Leo leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the muffled sounds of the crowd outside creeping into the walls.
'Now, how do actors get in the mood?' he thought as he looked at Jake downing a bottle of water.
The muffled roar of the crowd drifted in as the time was finally up.
The creak of metal hinges and scuffed boots marked the shuffle of the team out of the makeshift locker room and into the open tunnel of Robin Park once again.
Thompson didn't say another word—just gave a low nod toward the group before turning toward his bench staff.
Ezra was one of the last to step out, glancing over his shoulder as he grabbed his water bottle.
"You coming?" he asked.
Leo stood with a quick stretch, rolling his neck. "Yeah—just gonna take a piss first. Two seconds."
Ezra gave him a nod and disappeared through the door, leaving only Jake tying his boots on the bench.
The silence felt denser now. Claustrophobic even.
Jake stood, adjusting his shirt, halfway to the door—until Leo shifted.
He moved quickly. Not with rage, but with purpose.
His palm slammed against the old plaster wall next to Jake's head, just behind the boy's shoulder, pinning him to the spot in a way that made Jake flinch without quite showing it.
Leo's breath came heavy.
Not from the game, but from everything he'd kept bottled up.
"I've been dealing with your shit since I came here," Leo said, his voice low, eyes locked.
"Since day one."
Jake didn't reply.
His shoulders were stiff, frozen.
"I let it slide when you gave me the cold shoulder. I let it slide when you ignored my runs. I let it slide when you acted like your mates owned the pitch. But don't—" Leo's hand hit the wall again, louder this time, the crack echoing.
Jake flinched for real this time. "—Don't mistake me for some docile little soft-spoken kid, yeah?"
The space between them tightened.
Leo's eyes weren't blazing with fury—they weren't wild—but they were sharp, determined. Clear.
"I'll work with you. I'll pass it to you. I'll cover your back if the ball gets nicked off you. That's what teammates do. But if I'm gonna do all that, the least you can do—" he pointed a finger straight at Jake's chest, "—is put the fucking ball in the fucking net when I give it to you fucking dimwit."
Jake's lips parted, but no words came out.
Leo stepped back a little, letting the tension breathe just enough.
"I don't need you to like me. I don't care if you do. But you better understand one thing."
He jabbed his finger at Jake's chest again.
"I came here to play. To win. And I'm not gonna let your ego or your drama stop me from doing that."
He turned toward the door, snatching up his water bottle.
Just before stepping out, he stopped, looking over his shoulder one last time.
"We're on the same page now?"
Jake stared at him, speechless.
Leo didn't wait for an answer.
He walked out, his footsteps sharp against the tile, the echo of that cracked palm slap still lingering behind him.
—
"Fucking hell" Leo winced a few metres after getting out of the room.
"Those method actors must have it hard." he muutered to no one in particular clinching the hand that had smacked the wall.
He turned back towards the room, staring to see if Jake would come out, but he didn't.
"Was it too much. Really hope that works or else we'd have a player playing against us," Leo thought as he walked away.
.........
The players stepped out into the chill air of Robin Park, the buzz of the low crowd already swelling as the teams returned for the second half.
The muddy grass crunched faintly underfoot as Leo jogged down the concrete tunnel and back out into the open.
Ezra was already stretching near the touchline, turning his head as soon as Leo appeared.
"Man," he said, raising a brow, "you said you were going for a piss, not to write your autobiography."
Leo didn't answer at first.
His boots thudded lightly on the turf as he moved beside Ezra, then with a small jerk of his thumb, he pointed behind him.
Ezra followed the gesture and saw Jake walking out next.
His head was slightly dipped, but his pace was brisk.
The moment his eyes caught Ezra's, he blinked quickly and looked away, shifting his gaze toward the pitch, toward nothing in particular.
Ezra turned back to Leo, blinking once. "What the hell happened?"
Leo didn't meet his eyes.
He just let out a short, wry laugh—one that didn't carry much humour.
"He might play better now," Leo said dryly.
"Or he might play against us. Either way, we should buckle up."
Ezra's face went still for a moment, reading between the lines.
Then he snorted, shaking his head. "You scare me sometimes."
Leo smirked, finally glancing his way.
"Good. Might keep you on your toes."
They stepped onto the grass again, with the low hum of the crowd pressing around them like a quiet tide.
Fans leaned closer now, a few calling out names, pointing toward Leo with fresh curiosity—some probably hoping for a show, others unsure why they felt drawn to this particular kid in the number 17 shirt.
But the atmosphere had changed.
And something—something had shifted.
The whistle blew, sharp and short, slicing through the growing murmur of the crowd.
Wigan pressed.
There was no hesitation this time.
Ezra flew forward right off the bat from the right, while Leo slid into a pocket near the centre, head snapping to track the run patterns.
Ben pressed up from the left, and Jake, surprisingly, looked alive, jolted into awareness like someone had finally flipped the right switch.
Crewe, sloppy and rattled, tried to play out from the back, but Harvin's replacement, Yohan, brought an opposite intensity to match as he rushed forward.
A sharp interception in midfield turned the tide instantly, and the ball was fed into Jake's path on the edge of the box.
He took it well.
Controlled it with a confident flick and began to drive toward goal, head down, shoulders squared like he was going to take it all the way this time.
Then—
"JAKE!"
Leo's voice cut through the air behind him, louder than the crowd, sharper than the cold breeze off the surrounding brick.
Jake hesitated—just half a heartbeat—but that was all it took.
His foot froze mid-step, and before the indecision could claw at him, he turned sharply and slipped the ball sideways to Ezra.
Ezra didn't miss a beat.
He took it with his instep and immediately laid it off to Saylor, the attacking replacement for Ty, who had stepped into the gap like a chess piece moving on command.
The crowd clapped, a few even letting out surprised cheers.
It wasn't a goal, but it looked like football again.
Not chaos. Not selfishness. Movement. Cohesion.
Leo didn't break stride.
He sprinted into space as Saylor shaped his body to pass.
And Jake—Jake, for once, hadn't forced it.
He'd listened.
Wigan came again. (With the ball. God, that doesn't make it any better.)
And again.
And again.
This time it wasn't frantic.
It was pressure—sustained and calculated, like water carving its way through stone.
Ben clipped a cross that fizzed just over Jake's head.
Ezra wriggled into the box from the right and cut one across that barely missed Saylor's lunge at the back post.
The crowd had begun to swell with each near chance, the rhythm of their gasps and groans building with every push.
Crewe were on the ropes.
Their backline, disjointed and clearly lacking chemistry, played in low blocks and nervy stabs, collapsing into their own box like cardboard under rain.
Their keeper had made two decent stops—both from shots he had no right to see coming—and their defenders were flinging limbs and bodies into everything.
It was survival mode.
And Wigan knew it.
Leo was everywhere now.
Popping up between the lines, moving in tandem with Ezra, dragging defenders like a marionettist with invisible strings.
Ben and Saylor had caught the rhythm, too.
It was like watching gears click into place—Thompson's side finally ticking like something dangerous.
Leo took the ball on the half-turn in midfield, glancing over his shoulder once before shifting past the nearest midfielder with a touch so tight it looked choreographed.
Ezra peeled wide, dragging a fullback with him, and Leo surged into the space with the ball at his feet.
The Crewe backline panicked.
One defender backed off, the other stepped too high, and a third—taller, stronger—moved to close Leo down.
He didn't get the ball, but he got a fistful of Leo's shirt.
It stretched across Leo's torso like a flag in the wind, jerking his run just enough to kill the momentum.
Pweeeeeet!
The referee's whistle shrieked as the crowd rose in protest and anticipation.
The Crewe player let go instantly, hands up, face flushed with guilt.
Leo stumbled, but didn't fall.
He stopped just beyond the point of contact, glancing back at his shirt, now pulled slightly off-centre, and gave a small, annoyed tug to straighten it.
The crowd jeered, and someone shouted, "That's rugby, mate!"
The referee jogged up, already reaching into his pocket, and showed the yellow card to the Crewe defender, who looked like he'd rather melt into the grass.
Leo looked down at the ball now resting a few yards outside the box.
"Time to put that shooting practice to use," Ezra said with a laugh as he nudged the ball towards Leo.