The next morning arrived with a strange kind of energy buzzing in Leo’s chest.
He got up earlier than usual, tying his laces tight with focused hands, his notepad from the night before tucked into his bag.
He couldn’t wait to try what he’d discovered. Shoot like you pass.
He repeated the phrase to himself like a mantra.
But his excitement deflated the moment he reached the training grounds and spotted the setup.
There were no shooting mannequins.
No cones for live drills. Just a brutal array of sled pushes, resistance harnesses, dumbbells, and core circuits.
Leo sighed quietly as Nolan waved him over, clipboard in hand, already pointing out the first series of exercises.
They started with core control and upper body work, then moved into sprint resistance and acceleration.
Every part of his body burned.
His arms trembled by the third set of pushups. His legs screamed through every explosive jump.
But it wasn’t the pain that distracted him.
It was the itch in his thoughts—the one that kept circling back to his notebook and the drills he’d studied last night.
Every time he lifted a weight or burst forward, he saw angles and remembered passes disguised as finishes.
His body was here, grinding through reps, but his head was still on the pitch—still in motion, trying out the idea he’d dreamt into being.
Nolan, pacing a short distance away, picked up on it.
Leo wasn’t lazy. He wasn’t cutting corners. But something was off.
The way he moved—automatic, eyes unfocused.
Not like yesterday. Nolan squinted slightly and checked the stopwatch again.
The sessions had been demanding.
They’d asked a lot of him in barely two days, and now the spark in his movements had dulled.
"Alright," Nolan finally said, voice calm but firm.
"That’s enough for today."
Leo blinked, panting lightly. "I still have—"
"You’ve done enough. Go rest. No sneaking off."
Leo hesitated but nodded.
His shirt clung to his back, and his hands still trembled slightly from the weight circuits.
Even so, his mind remained locked on what he had wanted to work on.
"Go on," Nolan said again, already turning to pack up the bands and clips. "Rest isn’t weakness. It’s preparation."
Meanwhile, across the training complex, the Wigan U21 session had been called early due to their afternoon match.
Within half an hour, the entire pitch was quiet.
The sun hung low over the empty turf, a breeze rustling gently through the open stands.
And Leo found himself alone.
The ball rested at his feet.
The cones and mannequins from the day before were still neatly stored by the side.
One by one, he dragged them out. Set the cones.
Placed the mannequins. Rebuilt the dead-ball zones from memory. The setup wasn’t perfect, but it was enough.
Leo backed up, positioning the ball on the edge of the penalty arc.
This time, he wasn’t going to force it.
This time, he was going to pass it into the net.
Leo struck the ball cleanly—his first attempt of the afternoon—and immediately frowned as it sailed over the bar.
It hadn’t felt rushed.
His form was more composed than yesterday. He even imagined a teammate making the run, just like he would during a match.
But still, the ball had flown too high, too fast. Not at all like the weight of a pass.
He jogged after it, retrieved it, and set it down again just outside the box.
The second shot curved too early and clipped the side netting.
The third dragged wide, scuffing low and weak against the turf, with the fourth bouncing awkwardly and slamming into the mannequin’s head.
The fifth had the right height, the right spin—but not the direction.
Leo huffed out a breath and put his hands on his hips.
The breeze cut across the pitch again. A pigeon landed near the sideline, unbothered by his struggle.
This one... it felt right in the run-up.
His body was relaxed. He imagined feeding Ezra, just as he had during training.
But when his foot struck through the ball, it thumped too hard off his laces and rocketed well above the top right corner.
He didn’t chase it this time.
Instead, he walked a few paces forward and lowered himself onto the grass, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the goal.
What was he doing wrong?
He wasn’t trying to shoot anymore, at least not in the traditional sense.
He was trying to pass it in. That was the whole idea. Treat the net like a teammate’s run.
A pocket of space to thread into. No power-hungry smashes. No blind swings. Just guided, intentional weight.
So why did it still feel like he was chasing something unnatural?
He ran both hands through his hair and sat back slightly, gaze drifting to the tiny corner targets Nolan had clipped in again.
They weren’t big. Maybe the size of a laptop screen.
He stared at the top left one for a while, then the bottom right.
They were there—visible. Achievable. Just small. But size wasn’t the issue. Clarity was.
Back in training, when Leo passed, he didn’t think twice. He saw the opening. His body followed without effort.
But now? He was trying to recreate that same feeling on command.
To manufacture something instinctual.
And maybe that was the problem.
He exhaled slowly, eyes still on the goal.
"It’s not about recreating a pass," he thought.
"It’s about understanding what the pass needs to mean."
He stood back up, brushing dirt off his shorts.
This time, he’d stop treating the ball like a shot.
And stop trying to hit targets like a drill.
He’d look for the meaning behind the movement—the message the ball needed to deliver.
He placed it again, calmly, at the arc.
Leo steadied his breathing as he stepped behind the ball again.
No rush. No voice barking instructions. Just silence and that empty goal.
He closed his eyes briefly and visualized it—not the shot, but the idea.
The pass. A whisper to a runner breaking behind a line. He needed timing and purpose.
That was what he was good at. That was what he knew.
He opened his eyes and approached the ball, letting muscle memory take over.
A subtle step, a clean swing—not too hard, not too cautious—and the ball glided forward. It stayed low, sharp, curling just past the mannequin’s shoulder and kissed the inside of the bottom right corner.
Not a loud one. Not dramatic. But it hit the small target. And this time, it felt right.
Leo didn’t move. He just stood there for a moment, lips parted, brow furrowed.
He set another ball down quickly and tried again.
His left foot planted while his Right foot caressed the ball.
This one sailed toward the top corner—not as clean, but closer.
Closer than most of yesterday’s shots. It missed the target, but not by much.
A third ball with a slightly different angle.
He imagined the pass again—Ezra pulling wide, the keeper a split-second late to shift across.
The ball cut in, low and quick. It grazed the mannequin’s frame and bounced just wide, but Leo’s eyes lit up.
It wasn’t about making the net bulge. It was about reading the idea of a finish.
He lined the balls up like he was organizing a sequence, each one placed deliberately. One after the other, the rhythm took hold.
Some clipped the posts, some rolled inches wide, some curled just off target—but every single one had intent. He wasn’t just practicing anymore. He was communicating.
To him, the goal wasn’t a target. It was a listener. And every ball was a message he was refining.
He paused to catch his breath, his shirt clinging to his back, his hair damp from sweat.
His lungs burned slightly, but the frustration from earlier was gone. Replaced now with something steadier.
But he was getting closer.
And that was enough—for now.
He bent down, hands on his knees, watching the final ball settle near the corner of the net.
Just him and the echo of his idea taking shape, and it felt,
"Sooo- Fucking Awesome" Leo said as he stared at a ball now nestled in the bottom corner.