CHAPTER 115: HEADSTART.

A few minutes after Marco sent the players off for their gear, Leo returned immediately, things already in hand.

"You must be eager," Marco said as Leo approached before settling down on the grass with a little smile, swapping his slides for his boots while the other players trickled back onto the pitch.

By the time they all returned, Leo stood with his boots already laced tight, the new sleeveless training top clinging to his frame.

A faint breeze brushed past as Marco, whistle in hand, stood in front of his twenty-two players, his tone calm but clear.

"Alright, listen up," Marco began, glancing around at the mix of familiar faces and the few new ones, Leo among them.

"Like I said the night you all got here, you’ll meet the main coach tomorrow. But that doesn’t mean today’s a holiday." His gaze sharpened slightly.

"You know the rule, we train properly, or not at all so I do not want to see anybody half-assing it because trust me, I can put you on the plane and send you back to whatever hole you crawled out from."

The players nodded in silence, a few exchanging quiet smirks and others too eyeing Carlo who seemed to be the intended destination for the message.

Marco lifted his whistle slightly, pointing toward the field.

"Split into two groups of eleven. When I blow, you all go for ten laps around the pitch. The team with the last man lagging finishes with five more."

That got a few groans and snickers.

"Classic Marco," Carlos said under his breath, drawing a grin from a teammate nearby.

Then came the whistle, phweet!

And as soon as it did, everyone broke into motion, with the rhythm of dozens of strides echoing across the pitch.

All except one figure, Leo, who still stood near the line, stretching his quads, rolling his neck as though the whistle wasn’t for him.

Marco noticed instantly. "Hey, Calderon!" he called out, switching to English.

"You believe in yourself that much?"

Leo glanced up mid-stretch, a grin tugging at his lips.

"No," he said simply, "but I’ve got people who do."

Marco’s brows lifted as Leo pushed off and sprinted forward, his strides light but deliberate, cutting through the pack of players one by one.

Within minutes, he had joined the top five, and then passed them, his pace unwavering.

Catching sight of him, Carlo grinned and picked up speed too, clearly not wanting to be shown up by his roommate.

For a few laps, they kept close, until Carlo began to fade, his breathing heavier, while Leo just kept going, smooth and composed.

By the time Leo crossed the line on his tenth lap, most of the others were still on their eighth or ninth.

He slowed to a jog, breathing steadily as if he’d just warmed up.

On the far side, Marco shook his head with a small, amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he jotted a few things down.

When the last player finally stumbled across the line, Marco noted the blue training shirt, the same team Leo was on.

A round of laughter went through the other group.

"Looks like the blues are in for extra work!" someone teased but Marco raised a hand.

"Not yet. You’ll do your extra five at the end," he said, grinning as a few groans echoed back. "For now, head to the cones."

Across the pitch, the assistants had set up drills, cones, agility sticks, and passing grids.

The players grabbed their GPS vests from a crate before jogging over.

The first drill began with quick rondos, short passes under tight pressure.

The circles buzzed with noise, laughter, and shouts, except for Leo’s group because the focus and pace of the passes were heightened by his moves.

His control was razor-sharp, his touches crisp and efficient.

Every time the ball came to him, he already seemed to know where it would go next.

The players in the circle tried to intercept but barely got a touch.

Marco watched from the edge, arms folded.

His eyes followed the young player’s every movement, quick, assured, almost too composed for someone who only started getting football minutes 4 months ago.

The rondos transitioned to one-touch passing under pressure where the tempo increased and the space tightened, but Leo still remained smooth, never losing possession once.

A few of the others started noticing too, murmurs between passes.

And when the dribble-and-turn drills came, Leo glided through them, precise but unhurried, executing each turn like muscle memory.

Even when the ground got slippery in certain patches, his balance didn’t falter.

And in the passing drills, at least for Leo, it was almost effortless.

He didn’t go for the flashier cross-field swings others tried; his passes sliced through gaps, quick and purposeful.

Marco tilted his head slightly, recalling what Piatelli had told him a few days earlier before Leo had joined.

"Watch the boy carefully. From what the two scouts got, he’s got the bones of something rare."

Now, seeing him up close, Marco could see why the recommendation came so strongly.

He glanced at the other coaches near the setup area, both of whom were murmuring to each other, nodding toward Leo.

Marco smirked, exhaling through his nose before muttering under his breath, "Alright, Calderon. Let’s see how you handle the real thing."

Then he brought the whistle to his lips again.

Phweeet!

"Thirty minutes done, boys," he called out, clapping twice.

"Hydrate and regroup.

The players heeded, halting the various movements with the ball before stopping to catch their breaths, sweat dripping down foreheads and onto the grass.

Leo had his hands on his hips, chest rising and falling steadily, his shirt clinging to him as he wiped a bit of the sweat on his face with the edges.

He’d moved much more in the drills but he didn’t look half as winded as most of the others.

Carlo, as everyone seemed to know him, walked over, tossing a bottle of water toward Leo.

"That was good," he said, voice calm but approving.

Leo caught it midair with one hand, unscrewed the cap, and nodded.

"You didn’t do half bad yourself," he replied evenly, flashing a quick grin before walking off toward Marco.

Carlo blinked, caught between surprise and amusement, his lips quirking into a faint smirk as he watched Leo go.

Around them, the pitch began moving again as the players trudged towards Marco.

This time the keepers were off to the side with the goalkeeping coach, diving onto mats and practising one-handed catches.

The other players gathered loosely near Marco, waiting for instructions.

Still clutching his left shin, one of them stepped forward, grimacing slightly.

"I’ll sit this one out," he said in Italian, rubbing the spot just below his knee. "Feels tight."

Marco gave him a quick look, scanning his face and posture before nodding.

"Have it checked," he said simply. "Don’t push it."

The player peeled off his GPS vest, handed it to the assistant coach, and limped slowly toward the complex, leaving eighteen outfield players behind.

"Alright," Marco called out, clapping his hands once. "Nine versus nine."

A groan rippled through the group continuing until Marco sharply glossed over them.

One player near the back muttered under his breath, loud enough for a few to hear, "So we’re gonna earn the money but not spend it, eh? I love money."

That earned a burst of laughter, Marco included.

"Don’t love it too much though. For what shall it benefit a man to gain the world and lose his soul," the coach said with a chuckle, motioning them to split into two teams.

"Red and blue. You know the drill, keep the tempo up, defend, attack, and move the ball but no goals today, just playing."

Fresh bibs were tossed from a small pile near the sideline, flapping lightly in the breeze as players grabbed them.

Leo ended up pulling on a blue one, same as Carlo, who shot him a quick glance as if to say Guess we’re stuck together now.

Leo only shrugged and sighed tightening the straps of his vest before jogging into position.

The red team spread out on the opposite half, more vocal, more physical-looking.

The blues were quieter, adjusting their formation quickly, Leo taking a spot in the middle third while Carlo slotted slightly ahead of him on the left.

Marco walked along the edge of the pitch, stopwatch in hand, voice steady but clear.

"Keep it simple. Move. Talk. Don’t freeze."

Then came the whistle, short and sharp again, as the session snapped into motion