The Liverpool squad, a collection of world-class superstars and hungry young talents, had been forged in the fire of Arne Slot’s intense tactical sessions.
The atmosphere in the gym on the final day before their first pre-season match was a perfect, buzzing cocktail of peak physical conditioning and pure, unadulterated silliness.
"I’m telling you, it’s about aerodynamic efficiency," Trent was explaining with the dead-serious tone of an aerospace engineer, gesturing to his new, fluorescent yellow boots. "This particular shade of yellow cuts through the air 0.2% faster than last season’s orange. It’s just science."
Virgil van Dijk, who was effortlessly lifting a weight that looked like a small car, just raised a skeptical eyebrow.
"Or," the captain said, his voice a calm, deep rumble, "it just makes you easier for the opposition to see, so they know who to tackle first."
"A beacon of excellence, VVD," Trent shot back without missing a beat. "That’s what it is. A beacon."
The room chuckled. This was their rhythm, their language.
A constant, light-hearted competition in everything from fashion to finishing.
Leon sat on a stationary bike, a towel around his neck, observing the beautiful, chaotic ecosystem of his new team.
The month had been a whirlwind of integration. He was no longer the quiet new boy.
He was part of the family.
But the ghost of the encounter he’d witnessed, the secret meeting between Mohamed Salah and the super-agent Giovanni Russo, was a constant, nagging question in the back of his mind.
He had watched Salah all month, looking for a sign, a clue. But there was nothing.
The Egyptian King was the perfect professional.
He was the first to arrive at training, the last to leave.
His work ethic was legendary. And right now, he was laughing, a loud, infectious sound, as he and the young Belgian winger, Nathan Ngumoha, were having an impromptu, high-stakes pull-up competition.
"Come on, Nate! You are a young man! You have the energy!" Salah roared with a grin as Ngumoha struggled to complete his final rep. "My grandmother can do more than this!"
Ngumoha, his face a mask of pure, straining effort, just shook his head, a breathless laugh escaping his lips. He was completely at ease, a young player being mentored and playfully bullied by one of the greatest in the world.
There was no sign of tension, no hint of a secret departure.
Maybe, Leon thought, he had imagined the whole thing. Maybe it was just a friendly dinner.
"Alright, boys, who’s ready to smash some Spaniards?"
The voice, calm, direct, and full of a quiet, deadly confidence, belonged to Alexander Isak.
The Swedish giant was standing by the weight rack, a look of pure, hungry anticipation on his face. The first match of their pre-season, in just two days, was against Real Madrid.
"Easy now, big man," Trent said with a grin. "It’s just a friendly. A light jog to get the legs moving."
"There is no such thing as a ’friendly’ against Real Madrid," Isak replied, his eyes gleaming.
"There is only a battle. And I intend to win it."
Salah, having won the pull-up competition, jogged over, clapping Isak on the back. "Don’t worry, my friend," he said, a confident, almost arrogant, grin on his face.
"You smash them, I will smash them, the new boy with the white hair will smash them. It will be a festival of smashing."
As the gym session wound down, Leon found himself next to Nathan Ngumoha on the stretching mats. The young Belgian was quiet, but his eyes were shining with a brilliant, focused energy.
"You excited for Madrid?" Leon asked, his voice low.
"Excited... and terrified," Ngumoha admitted with a small, nervous smile. Nᴇw ɴovel chaptᴇrs are published on 𝓷𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓵✶𝓯𝓲𝓻𝓮✶𝓷𝓮𝓽
"To play against them... it’s a dream."
"You’re ready," Leon said, his voice firm and steady. He lowered it even further, a conspiratorial whisper. "Just remember what we practiced. When you see me get the ball and play it towards Mo’s side... don’t watch the ball. Just run. Run into the space on the other side. Don’t think. Just run. I’ll find you."
A look of pure, unadulterated excitement flashed across Ngumoha’s face. It was their secret, the ’Lightning Rod’ synergy they had been subtly, quietly working on in small moments after the main training sessions. "I’ll be ready," he promised.
That night, Leon was in his new house, the comfortable silence a welcome relief after the loud, energetic chaos of the training ground.
He was on a video call with Sofia, who was back in Milan for a week to pack up the last of her things before her permanent move to England.
"...and then Julián tried to explain the offside rule to my mom using three different kinds of cheese," he was saying, laughing. "I think he just made her more confused."
Sofia laughed, her bright, happy face filling his screen. "I miss that beautiful, chaotic brain of his. Things are too... normal here without him."
They talked for over an hour, an easy, happy conversation that was the perfect end to his day.
As they were saying their goodbyes, she gave him a serious, mock-stern look.
"Now, this match against Madrid," she said. "My dad is going to be on the other sideline."
"I know," he said, a nervous grin on his face.
"So, you have my official permission to score one goal," she continued. "A nice one, so you look good. But then you have to let his team win. It’s just polite."
He laughed. "I’ll see what I can do."
He ended the call, a warm, contented feeling in his chest. He was about to get ready for bed when his phone buzzed with a message. It was from an unknown Spanish number.
His heart did a little nervous flutter. Madrid?
A last-ditch attempt to change his mind?
He opened the message. It wasn’t from the club. It wasn’t from a scout.
It was a single, cryptic, and utterly terrifying line of text.
[Unknown Number]: "I taught you how to think. And I know how to break it. See you on the pitch. - C."