Nolan's frown deepened. He turned to Dawson, who had been watching the same sequence unfold—Leo's shot veering wide with no real conviction behind it.
"He sees the pass before it even opens up," Nolan muttered. "But that shot—he rushed it. Didn't even plant properly."
Dawson nodded, arms crossed.
"His shooting too is a weak spot. Has been since I first watched him.
Form's off, hips open too early, and he doesn't drive through the ball.
It's worse when he tries to strike from distance—lacks both technique and timing."
"Even for a midfielder," Nolan said, "he should be doing better. It's not about scoring every time, but you need to threaten the goal—keep defenders honest."
"That's what we're working on next," Dawson replied. "He's got the tools upstairs. Vision, tempo control, composure under pressure when normal—he ticks all the boxes there. But when it comes to shooting, he overthinks or shanks it. Sometimes both."
Nolan kept his gaze on Leo, who had quickly shaken off the miss and was repositioning with the same quiet hunger he'd shown all session.
"It's good you're getting ahead of it," Nolan said. "If he's going to be the player his brain wants him to be, his technique's gotta catch up fast."
Dawson's lips curved into a small smirk.
"That's why he's here. This part—this refinement—it's crucial. You help him get that shot right, and we'll all be watching a different kind of player in a few months or maybe even weeks."
Nolan nodded looking at Leo before he blew the whistle twice—sharp and clear—and the scrimmage ground to a halt.
Players slowly jogged toward the touchline, some with hands on hips, others exchanging short words of frustration or praise.
The usual mix at the end of a high-intensity session.
Leo jogged in behind the rest, sweat dripping from his temples but his face unreadable.
He had done what he came to do, though the sting of that missed shot lingered somewhere in his chest. Still, he could feel it—something had changed.
Ezra, who had been electric down the flank, clapped him lightly on the back without saying a word.
A few others nodded at him, more out of acknowledgment than camaraderie, their gazes slightly longer than before.
There was curiosity now. And maybe something else too.
Others, however, offered only side glances. Quiet conversations behind cupped hands.
A midfielder from the starting lineup gave a half-hearted "well played" before walking off a little too briskly.
Not outright hostility—but something in the air was shifting. Jealousy, perhaps. Or wariness.
Nolan watched the mix of reactions unfold with a veteran's eye. He'd seen this a hundred times over.
Talented players always stirred the pot, especially when they didn't follow the usual path in.
He let the silence stretch for a moment, then clapped his hands once.
"Good session," he called out, voice firm. "We've got plenty to review. Some of you are shaping up well, others still need to sharpen.
And remember—consistency is the difference between playing here and sitting in the stands."
He let that hang, eyes flickering briefly to Leo before turning. "We're done. Ice baths and cool-down routines. Be professionals."
The group dispersed slowly. Leo hung back a bit, unlacing his boots, still adjusting to the weight of being seen differently.
As the last few players ambled toward the tunnel, Dawson made his way across the pitch, his expression unreadable at first.
He stopped in front of Leo, arms crossed, watching the boy wipe sweat from his brow.
"You did well," Dawson said, nodding slightly. "Not just with the passes. The way you found space, how you moved, even how you reacted to your mistakes. That's growth."
Leo's shoulders eased just a little, but Dawson's voice sharpened with the next line.
"But don't start thinking you've arrived. That was just a good first impression. There's still a lot to learn—especially in this environment. You've shown your mind's sharp, now we've got to sharpen everything else."
Leo nodded quietly, not trying to mask the seriousness in his gaze. "Yeah. I know."
Dawson gave him a quick pat on the back. "Go shower. Cool off. Collect your boots too—staff should have them in the kit room."
Leo turned to leave, then paused and looked back. "Coach," he asked, "where am I staying? For the month of training, I mean."
Dawson smiled slightly, the edge of it tugging at one corner of his mouth.
"Right. You'll be staying in one of the club's development lodges—just behind the training complex.
It's not glamorous, but it's quiet and close to everything. You'll be comfortable."
Leo nodded again, processing. "Cool. I'll go get cleaned up."
...
…Leo stepped out into the corridor, boots tucked under his arm, still drying from the post-session rinse.
The hallway was mostly quiet now, save for the faint echo of voices deeper in the facility.
He found Dawson near the double doors leading toward the staff car park, arms folded, eyes scanning the light fading over the training grounds.
"All sorted?" Dawson asked without turning.
Leo lifted the boots slightly. "Yeah. They even had my name on them. That was fast"
Dawson smirked thinking about how he had already made them give Leo a locker without him even signing yet.
"Then you're already halfway to being a Wigan player." he added before turning around.
They started walking side by side, gravel crunching under their feet.
The breeze was cooler now, carrying the scent of cut grass and damp earth.
Ahead, a path branched off toward a row of brick lodge units, modest but neat.
"You'll be in Unit 4," Dawson said. "Spare key's already inside, fridge should be stocked, the bed's made. You'll be here for the month."
Leo nodded. "This is really happening."
"It is," Dawson said, his voice low and even. "But don't lose focus. You did well today—but you've still got things to work on."
Leo looked over. "My shooting."
Dawson gave a small nod. "Bad. Even for a midfielder."
Leo cracked a grin, sheepish. "Working on it."
"Starting tomorrow," Dawson said, stopping just outside the lodge door.
"Don't be late. Nolan wants you ready to slot in without hesitation when the time comes. And if you're going to make that happen, you need to fix that shot."
Leo's fingers tightened around the boots.
"One step at a time," Dawson said again, more softly this time. "Go settle in."
Then he turned and walked off, his silhouette shrinking down the path as the lamps flickered on above.
Leo turned to the door, key already turned in the lock. One step at a time.