"Ladies and gentlemen, Coach Dawson," the moderator announced just as Dawson appeared from the gate by the side.
Before he moved again, the flashlights popped from the reporters, almost blinding the whole scene.
By the time Dawson stepped up to the podium, the presser was being shown on almost all screens in Wigan and Manchester.
Wigan wasn’t the same club they had been a few months before, and the attention to the media interview was proof.
"Let’s begin," the moderator said once more, but before a question could be asked, Dawson raised his hand, asking if he could speak, to which his request was granted.
"Leo’s out," he began.
"Best case is two to three months, and the worst case is four to five. That’s if everything doesn’t go the way we expect."
A murmur rippled through the press room, and in the next second, a hand shot up.
"What exactly is the injury?"
Dawson didn’t blink.
"Hamstring tear."
Another voice cut in before the first reporter could sit back down.
"With the title and promotion charge on now, what’s the plan? And who replaces him?"
Dawson leaned back slightly, jaw working once before he answered.
"We didn’t come this far to falter," he said.
"That’s not who we are. We’ve got quality in this squad. We’ve been without Leo before. It’s not ideal, and we’ll miss him in the setup; that’s obvious. Anyone watching our games will see that."
He paused, eyes scanning the room.
"But we’ll give everything. That doesn’t change. And there’s no need to panic. He’ll be back. Stronger."
A few more hands went up after that, to which Dawson entertained, but after the questions were getting more and more repetitive, he signalled towards the moderator, who only nodded.
"That’s enough, I think," Dawson said, stepping away from the mic. "I won’t be taking any more questions."
From there, the conference dissolved into noise as the Wigan manager stepped out of the room.
—
"So what do you want? Be specific," Sofia said after Leo tried to end the call.
"Don’t say ’anything.’"
He smiled faintly at the ceiling before seemingly coming to a decision.
"Grilled chicken and rice. Nothing crazy and please, don’t overdo it, okay? I can’t train right now, so I don’t need to come back with an extra five kilos and have that become another problem."
"I am bringing food, and grilled chicken is what you want me to bring. My Latina ancestors wouldn’t allow that!"
"Aunty, I’m serious."
"I know you are," she replied seriously.
"But I won’t let you have your way. We’ll see you Saturday."
Before Leo could protest further, Mia’s voice cut in from somewhere behind her.
"Saturday, Leo. And you better get your stomach ready because Sofia is bringing the heat. Te amooooooo"
"Yeah, yeah. See you," Leo huffed with a chuckle as the line went dead and silence rushed back in.
He stared at the ceiling for a while, then rolled onto his side.
The PlayStation 5 sat across the room, controllers resting neatly beside it.
Normally, that would’ve been an easy distraction, but now it looked pointless.
From the open window came the distant thud of a ball and the high, sharp shouts of youth players drilling on the nearby pitch.
He shut his eyes to block that out, but it didn’t help.
Even with the distance, his thigh and leg couldn’t help but flex the moment they heard the thud of the ball being passed or shot, and that made it throb slightly.
Still, he got the distraction he wanted as a buzz from his phone dragged his attention back.
A DM notification from Vittoria with her private account, and it read, just one word.
Hey.
He hovered his thumb over it, debating whether to open it now or later, but before he could decide, the screen lit up again with an Incoming audio call, this time.
"She’s good," Leo said after realising that the dm might have probably been for scouting.
He answered a moment later and brought the phone to his ear, while from the other side a slight rustle came, followed then by her voice, which sounded a bit breathless and hurried.
"Leo? You good? I’m so sorry for the injury. I haven’t really been on my phone. I’ve been all over the place these past few days. Mia texted me, and I just saw it."
"Slow down, Ms Italia," Leo said, causing a sharp breath on the other end.
He then let out a soft scoff. "All over the place, huh?"
"I’m serious," she said, a bit irked by his reaction.
"It’s fine. I’m okay."
"That’s not what I heard," she retorted just as Leo shifted against the pillows.
"It’s a hamstring. I am not pleased, but it’s not something that’s really in my control."
"What’s the plan now?" she asked with concern.
"Recuperate," he replied simply while silence lingered for half a beat, like she wanted to ask more.
Before she could, he cut in.
"So what’s got you so busy?"
"Leo," she sighed. "Stop changing the topic."
The edge in her voice sharpened at the end, her Italian accent slipping through more noticeably than usual.
He shook his head, even though she couldn’t see it.
"I’m not. I just don’t want this to turn into a whole thing."
"It already is a whole thing," she shot back, frustration flaring even though she didn’t really understand what she was mad at.
"You’re out for months."
"I’m going to be okay," he said, firmer now. "Really."
The anger in her tone eased after those words as her cool self returned.
"Okay," she murmured, realising how she had been.
"If you say so," she said as he glanced toward the window again, toward the distant echoes of boots on grass.
.....
Five matches.
All away from home.
Four in the league and one FA Cup quarter-final against Brighton.
This was the schedule Wigan had hanging around their neck, and they had almost no breathing room and no familiar dressing room walls to steady them.
And the first hurdle stood in seventh place.
Norwich.
They were just four points off Wigan.
Just one slip away from bringing the heat to the arses of the latter club.
And waiting right behind Norwich sat West Brom, level on points with Wigan but sixth on goal difference, and second on the fixture list.
If Wigan wanted to stay fifth, they had to earn it the hard way and training that week felt different.
Dawson didn’t need to raise his voice much.
The players understood what this stretch meant, and with no home crowd to drag them over the line, they had to do it themselves.
By midweek, the tactical session moved indoors, where clips rolled on the screen, mostly of Norwich’s midfield triangles and their tendency to press high and confidently at home.
For Wigan, who didn’t really have many pacey players, playing on the counter to take advantage of the high line was just waiting for Norwich to score on them, and so they had to be inventive.
That evening, the squad boarded the coach in near quiet.
Carrow Road awaited, and by morning, the sky over Norwich was a flat, stubborn grey.
Matchday had arrived.