Chapter 104: "Mamma Mia"

"Hey," Leo said, voice calm but deliberate.

Both Sofia and Mia looked up.

"There’s something I need to tell you."

"Oooh, mysterious," Mia said, but before Leo could open his mouth to speak, Sofia’s phone buzzed.

She sighed, glancing at the screen.

"Sorry, hang on a second," she murmured, already answering it.

"Hi, Paul. Yeah, no, I sent that over already... yes, check your inbox again, no, not the spam folder... oh, you found it? Perfect."

She paced toward the sink, her tone polite but clipped as she handled what sounded like a small work crisis.

"Yeah, move the call to Thursday, that’s fine. Just tell them I’ll confirm by tomorrow."

Leo and Mia exchanged a look as the call went on, but it went on for a bit too long.

Mia mimed talking into a phone with an exaggerated frown, mouthing

’work, work, work’

until Leo chuckled.

Sofia eventually ended the call, letting out a small breath as she set her phone face down on the table and looked at Leo.

"Okay," she said, straightening.

"Now, what were you going to tell us before I was rudely interrupted by capitalism?"

Leo smiled faintly, then sat up a bit. "Right... uh," he started, glancing between them.

"I got called up."

Sofia blinked. "Called up?"

Mia frowned. "Called up to what?"

"The national team," Leo said simply.

Both of them froze mid-motion, Sofia halfway into her seat, Mia with a spoon still in her hand.

"What?!" they said at the same time, the word bouncing off the walls.

Leo raised his hands quickly.

"The

U18S

," he added with a grin. "Not the senior team."

But that didn’t seem to dull the excitement one bit.

"Oh my God, Leo!" Mia shouted, springing up from her chair and wrapping him in a tight hug, nearly spilling her drink.

"That’s

insane

! You’re gonna have a lion on your chest and everything!"

Sofia laughed, shaking her head, but her eyes gleamed with pride.

"Look at you! All grown up, getting national call-ups now."

Leo chuckled, scratching the back of his neck.

"Yeah... about that. I have been called up by the England U18S, but" the tone of his voice changed slightly, enough for both of them to quiet down.

"I won’t be playing for them," he said.

"What?" Mia blinked, still smiling, thinking he was joking.

Sofia’s eyebrows furrowed slightly, though she didn’t say anything.

Leo exhaled slowly.

"I’ve also been called up by Italy’s U21S."

Mia tilted her head.

"Wait, what?" she asked again, half laughing but confused.

"How does that, how can you, aren’t you supposed to play for, like, the country you’re from? Or your parents?"

"Yeah," Leo said, nodding. "Exactly."

"So... why Italy?"

Leo hesitated, glancing toward Sofia.

She hadn’t said a word yet, just quietly studying him, her lips pressed together.

Finally, he looked back at Mia.

"Because our dad," he said carefully, "was Italian. He got Spanish nationality later, but he was born in Italy."

Mia’s mouth formed a small

oh

.

"Right, I... kinda forgot about that."

"Wait, you knew?" Leo asked, causing Mia to look at him weirdly.

"You didn’t? And you’re supposed to be the eldest," Mia said, causing Leo to shrug.

"I only remembered after I asked Sofia."

For a moment, the room went quiet again, but then, as if deciding silence wasn’t her thing, Mia clapped her hands together.

"Okay, so let me get this straight," she said, tapping her temple dramatically.

"If my math and logic are right, and they usually are, U21 means

older

, and therefore

better

, than U18. So technically... this is an upgrade."

Leo smirked.

"It is off higher competition but not necessarily better. Most of the players there are older and more developed, but the U18S aren’t that far off."

"Then what are we even sitting around for?" she said, grinning. "You got promoted!"

Sofia finally laughed, the sound warm and genuine.

"She’s not wrong. That’s a big deal, Leo. The Italian setup is no joke. You’ll get good experience there."

Leo nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"I know, but it is not permanent, though," he said, leaning back in his chair.

"It’s the U21S, so I’m not tied down yet. Technically, I could still switch to another national team later if I wanted to. Depends on who I play for in a competitive match first."

"Ah," Sofia said, nodding thoughtfully. "So you’re keeping your options open."

"Something like that," Leo said.

Mia tilted her head again.

"So... it’s like dating?"

Leo blinked. "What?"

"You know," she continued with a grin, "you can go out with Italy for a bit, see how it feels, and if you’re not vibing, you can still text England or Spain later like, ’hey, you up?’"

Sofia groaned.

"Mia, please,"

Leo laughed, nearly choking on his drink.

"That’s... one way to put it."

"Exactly!" she said, triumphant. "See, I get football."

Sofia rolled her eyes with a smile, muttering, "Barely."

Mia ignored her, springing to her feet with renewed energy.

"This calls for celebration," she announced.

"And I mean

actual

celebration. We’re getting ice cream."

Leo chuckled. "Ice cream?"

"Obviously. You can’t announce something like that and then just wash dishes after," she said, already grabbing her coat from the stand. "That’s criminal behaviour."

Sofia sighed, though her smile didn’t fade.

"And who is paying for that?" she said, shaking her head as she reached for her own jacket.

"Come on, Aunt Sof," Mia said, looping her arm through hers.

"You can’t say no to a guy who just got called up to Italy

and

a niece who wants mint chocolate chip."

Sofia laughed, giving in.

"Fine. But you’re paying for the extra toppings."

"Deal," Mia grinned.

Leo followed them to the door, watching as Mia tugged on her sneakers, still buzzing with excitement.

"Alright, Mister Italy," Mia said, elbowing him as they stepped into the night air.

"First cone’s on you."

Leo smirked, shaking his head.

"Fair enough."

And just like that, the three of them headed down the quiet Manchester street.

...

[Wigan Complex]

Nolan pushed open the door to Dawson’s office without knocking, the hinges letting out a dry squeak that had become familiar between them.

Dawson was hunched over his desk, sleeves rolled up, glasses low on his nose as he scanned a sheet of player reports.

"Hey, how do you use these glasses?" Dawson said.

"You can’t because those are fitted for me."

"That explains it," Dawson muttered as he continued to squint despite the glasses.

"Anyways, when are you going to leave this place?" Nolan asked, shutting the door behind him.

Dawson didn’t look up.

"When you do."

"Good, then we’ll both rot here," Nolan replied, dropping a folder onto the desk.

"I sent the acceptance letter to the Italy U21S. Also, an abstinence letter to the England U18S."

That made Dawson pause mid-note.

He finally looked up, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Good. Thanks."

Nolan stared at him for a beat. "That’s it?"

Dawson’s lips tugged into a half-smile.

"You were expecting applause?"

"No, but ’thanks’ feels light for someone who just saved you from another three hours of inbox chaos. Also, for all the work about Leo that you have been sending my way," Nolan said, folding his arms.

"Fine," Dawson muttered, pretending to think. "I’ll toss something your way."

"

Somethings

," Nolan corrected without missing a beat, already heading for the door.

Dawson didn’t even glance up this time, just gave a small nod as he went back to writing.

Nolan opened the door halfway, stopped, then said over his shoulder, "You’re welcome, by the way."

"Noted," Dawson said, pen still moving as the door clicked shut.

....

A small flat — somewhere in northern Italy.

A phone buzzed on the corner of a cluttered desk.

The man sitting there glanced over, sliding it closer with a few fingers still stained faintly with charcoal.

1 new email:

Wigan Athletic FC – Acceptance Confirmation.

He sighed and then opened it as the glow from the screen washed over his face, pulling a slow, satisfied smirk from him.

"He chose us," he said quietly, almost under his breath as he leaned back in the chair, stretching until the backrest creaked.

"He chose us," he muttered again.

The apartment was silent apart from the faint hum of the refrigerator and the traffic echoing from the street below.

On the wall, above a half-finished sketch pinned with tape, hung a photograph, two boys in youth kits, caked in mud, one holding up a medal while the other laughed behind him.

The man stared at it for a few seconds, running a thumb along the edge of the photo.

"I told you I’d get it done, Lucio," he said, not heavy, not nostalgic, just matter-of-fact, as if updating an old friend on a promise kept.

He put the phone face down on the desk, exhaled through his nose, and grabbed a pencil.

"Back to work," he muttered, pulling another sketch closer, a tactical diagram, not an artwork.