Chapter 92: An "Ok" Game For Leo.
FWEEEEEEEEEEEE!
"Full-time at the DW Stadium!" the commentator’s voice rang through the roar of the crowd, cutting clean through the noise.
"Wigan Athletic take all three points on a brilliant night for the home side. Three-nil, the final score and just listen to that noise and what it means to the crowd!"
The stands were alive, a single pulsing sound of relief and celebration rolling around the ground.
Blue scarves swung in the air, chants echoing off the concrete and in their right, it was a well-earned celebration.
After a frustrating, shapeless first half, Wigan had found their rhythm, and in the middle of it, the name everyone was now shouting: Calderon.
"You have to say that the first half was dreadful for both teams. Flat, no spark, no drive. But sometimes, football finds its story, and tonight, it’s the unlikeliest of heroes. Leo Calderon, off the bench, changes everything. A goal, an assist, and the composure of a player twice his age."
"Absolutely," his partner added.
"That’s now one goal and two assists from just four appearances off the bench. A new star might be rising in the Championship, and it might just be coming from Wigan."
Down on the pitch, Leo moved slowly across the grass, clapping toward the stands.
His expression wasn’t overblown; just calm, grateful.
Every few steps, he stopped to shake the hands of teammates, exchanging quick smiles and exhausted nods.
A few Sunderland players offered brief handshakes too, the ones whose tempers had cooled enough not to glare.
The rest stayed distant, muttering under their breath, still burning from the night’s unravelling.
Leo didn’t linger on them.
He jogged toward Mclean, bumped fists with him, then turned toward the fans again, clapping above his head as he began to make his way toward the tunnel.
His shirt clung to his back, his socks half rolled down, his face streaked with sweat, but he looked content, like someone who had done exactly what he came to do.
Then the stadium announcer’s voice burst through the speakers, a final exclamation to the night.
"Tonight’s Man of the Match..." A pause followed, deliberate, waiting for the cheers to build.
"Number twenty-two, Leo Calderon!"
The rest was swallowed by the roar as the Wigan fans took over the moment, chanting his name as Leo turned, waving briefly toward the stands, a small, genuine smile spreading across his face.
"What a night for the youngster," the commentators closed out, "and what a response from Wigan. After a 3-game winning streak, Dawson dropped Leo for the Millwall game, an easy one on paper, but it ended in a draw. In this game, they needed a spark, and once again they found it in Leo Calderon, who had played off the bench and made an impact in all of their 3 game win streak. Wigan are still unbeaten in 5, and this might be the start of a promotion or at least a play-off push. "
The camera caught Leo one last time, shaking hands with Dawson before making his way down the tunnel, the rest of his mates in tow, while the scoreboard gleamed above.
FULL TIME – WIGAN 3, SUNDERLAND 0.
...
The door to the dressing room swung open, and the noise from the pitch, still buzzing from the full-time whistle, bled into the corridor as Leo walked in beside Dawson, both still flushed from the game.
"Good job, both of you," came a sharp, cheerful voice before either could reach the benches.
It was one of the club’s PR heads, a woman in her early thirties with a purse tucked under her arm and an energy that suggested she had already sprinted three miles between the media zones.
She looked at Dawson first, then at Leo, eyes narrowing in playful accusation.
"Dawson’s been helping you dodge me for weeks, hasn’t he?" she said, mock-stern, stepping forward before Leo could even respond.
Leo blinked, half-smiling.
"Uh, what?"
She didn’t bother answering.
Her hand caught his lightly by the wrist, firm but not rough, as she turned her head towards the corridor again.
"Not today."
Down the hall, a reporter stood ready with her crew, the camera already humming, a microphone raised expectantly as Leo’s stomach sank.
The PR woman flashed him a grin, one that said she was victorious and amused and that she’d been waiting for this moment all evening, or at least, after he scored.
Dawson chuckled behind him, tossing his towel onto the bench.
"Told you she’d get you eventually, mate."
Leo looked over his shoulder, shooting him a helpless glare, but the woman was already guiding him forward, weaving through the crowded room with practised ease.
He glanced at the reporter, then at her, and muttered under his breath, "Who even is she?"
But the woman just smiled wider without answering, still dragging him along.
......
[CoolVamp Pub]
The pub was still humming from the afterglow of the match, low laughter, pint glasses clinking, the faint echo of "Wigan ’til I die" drifting from a corner table.
Nolan stepped through the door, brushing the cold air off his jacket, his phone still in hand.
He fired off a quick text to Dawson: Go on without me, mate. I’ll catch you later.
The screen dimmed, and he slipped the phone into his pocket before glancing up, scanning the crowded room.
For a second, all he saw were locals in blue scarves, some talking about the game and others halfway into their third round.
Then, from a booth near the back, a hand went up with a simple wave.
Nolan’s lips curved into a smirk.
"There you are," he muttered, before making his way through the maze of tables.
The smell of ale and fried chips thickened as he approached, and when he finally stopped by the booth, he chuckled, shaking his head.
"The great Noah Sarin, in the flesh," he said, tapping the edge of the table before sitting down opposite.
Noah grinned, a calm, almost self-aware smile.
"That’s me, yeah. Great, though? That part’s debatable."
Nolan leaned back, arms crossed, amusement flickering across his face as he turned to look around the pub.
"You finally kept your word this time."
"Guess I did," Noah replied lightly, raising a hand to catch a waitress’s attention.
"Might as well make it worth the wait, then."
The waitress turned toward them, pen already in hand, as the low murmur of the pub wrapped around their corner, settling the night into motion.
...
The next morning, sunlight pushed lazily through the blinds of Leo’s room, cutting across the messy floor where his training gear lay scattered.
The air smelled faintly of deodorant and leftover crisps, and the muffled laughter of two voices filled the space.
Ezra was half-lying on Leo’s beanbag, scrolling through his phone, while Jake sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed, grinning from ear to ear.
On the screen of Ezra’s phone, Leo’s post-match interview replayed again, while Leo stood awkwardly beside the News station backdrop, his smile a mix of pride and panic.
"So, Leo," the reporter’s voice came from the tiny speakers, "it looked like a tough game out there. How did it feel to come off the bench and make that kind of impact?"
Leo’s on-screen self blinked, hesitated, then said, "Uh, yeah, I thought it was going to be difficult... but, um, it was okay."
The reporter’s chuckle came right after, soft but audible.
Ezra paused the clip right there, rewound it, and played it again just to make Jake laugh harder.
"’I thought it was going to be difficult, but it was okay,’" Jake repeated, mimicking Leo’s tone perfectly, even tilting his head the same way.
Leo groaned from his spot on the bed, dragging a pillow over his face.
"Can we not do this again?" he mumbled, but Ezra laughed.
"Oh, come on. You sounded like you just finished your first driving lesson, not scored a goal and assisted one in front of thousands."
"I was tired," Leo muttered, his voice muffled under the pillow. "And she was smiling weirdly. Threw me off."
Jake grinned.
"You mean the part where she leaned in and asked if you expected to play that well? Yeah, Cute Leo."
Ezra snorted.
"Mate, if Sunderland saw that, you’re officially on their hit list. They’re going to kick you at the first chance they get. ’It was okay,’ he says, like they weren’t trying to snap your ankles."
Leo finally sat up, hair messy, pillow marks on his cheek.
He rolled his eyes, looking at the two, but couldn’t fight the small grin tugging at his mouth.
"You’re just jealous I actually get interviews."
"Yeah, right," Ezra added, replaying the video one last time just to torture him.
"Because next time, when they ask how hard the match was, maybe you can say something other than ’it was okay.’"
Leo grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it at him, missing by inches, as the room erupted in laughter again.