The final drill wrapped with a sharp whistle, and the group dispersed.
Most of the lads were already peeling off GPS vests and tossing bibs into the bag by the halfway line.
Leo was sweating, breath heavy, but not gasping.
Since Fletcher had stepped into the middle of the rondo, Leo hadnât lost the ball once.
The passes came clean â sharp one-twos, disguised layoffs, a little shoulder drop to create space when he needed it.
As the group started walking back toward the building, Fletcher matched his stride with Leoâs.
"Youâve got a good eye," the striker said, dragging his bib off with one hand.
"Quick feet, too, but you donât panic. You see the picture."
Leo stayed quiet, not sure if it was a compliment or a setup.
Fletcher added, "If Iâm on the pitch and you come on, just feed me. Thatâs your job. Iâll do the rest."
Leo nodded, still catching his breath. "Got it."
"Donât overthink it," Fletcher said.
"Just be reliable. Thatâs how you stay with us."
They reached the side doors and filtered through, heading toward the cafeteria.
The smell of warm food and recovery shakes already floated through the hallway and inside, trays were stacked, food lined out buffet-style, as the squad broke off into small groups.
Leo grabbed a tray, followed the line, and walked toward the main cluster of tables where most of the first team were already dropping into their seats.
Just as he went to pull out a chair, a voice cut across the room.
"Oi."
Leo paused, tray in hand.
McClean was leaned back in his chair, sipping from a bottle of water, expression half-serious, half-pleased with himself.
"You canât sit yet."
Leo frowned. "Because?"
"You havenât yet been initiated," McClean said, setting his bottle down.
"You skipped it before QPR. The call-up was too quick, but that doesnât mean itâs not happening."
Around the table, a few players perked up.
One or two looked at each other knowingly.
Chris Sze shook his head, grinning under his breath.
"Here we go."
Leo looked at Dawsonâs empty seat in the corner of the room, as if someone might rescue him from this, but nobody moved.
He sighed. "Itâs not singing, is it?"
"Nah," McClean said, sitting up now, his tone almost cheerful.
"Weâve moved past that. Got a new tradition for late initiations."
Joe Bennet raised a finger, helpfully.
"Youâve got to list the starting eleven of Wiganâs 2013 FA Cup Final."
Leo stared.
"By position," McClean added. "In order."
"Are you serious?"
Fletcher leaned in with a smirk.
"This was your idea, by the way," he said to McClean.
"No, my idea was the spelling bee with only foreign last names," McClean replied.
"This oneâs just tradition now."
Leo looked at the faces around the table â a mix of amusement, interest, and a few waiting for him to crack.
Even Fletcher had turned in his seat, arms folded, watching.
"I was, like, seven in 2013," Leo muttered.
"Thatâs not our problem," Whatmough said.
"Youâre a Wigan player now. Know your history."
The table clapped in unison, slow and dramatic.
"Line-up! Line-up! Line-up!"
Chris stood, arms wide like a game show host.
"You can use one lifeline."
Leo rolled his eyes. "What kind?"
"You can ask Fletcher to spell
Maloney.
Thatâs it."
Laughter again.
Leo rubbed the back of his neck, walked up to the middle of the room, and turned to face them.
"Alright," he said.
"But if I get this right, McCleanâs buying me boots."
McClean snorted. "If you get it right, Iâll buy you two."
The room settled as Leo stood in the middle of the cafeteria, arms folded, head slightly tilted like he was bracing for embarrassment.
A couple of players leaned forward in their seats, ready to laugh him off the stool.
Chris leaned in with a grin.
"Youâre on stage now. Letâs hear history, mate."
Leo took a deep breath, scratched his chin for show, then started.
"Alright... keeper was Joel Robles. Number one."
McClean immediately sat up straighter.
Leo went on.
"Back four â Boyce, Scharner, Alcaraz,. Midfield â Espinoza,McCarthy, McArthur, Maloney, Gomez. And... um..."
He paused, squinting like he was reaching for it.
"Callum," he added, slowly.
A few players nodded, surprised already.
"Up top was... Kone."
He let that sit for a second.
Chris whispered, "Heâs done it."
But Leo wasnât done.
He started walking slowly in a half-circle.
"Subs that came on â Ben Watson scored, obviously. Then Di Santo came on late. And Ali Al-Habsi came in to shut it down."
He stopped.
Turned.
Looked at McClean directly.
"And the manager... was Roberto MartĂnez."
McClean narrowed his eyes. "You rehearsed this."
Leo shrugged.
"I signed four months ago. The boys in the U21S made me debate the â13 final versus United â99. Iâve known that team like scripture since."
Chris grinned. "Man did a full presentation in the dorm over it."
Leo looked back toward the table.
"And McClean â since you offered, Iâll take the Adidas F50S. Solar blue. Chrome studs. You know the ones, and as for the second boot, Iâll hold onto it and tell you when I need it."
Silence followed, and for a while, everyone just turned to stare at Mclean until Fletcher let out a short whistle and leaned back.
"You got done," he said to McClean. "He got you, mate."
McClean scratched his jaw, then smirked, a bit annoyed.
"Cheeky little shit," he muttered, shaking his head.
"Fine. Iâm burning them if you ever have a stinker in them"
Laughter broke across the room.
Leo walked back to the table like heâd been there a hundred times.
The seat was open now.
He dropped into it, finally took a sip of water, and exhaled.
Just outside the door, Dawson had been standing the whole time, coffee in hand, leaning quietly against the frame.
Heâd heard the whole thing.
He let a faint smile pull at the corner of his mouth, turned down the hallway, and muttered under his breath as he walked away:
"Welcome to the squad."
.......
7:14 p.m. â Manchester.
Miaâs laugh echoed off the kitchen walls, high and uncontrollable, as she kicked her feet up on the coffee table and nearly spilt a half-open juice pouch.
"Youâre lying," she wheezed, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes.
Leo smirked as he leaned back into the couch.
"Iâm not. Fletcher told McClean he had to buy me boots. You shouldâve seen his face."
"And the initiation?" she said, gasping.
"They really made you do a history quiz?"
"Wiganâs FA Cup final, full line-up," Leo said.
"I pretended to stutter on a few just to keep them guessing."
She cackled.
"Youâre ridiculous."
He shrugged, stretching his legs.
"Hey, I learned it the week I signed. I was practically forced to."
Mia grinned and reached over to grab her phone.
"But, when you get your first
start
, youâre wearing the boots I decorated for you, right?"
"Every day of the week."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Just then, the front door clicked open and Sofia entered, keys in one hand, grocery bag in the other, still in her navy scrubs.
She gave them both a look.
"I could hear Mia from down the hall. What did I miss?"
Leo grinned.
"Just the story of my public humiliation. The usual."
Sofia set the food down and waved him toward the table.
"Well, youâll need fuel to go with your ego. I made enough."
The family of three settled down and ate before debating a few things behind the TV until it dulled down after a while.
Mia had fallen asleep beside him, curled up with her hoodie pulled over half her face.
Sofia appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, half smiling.
"Sheâll twist her neck sleeping like that," she whispered.
Leo looked over. "She always does. Then she blames me."
Sofia walked over and gently straightened the blanket across Miaâs shoulder.
"You should go to sleep too," she said softly. "Youâve had a long day."
Leo stood slowly, stretching his arms. "I will."
He paused, reached into his jacket and pulled out a small white envelope.
He handed it to her without a word.
She looked at it, then back at him.
"Whatâs this?"
"My wages. From last month."
Sofia opened it and blinked.
"Leoâthis is... this is twenty thousand pounds."
He didnât answer. Just started backing toward the hallway.
"Why are you giving me this?" she asked, a little sharper now.
He turned and jogged the last few steps to his door.
"Youâll just argue," he said quickly, twisting the handle.
"Iâ"
Leo ducked into the room, slammed it shut, and clicked the lock.
"Iâve got training," he called through the door.
"And if you keep banging, Miaâs gonna wake up and start asking questions. You want that?"
There was a long silence.
Then a soft knock.
Sofia stood there for a few more seconds, still holding the envelope.
She just shook her head, quietly, and whispered into the hallway, "Youâre impossible."
Behind the door, Leo sat on his bed, leaned back against the wall, and smiled to himself, eyes closed, as his heartbeat finally started to slow.
A/N: Had some free time have this one. See you later.