The news alert on Cole Palmer’s phone was a digital grenade that had just detonated in the middle of Leon’s already chaotic life.
Cristian Chivu, his coach, his mentor, the man who had threatened to rearrange his anatomy via a "training ground accident," might be leaving for Real Madrid.
"Well," Palmer said, a slow, impressed grin spreading across his face as he took a calm sip of water.
"That’s one way to avoid a difficult conversation about you taking his daughter to another country. Your coach might be moving to another country first."
Leon just stared at the phone, his brain a frantic, fizzing mess of static.
He didn’t know whether to feel relieved, horrified, or just deeply, deeply confused.
The kingdom he was being asked to guard was potentially about to lose its king.
"This is insane," Leon finally managed to say, running a hand through his ridiculously white hair. "This whole week has been insane. I feel like I’m living in one of Julián’s weird philosophical questions."
"Does this... does this change anything for you?" Palmer asked, his usual cool demeanor replaced by a look of genuine, friendly concern.
"I don’t know," Leon admitted honestly. "I don’t know what it changes. I just... I need to tell them. The team. I can’t keep this a secret anymore."
The decision to finally confess was a strange kind of relief.
The news about Chivu, as chaotic as it was, had provided a strange sort of cover.
He went home, his mind a quiet storm. He knew he couldn’t do this face-to-face. He couldn’t look them in the eyes and tell them he was leaving. He did the only thing a slightly cowardly, emotionally overwhelmed young man could do: he called for a team video chat.
His phone screen lit up, a chaotic mosaic of familiar, beloved faces.
"...and I’m just saying, if he goes to Madrid, do you think he’ll be allowed to wear the all-black suit on the sideline?" Julián Álvarez was in the middle of saying, pacing back and forth in his living room. "It’s a very intimidating look. Very ’final boss chic’."
"He’s not going anywhere!" Nicolò Barella yelled from his own screen, his face a mask of furious, defiant loyalty. "It’s a negotiation tactic! The President is leaving, so the coach is showing his power! It’s politics!"
"Whatever it is, my phone is blowing up," Alessandro Bastoni groaned, rubbing his tired eyes. "My uncle thinks I should know everything. I don’t know anything! I just want to go to the beach!"
Lautaro Martínez, the captain, was the calm eye of the storm.
"Everyone, calm down," he said, his voice a steady, reassuring presence. "We don’t know anything for sure yet. We just have to wait and see. Leo, you’re very quiet. What do you think?"
All the faces on the screen turned to him. This was it.
Leon took a deep, shuddering breath.
The ’Unshakeable Heart’ skill granted by Sofia’s bracelet was working overtime, keeping the panic at bay.
"Guys," he began, his voice a little shaky. "The coach... he isn’t the only one who might be leaving."
A profound, absolute silence fell over the video call.
You could have heard a pin drop.
Even Julián stopped pacing.
"I... I got an offer," Leon continued, the words feeling heavy and foreign in his own mouth. "From Liverpool. And... I told them yes. I’m... I’m going to the Premier League next season."
The silence that followed was different. It wasn’t shocked. It was heartbroken.
He watched as the faces of his brothers, the men he had gone to war with, crumpled with a quiet, devastating sadness.
Lautaro was the first to speak, his captain’s voice thick with an emotion he couldn’t hide.
"Leo... are you serious?"
"I am," Leon whispered, the two words feeling like a betrayal.
"But... why?" Barella asked, his voice a mixture of anger and genuine hurt.
"We’re a family. We just won two trophies. We were building a dynasty."
"I know," Leon said, a lump forming in his throat.
"I just... it’s a new challenge. A different kind of football. I have to see if I can do it."
The screen was a sea of complicated emotions. But there was no anger. There was no shouting. There was just a deep, profound sadness, the feeling of a perfect, beautiful thing suddenly breaking.
Then, Julián, the soul of the team, broke the tension in the only way he knew how.
"Okay," he said slowly, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "So... if you go to Liverpool... do we have to hate you now? Or do we just hate you on match days and we can still be friends on Tuesdays?"
A few choked, watery laughs broke the silence.
The question was so ridiculous, so purely Julián, but it was also so full of a simple, beautiful, heartbroken love that it was almost poetic.
"We will never hate you, Leo," Lautaro said, a sad, resigned smile on his face.
He looked at Leon, his eyes shining.
"We are brothers. That doesn’t change because of the color of your shirt." He paused, a flicker of the old fire returning.
"But I swear, Leo, if you score against us in the Champions League, I will never, ever forgive you."
The call ended, and Leon was left in the quiet of his apartment, the silence a heavy, suffocating blanket. The relief he had expected to feel at finally telling them wasn’t there.
There was just a deep, hollow ache in his chest.
He had done it. He had told his family he was leaving home.
He sat there for a long time, just staring at his blank phone screen. He thought he had made a clean, logical decision for his career. But it wasn’t clean. It was messy, and it was painful, and it was leaving a trail of broken hearts in its wake, starting with his own.
His phone buzzed, pulling him from his melancholy thoughts.
It was a message from a number he didn’t recognize, but the text was simple, direct, and sent a jolt of ice-cold dread through his entire body.
[Unknown Number]: "I hear you are leaving. And I hear you are taking my daughter with you. My meeting with Real Madrid has been... very productive. We have much to discuss. - C."