The Wigan Athletic training complex wasn't grand by Premier League standards—no towering glass buildings or sprawling marble receptions—but it had a quiet purpose to it.
The pitches stretched wide and green under the morning light, nets freshly strung, white lines sharp and undisturbed.
Low buildings, neat and sturdy, sat flanking the grounds like guardians of hard-earned sweat.
Leo's fingers gripped the strap of his worn training bag as he stepped out of Dawson's car.
The gravel crunched beneath his trainers, and his eyes swept across the facility.
It wasn't some world-class venue, but it felt… real. Tangible.
Like the kind of place where footballers were made.
Dawson walked around the front of the car, popping his shades up onto his head.
"It's not Carrington," he said as if reading Leo's mind, "but I promise—it grows on you."
Leo gave a short chuckle, still glancing around. "I like it."
Just then, a figure strode out of the entrance of the main building.
Lean, sharp-dressed in a navy club-branded zip-up and tapered slacks, Malachi Reid moved with the air of someone used to watching from the shadows but never missing a thing.
He approached with an easy smile and extended a hand. "Welcome to Wigan, Leo."
Leo shook it, the grip firm and warm.
"Thanks," Leo said, blinking at the man's gaze.
Malachi looked at him like he already knew something Leo hadn't even figured out yet.
"You're here to train," Malachi said, "but let's not pretend like you haven't already made noise before stepping foot on our pitch."
Leo looked down, rubbing the back of his neck.
"He's nervous," Dawson added with a grin.
"Doesn't know if he's here as a guest or a ghost."
Malachi laughed under his breath.
"That's good. Means he still cares." He turned slightly and gestured toward the facility.
"Come on. Let's give you the tour. Then you'll meet the coaching staff, get your gear, and we'll get you out on the grass with the U21s."
As they began walking, Leo couldn't help but glance over his shoulder, catching one final glimpse of Dawson's car behind them, parked just by the gate.
It was the same Manchester air, sure—but it smelled different here. Less traffic.
More trimmed grass.
Less expectation.
More opportunity.
"How far are we from home?" Leo asked quietly.
"Forty-five minutes, give or take," Dawson said.
"But this ain't home anymore, Leo. This is the starting line."
Malachi glanced over at him.
"You've got two feet on solid ground now. Let's see if they're strong enough to carry you forward."
Leo took a breath and stepped through the automatic doors, the scent of grass and liniment wafting through as they entered.
Wigan Athletic. Day one.
...
The hallway buzzed with quiet energy as they stepped into the building—no shouting or chaos, just the low murmur of boots tapping tile, muffled conversations, and the soft thump of balls being passed around outside.
Leo kept close behind Malachi, eyes darting from wall to wall, past mounted photos of former players and staff, glass-encased trophies, and framed shirts.
The club's history wasn't legendary, but it was proud—and that pride dripped from every corner of the facility.
"First stop," Malachi said, pushing open a sleek door marked Player Liaison, "gear room."
Inside the gear room, the young staffer welcomed them with a practiced smile, clipboard in hand.
"We've set aside a full kit for Leo. Got him covered from training tops to track pants and even some fresh boots. Three different pairs—just need him to pick his poison."
The staffer disappeared into the back as Leo glanced at Dawson.
There was still that surreal twinge inside him.
Just yesterday, he was grinding it out on a public pitch, and now someone was casually offering him brand-new football boots like it was normal.
A few minutes later, the staffer returned and opened a long black box on the table, revealing three gleaming pairs.
Nike, Adidas, and Puma.
Sleek and lightweight, each built with precision.
Leo hesitated before stepping closer.
"These are all new models," the staffer said.
"Test them on, see what feels best."
Leo reached for the Adidas pair—white with muted blue stripes and a soft, sock-like collar.
His fingers ran over the upper material. They felt right.
"I'll go with these," he said.
The staffer nodded.
"You want to break them in today?"
Leo paused, then shook his head slowly.
"Nah. I'll keep them fresh for now."
Dawson raised a brow, curious.
"I've got a pair I'm still breaking in," Leo said quickly.
"These—I want to bring home first. Let my sister doodle on them."
The staffer gave a small grin. "That's different."
Leo didn't say more, just lifted the boots carefully and tucked them into his duffel bag like they were more than just footwear.
Because the last time Mia got her hands on a new pair, she'd turned it into a work of love—with purple hearts framing the swoosh and little clouds painted at the heel.
He would wear those with pride.
Dawson didn't press.
He just smiled faintly and clapped him on the shoulder. "Alright, let's meet the coaching staff."
.....
The pitch smelled of trimmed grass and liniment, that familiar cocktail that always made Leo feel like anything was possible.
Except now, it wasn't just possibility buzzing in his chest—it was nerves too.
Real nerves. The kind that crawled under your skin and made your hands twitch even when you were trying to look calm.
Dawson walked a step ahead of him, his gait easy and confident.
As they stepped out onto the training pitch, the hum of passing drills, sharp commands, and thuds of leather against turf came to a slow halt.
One by one, heads turned.
The Wigan U21s stopped what they were doing.
Half-stretched hamstrings were forgotten. A striker frozen mid-flick stared.
A keeper who had just flung himself across the post stood up and squinted toward the sideline.
It wasn't every day the first-team assistant coach brought someone new to the youth pitch—especially not a kid no one had seen before.
Leo felt the heat of their curiosity settle on his shoulders like an unwanted spotlight.
He didn't lower his eyes. Just kept walking beside Dawson, jaw set, focused.
Standing near the halfway line was a compact man in his late forties, wearing the same navy tracksuit as the rest of the staff but with a whistle looped around his fingers.
Stocky build, shaved head, eyes narrowed in thought—he looked more military than football.
This was Coach Nolan.
He was the U21 coach—but more than that, he was also Wigan's third-team coach, frequently in close contact with the first-team staff.
The kind of person who didn't waste time with players who wouldn't make the cut but wouldn't hesitate to use resources if he saw something.
Dawson walked right up to him.
"Kev," Dawson greeted.
Nolan nodded. "Daws. This the kid?"
"Yeah. Leo Calderon." Dawson put a hand lightly on Leo's back and nudged him forward.
"He's not under contract. Played with United's U18s. No real fanfare, but I saw something in him."
Nolan studied Leo like he was trying to read between lines that hadn't been written yet.
"I watched him train for two weeks," Dawson continued.
"His body still has some catching up to do, but the kid sees the game differently. Better. He's got vision—and now he's starting to figure out how to use it."
Nolan grunted. "Where'd they play him at United?"
"Midfield," Dawson said.
"Mostly central. Didn't get much time on the ball. But he's not their problem anymore."
Nolan looked Leo over. "You match fit?"
"Yes, sir," Leo said, voice firm even though his chest tightened a little.
"Good. Let's see what you've got."
He turned and blew the whistle once.
"Alright, lads! Back to drills. We have a guest with us today—Calderon. He's training with us for the next month. Show him how we do things here."
There were a few raised brows.
One of the players muttered something to the guy next to him. But no one said anything loud enough to catch Leo's ear.
Nolan gestured to a young assistant coach nearby.
"Sort him into the passing grids and keep an eye on him."
Leo followed the assistant toward the cones, his heart pounding now—not from fear, but from adrenaline.
This was it. The real proving ground. The eyes of a squad that didn't know him, the scrutiny of coaches who expected more than good intentions.
He took a deep breath, bent down, and tightened his bootlaces.
Mia's doodled hearts still shone faintly under a thin coat of pitch dust. He smiled slightly.
Let them stare, he thought. He wasn't here to be invisible anymore.