Harbinger Of Glory-Chapter 186: Trust!

Leo had barely taken three steps into the cafeteria when the attention turned towards him.

"Oh, look," McClean said, pushing back from a table.

"He’s finally awake."

More and more of the players turned towards Leo while Fletcher continued.

"So? Figured out why you should talk less and let your feet do it?"

Leo stopped, sighed, and nodded like a man accepting a sentence he knew he’d earned.

"Yeah," he said, deadpan. "Lesson learned."

That only encouraged them.

He dipped his head in a small, exaggerated bow.

"I really should’ve paid more attention to my seniors."

Fletcher leaned back in his chair, arms folded, enjoying himself far too much.

"Exactly how it should be," he said.

Then, without missing a beat, "Now that you’ve figured it out, you can atone by washing my boots."

Leo shot him a look.

"Don’t push your luck."

That earned a few grins and a couple of low laughs as Leo shook his head and moved toward the buffet, trying to ignore the eyes following him like he’d brought the headline in with him.

He was just reaching for a plate when the door opened again, and Dawson walked in, hands in his pockets, taking in the room in one slow glance.

"Pitch," he said simply. "Ten minutes."

A few heads snapped up as murmurs prevailed through the announcement.

Fletcher frowned, wondering what was going on.

"Gaffer, we’ve got forty-five minutes till the session starts. It even takes five just to walk out there, and some of us haven’t even eaten yet."

Dawson chuckled, clearly enjoying himself.

"Thanks to Leo," he said, glancing over, "you don’t anymore."

A groan rippled through the room as Dawson raised a hand.

"Anyone who gets there after ten minutes sits out the session. And if you sit out the session, your chances of starting the next league game go down. Simple as that," the latter ended, shrugging to emphasise his point like he had no control over that, but it did it.

Chairs scraped back all at once as the players stood, abandoning their plates and already moving towards the door.

And just like that, almost all of them had filed towards the locker room.

Leo looked down at the plate he’d just set on the counter and then pushed it aside before he grabbed a single slice of toast and turned to follow the others.

As he passed Dawson, the manager smirked, but Leo only shook his head, toast in hand, and muttered, "Not cool, Dawson," but the latter’s smile only widened.

Moments later, the cafeteria was almost empty.

Dawson looked around once more, satisfied, then turned and headed out after them.

.....

When the players got out, the pitch was still damp from the night air, with the grass feeling slick under boots and breath coming out in short clouds as the session started without ceremony.

Dawson clapped his hands once, and the mood snapped into place.

The players got a few minutes to stretch their warmups, but that was it.

From then on, they moved from piece to piece with Dawson working them to the bone in each.

"Rondos," he said just as the players were done with their agility stick drills.

"I want two touches. No more. Move the ball or lose it."

And they went straight into the tight circles with no room to breathe.

The ball zipped around at knee height with players in the circles pressing hard, legs pumping, voices barking warnings and names.

Every mistake was punished with another sprint and a round of curses as Dawson stalked the edge of the drill, eyes everywhere but often finding Leo.

"Faster," he snapped. "Don’t admire it."

Leo played clean, crisp touches, making sure he was always switched on, but as the shouts increased, it got harder and harder for him not pay attention to Dawson.

Just then, someone swore as the ball ricocheted off an ankle and out of the circle because they knew what was coming.

"Again," Dawson said as he watched on.

From there, they moved into positional games on a half-pitch where the numbers were uneven with constant overloads.

The idea was simple.

Keep the ball, find space, trust movement.

In practice, it was chaos because the pressing came from every angle, and the passing lanes closed almost as soon as they opened.

And in that chaos, Leo dropped into a pocket, asking for it, already on the half turn, and he got it.

He took a touch before snapping his head up, scanning for his shirts, but before he could do anything further, Dawson’s whistle cut through everything.

"Stop."

The ball rolled to a halt as the players froze where they stood, wondering what had irked their manager again.

Dawson walked onto the pitch, boots crunching softly, before he pointed at Leo.

"Stay in your positions," he said, but the players didn’t really have any intention of moving in the first place.

He gestured around them. "Look."

Leo glanced left and then around, and immediately, he could see what Dawson meant because all around him were opponent bibs.

"If this is a switched-on side," Dawson said, voice low but sharp, "you’ve lost it already."

He moved closer, placed a hand on Leo’s shoulder, then physically turned him around.

"Now look."

Behind him, the space had opened clear as day.

Tilt was standing free and wide while Charlie Hughes, even wider, and a bit relaxed, even.

Dawson leaned in.

"That’s the game now. It’s not sweet anymore. Especially for you."

He nudged Leo lightly.

"They trust you, and you need to see it! Look at them. They relax when you’re on it. That’s dangerous if you waste it."

"You need to repay that trust," he continued, stepping back.

"You move it early, you move it right, and you don’t get cute for the sake of it. Stakes are real now."

Leo nodded slowly, not having a reaction to his manager’s words as the latter turned away.

"Reset. Let’s go again, and this time, play like it’s a real game and not a scrimmage because nobody here is training for a scrimmage."

The coach overseeing the session quickly got to it after Dawson finished, as the drill restarted, and this time, the smiles were nowhere to be found.

It was just an uneven number of players on the pitch, playing for their place in a team, that their coach had decided to get more serious about.

By the end, the players didn’t really have words.

Dawson watched in silence for a few seconds as they swarmed and circled in front of his view and then clapped once more.

"Good," he said. "Now remember it and remember how unforgiving things can be."

The players nodded simultaneously as Dawson brought the session to an end fully.

"We won’t have the usual tactical business for today. Go and rest and think about what you could have done better on the pitch today, because that is what we will be doing tomorrow. What could you have done better in games?"

With that, he turned towards the slope leading to the administrative building while the players all turned towards the sporting side of the complex, the one which held their locker room.

Inside the locker room, nobody rushed. Leo loosened his laces and peeled his boots off, flexing his toes once before standing again, while around him, all the players looked in thought.

He slowly grabbed a towel before making his way into the next room.

The showers came on in bursts, steam rising quickly while more and more players joined, but the silence lingered.

A few low murmurs floated through the room, but it was nothing that needed answering.

Those who had driven in started changing soon after, while Leo changed into another set of training gear.

That was when Fletcher cleared his throat.

"So," he said, voice cutting through the room, "should we all agree to forfeit the next FA Cup game?"

A beat passed before someone snorted, and another chuckle followed.

The tension cracked open just like that, and the rest of the room followed, laughter rolling across the benches.

"I’m serious," Fletcher added, hands raised.

"My bones can’t handle that every day. We petition the league. Say we’re focusing on promotion."

"Shut up," someone called, still smiling.

Fletcher grinned.

"I’m just saying. League football is hard enough, and now with Dawson trying to kill us 3 times in a week, we might as well make it easy for ourselves, right?"

Darikwa, who had just finished changing, shook his head.

"We’ve already started it. Might as well see it through."

"Exactly," another chimed in. "Can’t talk big and then bottle it."

Fletcher nodded slowly.

"Yeah. Yeah, fair," he paused, then smirked. "So we see it through by playing badly in the next round."

Groans filled the room.

"Oh, bloody hell, let it go, Fletch."

"You’re exhausting."

Leo smiled to himself, shaking his head as he slung his bag over his shoulder, before giving Fletcher a knowing look and then moving out of the room.