When Leo's final shot of the drill smacked against the outside of the post and rolled harmlessly away, his shirt clung to his back, drenched in sweat.
His legs ached, his calves twitched with strain, and he could feel a dull throb settling into his hips with each jog back to reset.
Nolan watched him for a few quiet seconds, then finally stepped forward and called it.
"That's it," he said, his tone firm but not unkind.
"We're done for the day."
Leo bent slightly, hands on his knees as he caught his breath.
He wasn't used to finishing training feeling worse than when he started. Usually, the pitch felt like home.
Today, it had been a lab, and he was the struggling test subject.
Nolan came closer, tossing Leo a towel and nodding toward the tunnel.
"Good session, even if you're frustrated. But I don't want to see you sneaking back here tonight."
Leo looked up, a little caught off guard.
"Rest is as important as work, Leo," Nolan said, gesturing around at the now-empty pitch.
"You don't recover, you don't improve. You need your body to fire right, not just your head."
Leo nodded slowly, still breathing heavily.
"I hear you."
"Good. Go shower, eat well, and sleep early," Nolan added, already turning to gather a few stray balls.
"We go again tomorrow."
As Leo made his way off the pitch, the sun beginning its slow dip over the training grounds, he glanced once more at the setup of the drill.
The mannequins. The tight angles.
The goals with only corners exposed.
.........
Nolan stepped into his office, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.
He didn't even need to ask—Dawson was already standing by the window, arms crossed, looking out at the patch of pitch where he and Leo had spent the last hour grinding through shooting drills.
"You watched," Nolan said as he moved toward his desk, voice casual but knowing.
Dawson smirked, his eyes still trained on the ghost of the session.
"Of course I did."
Nolan pulled out the chair, sinking into it and rubbing the back of his neck.
"It didn't go well."
Dawson turned to face him finally, raising a brow.
"But it didn't go badly either."
"No," Nolan agreed. "It didn't."
He leaned back, thinking through it again—the scattered shots, the flashes of improvement, the near miss on the ninth Deadball, the wild blasts during the live runs.
"He's got a sense of timing and balance that'll serve him well. He just doesn't have any technique when it comes to finishing. Not yet."
"Which is why he's here," Dawson replied, coming around and settling into the chair across from him.
"You'll get it out of him. One thing at a time, or who knows, he might just figure it out on his own."
Nolan let out a small breath, shaking his head.
. "He's got the mind for the game. You can see it with everything else. But when it comes to shooting... it's like his feet forget what the rest of him sees."
Dawson gave a low chuckle. "Maybe it's better that way for now. If he was pinging them into the top corner, too, we'd have to start a bidding war."
Nolan glanced out the window now, the same way Dawson had.
The pitch was empty again, silent.
But he could still picture Leo out there, wiping sweat from his brow, resetting each time like the last attempt didn't matter.
"We'll see what he looks like after two weeks," Nolan murmured.
"If he's still ballooning them over the bar, then we'll have to try something else."
"He'll come around," Dawson said confidently.
"He just needs structure. He's never had it before, not like this."
Nolan nodded, already planning the next few days in his head.
"Let's hope you're right."
.........
Leo, on the other hand, lay sprawled on the small mattress, eyes tracing the ceiling as if it held some sort of answer.
The room was still, the kind of quiet that felt heavy.
The sounds from the hallway had faded, and the weight of the day pressed down on him—every missed shot, every clumsy strike, every sharp word Nolan had barked during the drills.
He turned onto his side, one arm curled under the pillow, staring at the wall.
Why couldn't he shoot like the others?
Why did the ball always sail over, drift wide, or roll harmlessly to a stop?
Even with all the calm he had when the ball was at his feet in midfield—when it came time to strike, it was like something short-circuited.
He clenched his jaw, frustrated.
But then… something stirred.
He wasn't like the others. He never had been.
That much was clear from the beginning—back at United, at school, everywhere.
Even before this sudden sight had come to him, people hadn't known what to make of him.
He was quiet, strange, always thinking too much, always seeing too much.
And they hadn't liked that.
So they mocked him, pushed him around, left him out of games, and made him believe that maybe they were right.
Maybe he didn't belong. But they hadn't known what to do with someone who didn't play the game the same way.
Leo sat up.
If passing was his strength—no, his gift—then why not treat it as a weapon?
Why not sharpen it, wield it in ways others couldn't even think of?
Why try to turn himself into something he wasn't when he could double down on what made him different?
He swung his legs off the bed and reached for the notepad in his bag, flipping it open.
Shoot like you pass, he scribbled in the corner.
Not with power. With precision. With disguise. With angles, no one would expect.
He grabbed his phone and searched:
"Disguised passes that led to goals."
"Famous through balls instead of shots."
"Low-driven passes into corners."
Clip after clip flooded his screen—Fabregas, Iniesta, Pirlo, even Busquets once or twice, stroking the ball low into the corner like it was a threaded pass instead of a blast.
Leo's eyes lit up.
He could work with this. He didn't have to shoot like them. He could find his own way to finish.
A pass could be just as deadly if placed right. If the keeper didn't see it coming.
He added more notes:
— disguise the shot like a pass
— low and wide, never straight
— inside foot placement
— delay and open the body
— think one step ahead, like always
It wasn't about fixing something broken.
It was about reshaping it.
He looked at the page, the half-lit room around him, and finally lay back down—mind buzzing with possibilities.
Tomorrow, he wasn't going to force shots.
He was going to pass them into the net.