Later that afternoon, the sky was blanketed in that greyish hue that never quite passed for sunlight in the northwest.
A stiff breeze rolled through the outskirts of Wigan as the squad made their way out of the training ground gates on foot.
Thompson walked ahead of them, hands tucked into his coat pockets, scarf fluttering behind him like a banner.
"No need for the bus," he'd said earlier, clapping his hands to grab attention.
"Robin Park's ten minutes away. This'll loosen you up more than a ride."
So they walked. Tracksuits zipped, boots clacking against the pavement, bags slung over shoulders.
Some of the lads laughed about how old school it felt—marching to a game like a pub team—but something was grounding about it. Like shedding all the weight of overthinking.
Leo walked near the middle of the group, the number seventeen tucked under his windbreaker.
Every stride toward the arena felt like a step into something he'd waited for, even if he couldn't quite define what.
And up ahead, just beyond the car park and the outer fencing, Robin Park Arena began to rise into view—humble in size but vast in meaning.
......….
The stands at Robin Park Arena weren't large—just a few rows of blue plastic seats tucked along the sideline and a concrete standing terrace behind each goal—but they had their own sort of charm.
With a capacity of 1700, it was slightly bigger for a ground used by a u21 team.
On evenings like this, they filled up with chatter and shifting feet, not quite a crowd but more than just a handful.
The match hadn't started yet, but the air buzzed with the soft hum of voices and the clinking of takeaway coffee cups against the metal railing.
Along the standing area, a group of older men leaned with elbows propped, jackets zipped to their throats, watching as the grounds staff finalized the warm-up cones.
"Not much else to do on a Tuesday, is there?" one of them muttered, adjusting his Wigan cap.
"Tell me about it," another replied, stuffing his hands deeper into his coat pockets.
"Thought I'd pop down, and see if any of the kids can pass forward."
A couple of them chuckled, heads turning toward the dugouts where the teams had begun to emerge.
"Barnsley, is it?"
"Aye."
"Couldn't tell from the badge. Looks like someone scribbled it on with a felt tip."
More laughter rippled around the corner.
Down near the halfway line, a small pocket of Wigan fans had gathered—two dads with their sons in oversized coats.
A few curious teenagers in old home kits, and even a man wearing a first-team scarf wrapped twice around his neck.
They hadn't planned to be here, not really.
Some were just passing by the training complex and saw the gates open, the lights warming up the turf.
"Come on, lads," one of the dads called to the boys next to him, his voice casual but filled with affection.
"Let's back the young ones tonight. Club's the club, whether they're nineteen or thirty."
That got a few nods, and one of the kids began a soft chant under his breath—just a rhythm at first, no words, but enough to catch.
The gates at the side of the pitch opened, and the players began to walk out in lines—Barnsley in red, Wigan in their classic blue-and-white.
No music, no grand announcements.
Just boots scraping on the turf, the thud of footballs being bounced off thighs, and the quiet shifting of a growing crowd.
Near the front of the standing area, one man leaned forward slightly, squinting toward the players.
"Oi," he said, nudging his mate.
"Wasn't there talk of a new lad signing for the U21s the week before? Some boy from the Manchester United Academy?"
"Yeah, I heard that too," the other replied, pulling his hood up against the chill.
"Dunno his name, though. Forgot all about it."
"Think he's starting?"
"No clue. But we've seen this lot enough times—you can tell who's new just by looking."
They both turned their eyes to the Wigan line, scanning the players as they stepped onto the turf.
"That one there—number Seventeen. Don't think I've seen him before," the first said, nodding subtly toward Leo.
"Yeah… Might be him. Doesn't look out of place though, does he?"
The first man shrugged.
"Well, let's see if he can play. Talk's cheap."
Behind them, more chatter began to stir.
Others were having the same conversation, the same curious glances toward the unfamiliar face in blue and white.
Most of the lads in the squad were fixtures here—seen week in, week out at Robin Park. But number seventeen? He wasn't one of them. Not yet.
Leo didn't know any of this, of course. His focus stayed down the pitch. No nerves.
Just steady breath and sharp eyes. Another night. Another game. But for those watching, the whispers had begun.
"All right gather around" the referee spoke, eyeing both sets of players as they walked towards him.
The former stood between the two captains, a wiry man with a firm posture and a veteran's voice—calm but with that unmistakable edge of authority.
"Right," he said, looking around at the circle of young men. "You all know the drill."
His whistle swung lightly from his fingers as he gestured toward them.
"I want a clean game today. No scuffles, no petty drama—none of that. We're not in school anymore. None of you look like kids."
He paused for a beat, letting the statement hang in the air—before his eyes flicked to Leo, who stood quietly a few steps back, arms behind his back and gaze steady.
"Well… except maybe you, lad."
A ripple of laughter broke across the group. Leo's cheeks warmed, but he managed a small, lopsided grin.
"Cute face like that?" the ref added with a light smirk.
"You might get carded for distracting the defenders."
The players chuckled again, even the Barnsley captain cracking a grin.
"All right, captains," the referee said, flipping the coin into the air with a practiced snap of the thumb.
"Call it."
"Heads," Wigan's captain, a tall and intimidating centre-back, Colin said quickly.
The coin hit the turf, bounced once, and landed—heads up.
"Your pick."
"Side," the captain replied. "We'll start facing the west end."
The ref nodded and motioned them back. "Good. Let's get it started sharp then. I'll be watching."
As the players turned and jogged back to their respective halves, the hum of anticipation around Robin Park grew louder.
Leo drifted back into position, a focused look now drawn on his face.
The sharp tweet of the whistle pierced the air, and just like that, Barnsley kicked off under the grey afternoon sky.
What followed was… chaos.
It wasn't immediate, but within the first few minutes, the shape of the game unraveled.
Barnsley's midfield surged forward with too much eagerness, and Wigan responded by pressing recklessly, every player desperate to make an impression.
Lines blurred. Positions collapsed.
Players darted out of place, abandoning their roles in favour of chasing the ball like overexcited schoolboys.
Left-backs overlapped centre-forwards. Centre-mids dropped into fullback positions uninvited.
And more than once, a center-back on either side was caught hopelessly high up the pitch, completely out of sync with their backline.
"Are we playing five-a-side or what?" someone yelled from the stands.
But it was hard to tell.
At one point, five players from each team formed a congested circle around the ball near the center circle.
They kicked and tripped over one another in a scramble that resembled more of a rugby maul than structured play.
It was as if formations had been thrown out the window and replaced with sheer instinct and adrenaline.
Boots collided. Shouts echoed. The ball pinballed between shins and thighs, rolling out and being flung back in without rhythm.
Leo had barely gotten a touch.
He hovered wide right, scanning the madness with narrowed eyes, trying to read the chaos, trying to predict where the ball would land next.
But it was Ezra who finally brought some order to the storm.
With one sharp touch, he scooped the ball from the tangle of legs.
A Barnsley midfielder lunged after him, but Ezra dropped his shoulder and slipped through the mess with surprising elegance.
One of the defenders followed, then another, but Ezra didn't panic.
He let them chase. It was like watching a school of fish veer after the wrong predator.
He broke into space and lifted his head—and there was Leo, still wide, still waiting.
With a coolness that cut through the clutter, Ezra slid the ball diagonally across the pitch, bypassing three red shirts in one pass.
Like Deer attracted to headlights, the players all turned their attention to Leo who had the ball.
"What the hell is this" Leo said as a couple of Barnsley players made their way towards him.
A/n: Okay. First game of the whole novel. Will try to meet expectations. Have fun reading and sorry for the inconsistencies in the updates. I'm still figuring things out with it.