Chapter 41: Uncanny Hero

Leo took five slow steps back.

His eyes flicked over the ball, then the goal, then the wall.

The keeper was barking at his defenders, jabbing his gloves in the air, shuffling across his line as if trying to mind-read.

But Leo wasn’t listening. He didn’t care.

The wall could be six men or sixteen.

The keeper could have wings.

He only had one job.

Pass it into the net.

"Don’t think of it as a shot. Think of it as a pass. A weighted one. Into the corner. Into the silence."

He muttered these words to himself while staring at the goalkeeper, who had tensed a bit now.

The referee gave the okay and then held his whistle before blasting the air through it.

Shrill. Echoing. One breath.

Leo stepped forward and struck it.

Not full power.

Just that clean, curling whip he’d practiced a thousand times when no one was watching.

The ball arced over the wall with elegant precision, spinning like it had a mind of its own, bending toward the top corner like poetry on grass.

The crowd had already started rising, a premature cheer catching in their throats.

But the keeper moved early. Exploded left.

His gloves stretched, and his body became a blur of limbs and willpower.

At full stretch, he clawed at the ball and managed the faintest of touches—just enough to slow it down.

THWACK!

The ball ricocheted violently off the post, pinging back into the box at head height.

The collective gasp from the crowd was so loud it was almost a groan.

Time stilled for a moment.

And then Jake, who had been loitering near the back post, sprang like a jackal.

There was no flair to it, no flourish—just a cold, simple tap.

A striker’s bread and butter.

The ball bulged the back of the net.

Goal.

For a second, no one reacted.

Then it came.

The Robin Park roared.

A raw, wall-shaking bellow that started behind the dugout and rolled across the stands like thunder.

Cheers rained down.

Someone behind the bench screamed Jake’s name while another yelled Leo’s.

Ezra sprinted to Jake and practically shoved him in celebration, more in disbelief than joy.

Ben came piling in, arms thrown wide, and even Kadou made the trip from deep.

Jake stood there, arms half-raised, dazed-like, like he wasn’t quite sure whether he should celebrate or apologize.

Hero one second, a footnote the last half-hour.

Leo, a few paces back, just smiled.

That quiet, knowing smile that didn’t need approval.

He jogged toward the group, slapping Jake’s back once as the forward turned to face him.

"About time," Leo muttered with a smirk, just loud enough for Jake to hear over the frenzy.

Jake didn’t reply. He just nodded—one short nod—and raised a fist to the sky.

The referee’s whistle chirped again, and the game restarted.

But something had changed.

The air around Jake felt different—no longer heavy with hesitation or false bravado.

He moved like someone who remembered how to trust his instincts.

As soon as the ball rolled back into play, Jake peeled away from the center backs, dragging one with him, then returned to the middle, drawing another.

He wasn’t hogging the ball anymore.

He was giving and going, checking into space, holding it up, laying it off.

It wasn’t flashy, but it was football.

The real kind.

And it gave Leo options.

So much more.

The next time Leo got the ball, it came to his feet just beyond the center circle.

He took a glance, saw the defenders sucked into Jake’s orbit, and drove forward.

A feint to the left, a drop of the shoulder—two Crewe midfielders bit, one stumbled, and it gave Leo enough time to burst into the gap and, just outside the box, let fly with a low drive.

The keeper, again, got down fast.

Palm. Parry. Cleared.

The crowd groaned, not in disappointment but in astonishment.

A few fans actually clapped for the Crewe shot-stopper.

"Bloody hell, what’s he on today?" someone shouted from the terrace behind the goal.

Minutes later, Leo found himself on another run.

This time, Jake spotted him early and backheeled it into space.

Leo didn’t break stride.

He took the ball on his instep, shifted it once, then curled one toward the far post.

A beauty.

But that keeper—hands like magnets—got a fingertip to it again, just enough to deflect it around the post.

More applause.

Leo jogged over to take the resulting corner, shaking his head as he passed the byline.

"Must be his day," he muttered to himself.

He placed the ball down near the arc, taking in the swarm inside the box.

It was a war zone. Shirts jostled. Arms tugged. Calls echoed.

The keeper stood tall among the mess, already yelling commands no one could hear over the roar.

But Leo wasn’t looking at the keeper.

He found Kadou ghosting behind the back post.

Not calling for it. Just waiting, still as a shadow.

A statue ready to spring.

There.

Leo curled his run slightly, opened his body, and struck the ball clean—a fast, looping delivery arcing toward the far post, designed for one thing: a target only Kadou could reach.

Kadou saw it.

He broke late.

Just two steps, but that’s all he needed.

He timed his leap, legs splitting, arms braced.

Then—thud—forehead to leather.

The ball thundered back across the face of goal, into a chaos of limbs and boots.

The entire box seemed to collapse inward at once.

The ball ricocheted through the crowd like a bullet in slow motion—glancing off a shin, brushing past a boot—and then it hit the net.

Thump.

The net bulged, and the small crowd erupted.

"YESSS!" someone screamed from the stands behind the goal, and it sparked a wave.

Roars followed. Whistles.

Fists pumping in the air.

A couple of younger kids dashed along the fence line, nearly climbing over in delirium before the stewards calmed them down.

It took a moment for anyone on the pitch to realize who had scored.

But when the scoreboard changed, and a personnel’s voice rang out confirming it—"Wigan goal! Number 5, Kadou Oumar!"—the players mobbed the corner.

But Kadou wasn’t waiting for them.

He turned away from the carnage at the six-yard box and sprinted straight toward the corner flag.

Straight toward Leo.

Leo didn’t even have time to brace himself.

Kadou reached him in full stride, arms wide, before scooping Leo up in one motion like a sack of rice and spinning him off the ground in a massive hug.

The two spun in a tight arc near the flag as the crowd’s chants thundered louder.

"You see that?!" Kadou bellowed over the noise, still holding Leo half in the air.

"That was you, bro! All you!"

Leo laughed through his teeth, clapping him on the back.

"You actually headed it this time, huh?"

"Damn right I did!"

Ezra arrived next, jumping onto both of them and nearly sending the trio into the advertising boards as Ben followed, tapping Leo on the head with a grin.

"That delivery was good, Leo. Straight-up criminal."

Leo shrugged, still catching his breath.

"Just put it where Kadou lives."

Kadou finally let him go, dropping Leo back on his feet before turning to face the crowd, arms outstretched.

"Keep doubting me!" he yelled, half to the crowd, half to no one.

"Nobody doubts you, bro. A lot of them don’t even know you," Ezra said before waltzing off.

The cheers kept coming.

Behind them, even the bench had erupted.

Coach Thompson didn’t smile—but he was up, arms folded, giving a single nod in Leo’s direction.

Leo didn’t need more.

He jogged back to the center circle with the others, his cheeks flushed and his heartbeat pounding, feeling that quiet charge again.

That buzz.

They were up 2–1.

But that didn’t give them the chance to rest.

.....

The referee’s whistle rang out, slicing through the noise like a clean cut. One sharp blow.

Then two.

Full-time.

A reasonable cheer went up around Robin Park.

Not raucous, not a cup-final kind of roar—but a grateful, rising swell.

A cheer that said, finally.

A cheer for progress, for belief slowly coming back to a team that had gone too long without momentum.

Leo exhaled and turned his head toward the scoreboard above the small main stand.

WIGAN ATHLETIC U21 – 3

CREWE ALEXANDRA U21 – 1

He let the numbers settle for a beat.

That third goal—the one that put the game beyond doubt—had come courtesy of Jake.

A well-timed, sharp header from another of Ezra’s crisp deliveries.

Jake had peeled away to celebrate with uncharacteristic restraint, raising one hand before being mobbed by his teammates.

A villain turned team player, maybe.

At least for the day.

Leo started to walk, pulling his shin pads down slightly as the others clapped and bumped fists.

A couple of the Crewe players wandered over, lanky, red-faced from the chase.

One of them, number 8, offered a hand with a breathless grin.

"You lads are different level today," he said.

"Especially you. The press just... didn’t work."

Leo smiled and took the handshake.

"Thanks. You gave us a scare, though. That first half was chaos."

Another Crewe player, the left-back who had tried tugging Leo’s shirt earlier, gave him a sheepish shrug.

"Didn’t realise you were that quick, man."

Leo chuckled just as a familiar voice rang out behind him.

"Oi! Leo!"

He turned as Ezra jogged up, flicking his head to one side with that sideways smirk of his.

"Still no goal for you, huh? What’s that now—two games in?"

Leo rolled his eyes. "This is literally my second match, Ez."

"Still goalless, though."

"I’d have scored already if I stopped passing easy chances to you lot."

Leo shot back, grinning.

"You missed two of them today."

Ezra put a hand over his heart, pretending to be wounded.

"You wound me."

"Good."

They laughed, walking off toward the tunnel entrance with the crowd slowly filing out behind them.