The next morning arrived with a strange kind of energy buzzing in Leoâs chest.
He got up earlier than usual, tying his laces tight with focused hands, his notepad from the night before tucked into his bag.
He couldnât wait to try what heâd discovered. Shoot like you pass.
He repeated the phrase to himself like a mantra.
But his excitement deflated the moment he reached the training grounds and spotted the setup.
There were no shooting mannequins.
No cones for live drills. Just a brutal array of sled pushes, resistance harnesses, dumbbells, and core circuits.
Today was bodywork.
Leo sighed quietly as Nolan waved him over, clipboard in hand, already pointing out the first series of exercises.
They started with core control and upper body work, then moved into sprint resistance and acceleration.
Every part of his body burned.
His arms trembled by the third set of pushups. His legs screamed through every explosive jump.
But it wasnât the pain that distracted him.
It was the itch in his thoughtsâthe one that kept circling back to his notebook and the drills heâd studied last night.
Every time he lifted a weight or burst forward, he saw angles and remembered passes disguised as finishes.
His body was here, grinding through reps, but his head was still on the pitchâstill in motion, trying out the idea heâd dreamt into being.
Nolan, pacing a short distance away, picked up on it.
Leo wasnât lazy. He wasnât cutting corners. But something was off.
The way he movedâautomatic, eyes unfocused.
Not like yesterday. Nolan squinted slightly and checked the stopwatch again.
The sessions had been demanding.
Theyâd asked a lot of him in barely two days, and now the spark in his movements had dulled.
"Alright," Nolan finally said, voice calm but firm.
"Thatâs enough for today."
Leo blinked, panting lightly. "I still haveâ"
"Youâve done enough. Go rest. No sneaking off."
Leo hesitated but nodded.
His shirt clung to his back, and his hands still trembled slightly from the weight circuits.
Even so, his mind remained locked on what he had wanted to work on.
"Go on," Nolan said again, already turning to pack up the bands and clips. "Rest isnât weakness. Itâs preparation."
Meanwhile, across the training complex, the Wigan U21 session had been called early due to their afternoon match.
Within half an hour, the entire pitch was quiet.
The sun hung low over the empty turf, a breeze rustling gently through the open stands.
And Leo found himself alone.
The ball rested at his feet.
The cones and mannequins from the day before were still neatly stored by the side.
He didnât hesitate.
One by one, he dragged them out. Set the cones.
Placed the mannequins. Rebuilt the dead-ball zones from memory. The setup wasnât perfect, but it was enough.
Enough to start.
Leo backed up, positioning the ball on the edge of the penalty arc.
This time, he wasnât going to force it.
This time, he was going to pass it into the net.
Leo struck the ball cleanlyâhis first attempt of the afternoonâand immediately frowned as it sailed over the bar.
It hadnât felt rushed.
His form was more composed than yesterday. He even imagined a teammate making the run, just like he would during a match.
But still, the ball had flown too high, too fast. Not at all like the weight of a pass.
He jogged after it, retrieved it, and set it down again just outside the box.
The second shot curved too early and clipped the side netting.
The third dragged wide, scuffing low and weak against the turf, with the fourth bouncing awkwardly and slamming into the mannequinâs head.
The fifth had the right height, the right spinâbut not the direction.
Leo huffed out a breath and put his hands on his hips.
The breeze cut across the pitch again. A pigeon landed near the sideline, unbothered by his struggle.
He lined up a sixth.
This one... it felt right in the run-up.
His body was relaxed. He imagined feeding Ezra, just as he had during training.
But when his foot struck through the ball, it thumped too hard off his laces and rocketed well above the top right corner.
He didnât chase it this time.
Instead, he walked a few paces forward and lowered himself onto the grass, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the goal.
What was he doing wrong?
He wasnât trying to shoot anymore, at least not in the traditional sense.
He was trying to pass it in. That was the whole idea. Treat the net like a teammateâs run.
A pocket of space to thread into. No power-hungry smashes. No blind swings. Just guided, intentional weight.
So why did it still feel like he was chasing something unnatural?
He ran both hands through his hair and sat back slightly, gaze drifting to the tiny corner targets Nolan had clipped in again.
They werenât big. Maybe the size of a laptop screen.
He stared at the top left one for a while, then the bottom right.
They were thereâvisible. Achievable. Just small. But size wasnât the issue. Clarity was.
Back in training, when Leo passed, he didnât think twice. He saw the opening. His body followed without effort.
But now? He was trying to recreate that same feeling on command.
To manufacture something instinctual.
And maybe that was the problem.
He exhaled slowly, eyes still on the goal.
"Itâs not about recreating a pass," he thought.
"Itâs about understanding what the pass needs to mean."
He stood back up, brushing dirt off his shorts.
This time, heâd stop treating the ball like a shot.
And stop trying to hit targets like a drill.
Heâd look for the meaning behind the movementâthe message the ball needed to deliver.
He placed it again, calmly, at the arc.
Leo steadied his breathing as he stepped behind the ball again.
No rush. No voice barking instructions. Just silence and that empty goal.
He closed his eyes briefly and visualized itânot the shot, but the idea.
The pass. A whisper to a runner breaking behind a line. He needed timing and purpose.
That was what he was good at. That was what he knew.
He opened his eyes and approached the ball, letting muscle memory take over.
A subtle step, a clean swingânot too hard, not too cautiousâand the ball glided forward. It stayed low, sharp, curling just past the mannequinâs shoulder and kissed the inside of the bottom right corner.
Thud.
Not a loud one. Not dramatic. But it hit the small target. And this time, it felt right.
Leo didnât move. He just stood there for a moment, lips parted, brow furrowed.
That wasnât a fluke.
He set another ball down quickly and tried again.
His left foot planted while his Right foot caressed the ball.
This one sailed toward the top cornerânot as clean, but closer.
Closer than most of yesterdayâs shots. It missed the target, but not by much.
A third ball with a slightly different angle.
He imagined the pass againâEzra pulling wide, the keeper a split-second late to shift across.
The ball cut in, low and quick. It grazed the mannequinâs frame and bounced just wide, but Leoâs eyes lit up.
It wasnât about making the net bulge. It was about reading the idea of a finish.
Again and Again.
He lined the balls up like he was organizing a sequence, each one placed deliberately. One after the other, the rhythm took hold.
Some clipped the posts, some rolled inches wide, some curled just off targetâbut every single one had intent. He wasnât just practicing anymore. He was communicating.
To him, the goal wasnât a target. It was a listener. And every ball was a message he was refining.
He paused to catch his breath, his shirt clinging to his back, his hair damp from sweat.
His lungs burned slightly, but the frustration from earlier was gone. Replaced now with something steadier.
He wasnât there yet.
But he was getting closer.
And that was enoughâfor now.
He bent down, hands on his knees, watching the final ball settle near the corner of the net.
Just him and the echo of his idea taking shape, and it felt,
"Sooo- Fucking Awesome" Leo said as he stared at a ball now nestled in the bottom corner.