cracks.
The collective gasp of the crowd seemed to rise into the evening sky.
"Woah," Rob muttered as he watched Leo move onto his next plan.
Leo, on the other hand, didn't stop to admire his work.
With a glance up, he slid the ball in a straight line through the mess of limbs and boots, like he'd drawn it with a ruler.
Ezra timed it perfectly, cutting in from the right, taking the pass in stride.
One touch to settle.
One to pull back and shake off the trailing defender.
Then, calm as if he were alone on the training ground, he slotted the ball low past the keeper's near side.
The net rippled.
The crowd erupted.
A roar broke out—not massive like DW Stadium's would be, but loud enough to turn heads all around Robin Park.
Whistles cut through the noise, hands shot up in celebration.
Some clapped with wide grins, others shouted names they didn't even know five minutes ago.
"That's the lad!" someone hollered near the railings. "Number Seventeen!"
"That's the new kid?"
"Mate, I don't care if he's new or ninety—did you see that turn?"
Kids near the touchline were jumping, slapping each other's backs.
A few fans started a short, off-beat chant of "Wigan! Wigan!" that fizzled out into laughter but left energy crackling in the air.
Rob let out a low whistle.
"Guess we found our headline."
But Maya wasn't listening.
The lens was still trained on Leo, who didn't pump his fists or celebrate wildly.
He just turned slowly, like he knew this would happen, and jogged back to his position.
And that—somehow—got the biggest cheer of all.
Barnsley's U21 coach stood stiff at the edge of his technical area, arms crossed and jaw tight.
The goal had stung—but it wasn't the finish that rattled him.
It was the build-up.
The slipstream Leo had carved straight through his midfield.
He barked something to his assistant, then pointed directly at Leo as the players reset for the restart.
Next play, it became obvious: Leo couldn't take a breath without someone in red shadowing him.
Three players. All stationed in orbit, like planets pulled by gravity.
Every time he touched the ball, they swarmed.
But it didn't have the effect the Barnsley bench was hoping for.
Because Leo wasn't a ball hog. He didn't force touches.
He didn't dribble for the highlight reel.
He released the ball early, always on the half-turn, always into space—his touch feather-light.
The pressure on him just created space for others.
Ezra started finding pockets near the edge of the box.
Ben, a usually quiet winger, now had more time than he knew what to do with.
Leo didn't need ten seconds on the ball—he needed two.
A feint, a shift, a disguised touch with the instep, and Barnsley's shape would unravel.
The crowd began to buzz every time the ball rolled toward him, even if nothing happened yet.
It was the anticipation—the sense that the next touch might just rip the pitch open.
And then, midway through the second half, it reached the absurd.
Leo dropped deep to collect a ball from the centre-backs.
As he turned, so did five Barnsley players—yes, five.
It was laughable.
It looked like something out of a circus.
Two midfielders. Two defenders.
Even their number ten, meant to be high up the pitch, had dropped back just to mark him.
Five red shirts boxed him in.
The crowd's noise surged, voices rising in awe and confusion.
Up in the stands, Maya blinked, then laughed in disbelief.
"Are they serious?" she said, already adjusting her camera settings.
Rob was already moving. "Come on. We're going down."
By the time they made it pitchside, Maya had the camera locked on the scene.
Leo, back to the goal, in the middle of a circle.
He turned his head slightly, scanning. The ball at his feet. Then—a faint nudge with the sole of his boot.
A pause. One of the defenders twitched yet Leo didn't even move, just sold it with his eyes and posture.
Another feint, and then—snap—a gentle flick with the outside of his boot through the narrowest of gaps.
He was out. Again.
The Barnsley players looked at each other, flummoxed.
Ezra burst forward to collect the pass.
The crowd roared.
Maya raised the lens, tracking Leo even as he peeled off into open space like it was all choreographed.
She didn't even need to check the frame.
"Got it," she whispered, the shutter clicking as her grin widened.
Because whatever this kid was, he wasn't just good.
He was different, and slowly but surely, Wigan were running the game to the ground.
70 minutes later, and the match had turned into a slow suffocation—for Barnsley, at least.
Wigan weren't dominating with possession alone.
They were dragging Barnsley's players all over the place, stretching them until the gaps yawned wide.
And at the center of it all was Leo—still gliding, still sharp, still running like he had batteries no one else had access to.
The five-man press had crumbled after halftime.
Now, Barnsley were just chasing.
Staggered jogs replaced determined sprints.
A few of their midfielders were bent at the waist, hands on their knees, gulping air.
Their defenders had stopped shouting instructions and just pointed, hoping someone else would close Leo down.
But no one could.
And in the 89th minute, Wigan struck the final blow.
He dropped deep again, this time drawing two players with him.
As if that had ever worked.
A deft body feint pulled one off balance.
A soft touch with the inside of his foot sent the ball spinning the other way.
He spun too, sharp and sudden, letting the defender's momentum carry him into thin air.
The second Barnsley player lunged in late.
Leo skipped past him, stepped into space, and lifted his head.
Ezra was already on the move.
The pass was perfectly weighted—threaded with a lazy elegance, curling into the path of his teammate like it had been drawn there.
Ezra didn't even need to slow down.
He burst forward, eyes sweeping across the pitch.
Ben came streaking in from the opposite flank, legs pumping, wide open at the back post.
Ezra squared it low.
Ben met it cleanly.
Tap.
2–0.
Robin Park erupted again—not like a stadium crowd, but in its own charming way.
A chorus of claps, whistles, and whoops went up from the stands and standing terraces.
Some Wigan fans cheered like they were watching a first-team win.
One kid in a Wigan top leapt in the air, fists pumping the air like Emilio Estevez at the end of the Breakfast Club movie.
Maya turned from her viewfinder just in time to see the ball hit the net.
"Did you get that?" Rob asked beside her.
She smiled, lowering the camera. "Perfect frame."
The moment Barnsley kicked off again, the referee checked his watch.
A heartbeat later, the shrill sound of his whistle cut through the late afternoon hum.
Full-time.
Wigan 2 – Barnsley 0.
There was no wild sprinting, no over-the-top celebrations—just a wave of relieved exhalations and quiet smiles.
The Wigan players clapped each other on the back, some exchanging tired grins, others letting out small whoops of triumph under their breath.
It wasn't just a win.
It was their first in nearly seven matches.
The kind that didn't just lift the table standings, but lifted spirits.
Ezra bent over slightly, hands on his hips, laughing softly as Ben jogged toward him, slapping his back.
A couple of the defenders raised their arms toward the small crowd with sheepish smiles, acknowledging the cheers.
Around the pitch, the stands and the standing terraces came alive.
Claps rang out.
Cheers rose. Not deafening—but warm, real, and full of encouragement.
"Good lads!"
"Well played, Wigan!"
"That's more like it!"
From pockets of long-time Wigan supporters to curious locals who'd stopped by out of boredom and stayed out of excitement, there was genuine applause echoing around Robin Park.
On the touchline, Coach Thompson just stood still, arms crossed, nodding slowly.
He didn't grin.
Didn't say anything right away.
But his eyes tracked Leo as the boy jogged to the touchline, exchanging handshakes and modest nods.
Behind Thompson, Maya clicked one final photo as Leo came off the pitch.
She turned to Rob, her expression bright.
"Tell me you got a wide lens on that last shot," she said.
Rob just grinned and held up his camera.
"Full frame. It's all in there."
They'd come looking for a story, and it seemed that the story had just written itself.