Chapter 49: Slowly But Surely

The next few days passed in a rhythm that felt too clean, too careful.

Leo was allowed to move freely again after 5 days— light jogs, extended drills, straight-line speed with minimal cutting.

Gareth called it "reintroduction."

Leo called it "the cage."

They were in the far corner of the training grounds now, past the reserve pitch, near the hydro room.

It was isolated.

Quiet.

Almost like they didn’t want him to be seen.

At least not yet.

"You’re walking better," Jake said as they crossed paths in the recovery corridor.

"Less ’granny at the shops,’ more ’bloke with somewhere to be.’"

Leo gave a half-smile.

"Nice. Might even work that into my new stride."

Jake leaned on the railing next to him.

"Seriously, though, how close?"

Leo shrugged, non-committal.

"Gareth says we’re ahead of schedule. Says the joint looks ’very promising.’ Which is code for ’you can run, but don’t make it look too exciting and free.’"

Jake chuckled.

"Right. God forbid someone gets ideas." but Leo wasn’t laughing.

Jake noticed and looked ahead, where the grounds curved into the players’ parking lot.

"You’ll be on that side soon enough."

Leo let out a breath. "

Yeah. That’s what they keep saying."

In the next few sessions, he started seeing more of the academy lads.

Some would linger after training, watching his drills from a distance.

Others would come up, joking at first, asking if he’d been upgraded to "bionic status" or "if the Premier League scouts were already bribing Gareth."

But some weren’t joking.

"Thompson was talking about you again," Ezra told him after weights one afternoon.

"Said you’re the most coachable player he’s worked with in three years."

Leo blinked.

"Guess he’s been missing a player like me in his setup".

They both laughed.

That night, alone in his room, he stared at the ceiling again — the same dull white tiles, the same shadowed corners, the same fan that clicked at every second revolution.

But something was different now.

Expectation, maybe.

Or hunger and desire to play the game he so loved.

The next morning, Dawson showed up mid-drill.

Leo had been halfway through a resistance band run, legs pumping like pistons, when the latter strolled over, hands in coat pockets, nodding at Gareth.

"Mind if I borrow him for a bit?"

Gareth raised an eyebrow.

"He’s halfway through a set."

Dawson smiled faintly.

"He’ll finish the other half with me."

Leo tried not to let his heart leap, but he failed.

They walked in silence through the side path, looping around the main facility toward the staff offices.

"Thought I was doing well," Leo finally said, trying not to let it sound like a question.

"You are," Dawson replied.

"Which is why I wanted to walk with you."

Leo looked over. "I don’t get it."

Dawson stopped in front of a side room — a video analysis suite, unused at the moment they got there.

He unlocked it with a code and gestured Leo inside.

"I want to show you something."

The screen inside already had clips queued.

Training footage.

Dawson let them play once through, then again.

"You see the problem?" he asked after the second showing.

Leo watched.

"Not enough depth on the overlap. Timing’s off."

Dawson nodded.

"And you think I can fix it?"

"I think," Dawson said carefully, "that one day soon, yes — you can. But not yet."

Leo said nothing.

"You’re ahead of schedule," he continued.

"But there’s a difference between being fit and being ready."

Dawson paused at the door, hand on the light switch.

"You’ll get there. But I’m not burning your legs out just because the team needs a quick patch."

He flicked off the lights.

"Tyrese, from the U23s, is training with the senior group tomorrow."

Leo stood still for a moment.

Then nodded.

Quietly.

Leo started chasing minutes like he used to chase loose balls — hard, hungry, and with a little recklessness in the engine.

He started waking before the alarm.

The physio’s room became a second home.

Foam rollers, ice buckets, compression sleeves — the rituals stacked up like bricks.

The sessions Gareth scheduled were structured, safe, scientific, and tightly measured.

Leo hit those benchmarks quickly, ticking boxes before the ink had dried.

But what made the difference were the sessions no one scheduled.

Late-night stretches with tension bands knotted around the bedpost.

Ball control in the hallway, left foot only, pinging passes off the skirting board.

Mini shuttle runs marked by socks, cones, whatever he could find.

He logged everything.

Measured heart rate recovery.

Timed his acceleration from rest.

Read match reports like they were tactical Bibles.

But every time he started skidding toward burnout, the world intervened.

A FaceTime call would pop up from Mia mid-plank or mid-ice bath.

"Leo, what’s with this playlist?" she said once, mocking the early 2000s bangers blasting in the background.

"You tryna recover or open for a retirement disco?"

He rolled his eyes.

"It gets the blood going."

"Your

blood

maybe. My ears are bleeding."

But then she’d tilt her head and then go quiet for a bit.

"You’re not overdoing it, right?"

Leo would lie.

Not outright, but enough.

"I’m good."

She’d stare at the screen, eyes narrowed like she was reading more than he was saying.

"I’m serious," she said once, softer.

"You being out... it sucked. Not just for you. So don’t be dumb. You don’t gotta prove anything."

Then she hung up.

No goodbye.

And Leo would sit there, blinking at the silence.

Later in the week, Aunt Sofia brought him lunch — leftovers from home, packed with that maternal energy that never tried too hard but always landed.

She watched him limp slightly while carrying the food into the dorm kitchenette.

"You’re pushing," she said.

Leo smirked. "Isn’t that the point?"

"Only if you know when to stop."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Since when are you the recovery expert?"

She gave a soft smile, one hand resting on the plastic container’s lid.

"I’m not. But I raised a boy who burned themselves out trying to be everything too fast."

Leo didn’t answer.

He opened the container, and the smell hit immediately — garlic, tomato, a little heat.

"You made arrabbiata," he said.

"Thought you could use a little anger in your carbs."

He laughed, full and real.

And that night, he

didn’t

do the extra set.

He sat on the floor, legs out, food half-eaten, old Champions League plays and highlights playing on his laptop.

By the end of the week, Gareth noticed the difference.

The bounce in Leo’s first step.

The way he recovered between reps.

The way his body didn’t sag in the final round of acceleration drills.

"You’re turning the corner," he said casually during a cooldown session.

Leo just nodded, sweat still cooling on his brow.

"Feels like it."

But in truth, it felt like more than that.

It felt like momentum — not a sprint, not a race — but something steadier.

The second injury for Wigan came on a Tuesday.

Max Power

had barely been back in light training, easing through a non-contact possession drill, when he pulled up mid-turn.

No scream — just that dreaded silence followed by the slow, reluctant crouch.

Dawson was on the far sideline, clipboard in hand.

He saw the physio’s reaction before he saw the player’s face.

One shake of the head and then another.

Max Power didn’t get up.

By noon, the scans confirmed it — low-grade ligament strain.

Not season-ending, but enough to wipe out the next eight weeks.

That made two.

First Mackie’s hamstring in the match on Saturday.

Now this.

Wigan’s right side of the midfield wasn’t just depleted.

It was bleeding.

Dawson didn’t slam the door when he entered the physio room.

But it was close.

Gareth glanced up from the chart in his hands.

"How bad?"

Dawson didn’t have to say which player.

Gareth sighed.

"Not catastrophic. But it’s a proper setback. He’s out."

Dawson rubbed his temple and nodded once. "Right."

He didn’t say anything more.

Just turned, walked out, and made the familiar trip down the corridor to his office.

He shut the door behind him — soft, not angry — and sank into the chair like he weighed twice as much.

He sat there in silence for a moment, eyes unfocused, the wall in front of him offering no answers.

Then he reached for the stack of player reports on his desk.

Midfield depth.

Wing cover.

Rotation strategies.

None of it helped.

He exhaled hard, leaned back, and let his gaze fall on the last folder on the edge of the desk.

Thin, paper-clipped. Bright orange tab.

LEONE CALDERON-POST-INJURY TRACKING

Dawson picked it up.

The front page held Gareth’s signature, time-stamped earlier that day.

Muscle response strong.

Balance testing exceeded expectations.

Return-to-play projection: any day from next week onward, pending clearance.

He skimmed the notes again, then closed the file gently and set it down in front of him.

A smile crept onto his face.

"At least," he muttered to himself, "some good news today."

He leaned back in his chair and let the idea sit there with him — the possibility, the timing, the return.

Leo.

Maybe not a miracle.

But maybe, just maybe... the solution.

A/N: Okay, have fun reading, and I’ll see you tomorrow.