Chapter 47: First Team Calling.

The crowd was still murmuring as Robin Park slowly emptied.

Kids clutching boot bags.

Adults lingering near the tunnel, hoping for a glimpse of Leo despite the physios shielding him into the changing room.

The noise had died down, but the buzz remained — like the air still hadn’t recovered from what it had witnessed.

The murmur of voices followed Nolan and Dawson as they stepped out onto the gravel path that led toward the car park.

The floodlights still hummed behind them, long shadows trailing at their heels.

Their boots crunched softly beneath them, but neither man spoke at first.

Only after they’d cleared the low gate near the players’ entrance did Nolan break the silence.

"Well?" he asked, not turning his head.

"Do you believe your protege now or do you still have your doubts?"

Dawson didn’t answer right away.

His hands were buried in his coat pockets, eyes fixed on the row of cars ahead.

For a second, it seemed like he hadn’t heard the question at all.

But then he let out a small breath — not quite a laugh, more like a release.

"I believed in him," Dawson said, finally.

"Just... not like that."

Nolan smiled faintly and kept walking.

"That looked a little more than ’decent potential’ to me."

Dawson stopped beside an old black Audi, resting his back against the passenger-side door.

The orange glow from the overhead lamps pooled across his face, highlighting the faint twitch of his jaw.

"He was playing in a different match than the rest of them," Nolan kept up with the chatter.

"Like he saw things they hadn’t even thought of yet. The way he dropped into the back line? Who does that at this level?" he continued.

"And he didn’t even look like he was improvising. It was like he’d planned the whole bloody second half during halftime. I have never been more glad that you signed him. All that’s left now is for him to replicate it in the Senio-."

Nolan stopped, seeing as he had been rambling on for a while before turning towards Dawson who had remained quiet through his chatter.

He then leaned against the bonnet, arms folded across his chest.

"He’s not just good," Dawson began, his voice quieter.

"He’s much braver and confident now. I saw him take a shin-killer and get back up like he was late to an appointment. Then he went and scored a goal that’s gonna live in these kids’ memories for the next ten years."

Nolan nodded once. "So?"

Dawson gave a short, wry chuckle.

"Tell Thompson to get him in with the first team," he said, without blinking.

"Next training session. Doesn’t matter if he’s in a cast. Just get him in the room."

Nolan raised an eyebrow. "You’re serious?"

"Deadly."

"He’s injured, you saw that. Might be out a few weeks."

"So what?" Dawson shrugged.

"He won’t forget how to think while he’s off his feet. And when he’s ready, he steps up. No excuses."

Nolan stared at him, then gave a long exhale and pushed off the bonnet.

"I’ve been telling you," he said. "You just needed to realize it yourself."

Dawson didn’t deny it.

"I don’t mind being wrong," he said.

"Not about this. I was trying to protect him, you know? Seen too many lads rushed up too soon, and lose the ground under them before they ever had it. But he’s not like them."

He turned, folding his arms now.

"He’s got his feet on the ground and his head in the stars," Dawson added.

"That’s rare. Dangerous, even. But it’s worth the risk."

They stood there for a moment, both men looking back toward the stadium as the last lights began to flicker off, one by one.

Nolan reached for his phone.

"I’ll call Thompson in the morning," he said.

"But I’m telling you now — the minute the word gets out, people are going to pay attention to him. And then they’ll start to want him. Championship clubs, big academies, agents sniffing around like dogs."

"Let them come," Dawson said firmly.

"They’ll have to go through us first."

Nolan smiled.

"You going to tell the lad yourself?"

Dawson considered it.

"Not yet," he said.

"Let him rest. Let him wake up sore and still buzzing. He’ll get his moment. I want him to feel the weight of it properly."

Nolan chuckled.

"So you do believe now."

Dawson’s smile finally cracked through.

"I believe we’re lucky he chose us," he said.

"That’s what I believe."

A few fans passed by in the distance, a couple of kids still wearing their matchday scarves, talking animatedly — one of them mimicking the chip with a soft little flick of the foot.

Dawson watched them go.

"Let me ask you something," Nolan suddenly said.

"Yeah?"

"What happens if he doesn’t stop growing?"

Dawson turned and glanced at him, puzzled.

"What do you mean?"

Dawson looked serious again.

"I mean, what if this isn’t it? What if tonight wasn’t his ceiling — what if it was just him warming up?"

Dawson was quiet for a beat.

Then: "Then we’d better buckle up."

They climbed into the car, and as the doors shut, the floodlights finally cut out behind them.

Robin Park returned to silence.

But somewhere in that darkness, the future had already taken shape.

....

Back at the parking lot of the Robin Arena, Coach Thompson’s car door swung open with a low creak.

The man himself, still in his club tracksuit, gestured for Leo to climb in.

"Get in," he said.

"I’m taking you back to the complex."

Leo limped forward without protest.

The dull throb in his shin was climbing now, not sharp pain, but something deep and dense, like a storm rolling in behind bone.

Behind him, Ben raised an eyebrow.

"Wait — he gets chauffeured now?"

"Must be nice," Ezra muttered.

"You lot can walk," Thompson called over his shoulder.

"Do you see a wheelchair growing out the back of my boot?"

A groan rippled through the squad, and some boots kicked at the gravel half-heartedly.

Inside the car, Thompson didn’t say much at first.

The heater hummed and the streetlights slid past, one after the other, washing the windscreen in amber.

Leo leaned his head against the window and exhaled slowly.

"You alright?" Thompson asked, eyes still on the road.

"Been better," Leo muttered.

"I saw the tackle. Should’ve been a red the first time."

Leo shrugged.

"I’d take the tackles any day over not playing at all."

Thompson gave him a sideways glance, acknowledging where the kid was coming from.

After all, no one knew being ignored as much as Leo did.

"You shouldn’t have to. We’re not in the trenches."

Leo didn’t answer.

The hum of tires against wet tarmac filled the silence.

When they reached the complex, the floodlights were already off, and the entrance was quiet, save for a security guard yawning behind the desk.

But someone had been called ahead.

As they pulled into the staff parking lot, the door to the physio room swung open.

Gareth, the first-team physio, stepped out with a wheelchair.

Leo gave him a look.

"You serious?"

"Don’t argue," Gareth said.

"You’ve got a limp like you’re eighty and fought two world wars."

Leo grumbled but allowed himself to be lowered in.

Thompson nodded once, then turned and told one of the academy staff who’d just arrived to make sure the other boys got in alright.

They wheeled Leo through the back hallway, past framed shirts and photographs of long-retired Wigan greats.

The complex was a hush of empty treatment tables, closed doors, and soft lighting.

But the first-team doc was still there, somehow.

Dr. Irving — silver hair, tortoiseshell glasses, sleeves rolled up like he was always mid-shift.

"Let’s see this prodigy’s leg," he said, not unkindly.

Leo propped it up as the physio eased the ice pack down, revealing the angry, red-blue mark across his shin.

There was already swelling.

Irving frowned as he pressed his fingers along the edge.

Leo winced but didn’t yelp.

"Cartilage feels intact," Irving murmured.

"Tibia’s solid. No fracture."

He looked up.

"You’ll need a scan tomorrow to be sure, but I’ll tell you this now — you’re lucky."

"How lucky?" Thompson asked from the corner.

Irving leaned back in his stool, hands clasped.

"Full recovery in six weeks max, assuming no surprises on the scan. Could be closer to four if his body heals fast."

Leo exhaled, long and slow.

"But he won’t be running for at least two, not properly," Irving added.

"It’s not about pain tolerance — it’s about avoiding overload."

"Understood," Thompson said.

Then, looking at Leo, "You hear that? No ’playing through’ anything. If I see you jogging tomorrow, I’ll tape you to a chair."

Leo gave a small grin.

"What if I’m just passing?"

"Then you’ll pass on crutches," Gareth cut in.

They all chuckled lightly.

Irving stood.

"We’ll ice it properly tonight. Gareth will set up a plan — early physio, light mobility, keep the engine ticking. You’ll be bored out of your mind, but the leg will thank you."

Leo nodded, jaw tight. He had only started playing seriously for a while and now, THIS.

But deep down, he knew this was necessary.

As Gareth wheeled him out, Thompson fell into step beside him.

"Good performance tonight," the coach said quietly.

Leo looked at him, surprised.

"You’ve made yourself impossible to ignore."

Leo didn’t say anything, but the way he sat up straighter in the chair said enough.

"You’ve got a new problem now," Thompson added.

"What’s that?"

"People will expect this every time."

Leo looked ahead, eyes set.

"Then I’ll give it to them."

Thompson almost smiled.

The lights of the treatment wing faded behind them as they wheeled Leo toward the academy dorms.

He wasn’t walking, not yet.

But the ground under him already felt different.

A/n: Sorry for the inconsistencies. I’m really full this week so I’ve been focusing on the other novel since I have little time. But don’t worry, I’ll quickly get back in schedule and release at least one of this starting tomorrow