The morning sun hung low over the pitch, casting long shadows as Leo jogged out with Nolan.
A light breeze rustled the grass, carrying with it the low thrum of boots knocking against the turf, balls pinging off the boards, and the occasional laugh from players already warming up.
Today, too, felt different.
There wasn’t that same quiet tension Leo had felt during the past couple of days.
A few of the Wigan U21 boys gave him nods as he passed, one of them even clapping him on the back.
Leo was about to join the group when Nolan held out a hand.
"Not today," the coach said, voice calm but firm.
"With your ability, you could walk into the main team. But all you would be worth would be your through balls."
Leo slowed to a stop, turning slightly to face him. Nolan’s eyes weren’t critical—just focused.
Like a man with a plan.
The coach nodded toward the far end of the pitch, where a cluster of cones, mannequins, and small nets had been arranged.
Most of the setup was angled toward a single full-size goal, and even from a distance, it was clear what the purpose was.
Before Leo could say a word, Nolan waved over his assistant and gave him control of the group session.
Then, without another word, he began walking toward the shooting zone, and Leo followed.
As they reached the area, Nolan gestured toward the setup.
"We’re going to work through different sequences. Dead balls from range. First-time shots inside the box. Tight angles from wide areas. You name it."
He pointed to the first drill, a simple dead-ball strike from just outside the area.
"But the key here isn’t just power—it’s technique, consistency, and learning how to make decisions in tight spaces. That," he said, looking directly at Leo, "is where you’re behind."
Leo nodded, gripping the ball lightly in his hands.
Nolan continued, walking him through another sequence.
"Some of these will be live—you’ll receive the ball, go through a short agility path, then shoot on the move. We’ll swap mannequins with keepers soon enough, but for now, you just focus on execution."
Leo placed the ball down, heart steady, breath even.
He took a few steps back, shook out his shoulders, and then struck it.
The ball sailed. Wide.
Not just a miss—it barely brushed the outer post on its way past.
He let out a breath and turned to Nolan, who stood calmly, arms crossed.
"Alright," Nolan said, stepping forward to roll another ball into place.
Nolan moved calmly around the setup, collecting stray balls and repositioning them without a word of complaint as Leo skied them.
He stood a few steps behind the dead-ball marker, hands on his hips, his eyes flicking from the ball to the goal.
Nolan had deliberately placed small nets—barely the size of two shoeboxes stacked—into each of the top and bottom corners of the goal.
The rest of the net? Completely open, but Nolan had made it clear: "Only the corners count."
Leo had initially aimed for the center in his first attempts, striking cleanly but without precision.
Nolan’s voice had rung out before the ball even hit the net.
"You’re wasting the shot if you’re not aiming where it matters," he had said, not unkindly.
"In a game, a keeper’s arms and legs own the center. We don’t shoot to hit what they already cover—we shoot to make them irrelevant."
The message stuck. And so did the challenge.
Now, Leo stood behind the ball again, adjusting his posture.
He inhaled slowly, stepped into the strike, and—thud—the ball spun off his laces and zipped wide of the top right target.
But still not close enough.
Not enough for the top level.
Nine attempts in, and none had found the miniature nets.
A few had curled just past the posts. One or two had dipped nicely, but never enough.
His best effort so far had smacked the bar above the bottom left net and bounced out.
"You’re not getting your body over the ball," Nolan called from behind him, picking up another ball.
"You’re striking too clean, trying to look good. Bend your knees. Don’t be afraid to ugly it up if it means finding the corner."
Leo wiped the sweat from his brow, breathing just a bit heavier now.
This wasn’t about power or instinct anymore—it was about learning, repetition, and trying to train accuracy into something he hadn’t relied on before.
He took the ball Nolan rolled back to him and placed it again.
He exhaled, stepped forward, and swung.
Not wide. Not off-target.
It skimmed the post—close enough to make Nolan murmur—but it still didn’t nestle into the net.
It rolled off behind the goal, teasing the line but never crossing it.
Leo let out a quiet breath and stood still for a moment, jaw set.
Nolan didn’t say much—he simply clapped his hands once after Leo’s try and motioned for Leo to follow him.
They moved away from the dead-ball setup toward the second part of the session.
It was a more dynamic sequence: passing, movement, and shooting on the run.
Mannequins stood scattered like defenders across the channel, and a series of agility sticks lined a narrow path leading to goal.
Nolan stood with a ball at his feet, his voice rising as he spoke to Leo.
"This one’s less about planting your feet and more about striking under pressure," he explained.
"You’ll receive the pass, carry it through the gate, and shoot. No second touches. One move, one shot. The goal’s the same—corners."
Nolan sent a crisp pass to him, and Leo took off.
He weaved through the agility sticks—his feet sharp, body nimble.
But when it came time to strike, he hesitated a beat, and the shot ballooned well over the crossbar.
"Again!" Nolan barked, already preparing the next ball.
Leo reset, received the next pass, and went again.
This time, the ball fizzed wide, past the far post by a meter at least.
The pattern repeated. Dribble, shoot, miss.
Each strike lacked control.
Some came off too high, others skewed wide.
A few hit the mannequins directly, clattering off the plastic with a hollow thud.
It was clear—Leo’s timing was off, his body shape was wrong, and his confidence, slowly but surely, was beginning to dip.
After the sixth attempt flew so far off it nearly cleared the fencing, Nolan placed a firm hand on his shoulder as he jogged back.
"Don’t snatch at it," Nolan said, voice level but sharp.
"You’re trying to kill the ball. Find the rhythm first. Power comes last."
Leo nodded, lips pressed into a thin line, not daring to speak.
He hadn’t noticed, but he had been getting used to being in control since a few weeks ago. Used to seeing things others couldn’t.
But this—this chaos, this erratic part of the game—was something else. Something raw.
He took a moment. Then stepped back into the drill.