The deafening noise of the stadium had long since faded into a dull echo for Leon. He was lying on a treatment table in the small, brightly lit Spurs medical room, his leg immobilized and throbbing. The team doctor was finishing wrapping his ankle, his expression sober. "Alright, Leon," the doctor said quietly. "We've done the preliminary assessment. It's a bad sprain, possibly a ligament tear. We won't know the full extent until we get the scans tomorrow, but you're definitely out for a while." Leon simply nodded, staring at the ceiling. The pain was secondary to the crushing disappointment of the loss and the manner in which it happened.
The door to the medical room opened, and three people rushed in, followed by Coach John, who gave Leon a reassuring nod before stepping back. The first was his mother, Mmathapelo. She immediately took his hand, her touch grounding him. "Oh, skat," she whispered, using the affectionate Afrikaans term, her accent subtle but present. "Are you alright? We saw the tackle..." Her eyes were moist with worry, but she managed a comforting smile.
Right behind her was his father jake, he didn't say anything, but his hand squeezed Leon's shoulder,a silent language they had shared since Leons childhood. And, finally, trailing them was his little sister, Thapelo. She stepped up timidly, clutching a small, worn Tottenham teddy bear. "You were so brave, Leon," she said softly, her voice wavering. "That man was mean."
Leon managed a genuine smile for her, trying to ignore the ache in his leg. "I'll be fine. Just a little rest, and I'll be back to scoring goals. You gotta save that bear for when I need some good luck, okay?"
Their mother smoothed his hair back. "You played beautifully, my boy. You showed them what you and Alex are capable of. Losing the match hurts, but you gained respect today."
"Your mother's right, Leon," Jake finally said, his voice firm. "Everyone knows what you'recapable of now. That tackle? That was fear, not strategy. They had to take you out because they couldn't beat you clean." Leon looked at his family, the warmth of their support starting to chase away the cold frustration. He knew he had a long road ahead, but with them, and with Alex, he knew he would be back stronger.
Leon closed his eyes briefly, accepting the pain and the doctor's prognosis. He looked at his family, the love in their eyes a small comfort against the bitterness of defeat. He then spoke, his voice quiet but carrying an edge of cold resolve. "History remembers the victors, not the good losers," Leon said. "We lost. That's the only thing that matters right now."
At that moment, a soft knock came from the door frame. Everyone turned their heads. Standing there, silhouetted against the hallway light, was Antonio Pele. The legend was wearing a tracksuit, his face subdued, the swagger from the pitch replaced by a solemn respect. "Amigo," Pele said softly, his hands resting lightly on the door frame. "You mind if I come in?"
Leon's father, Jake, was the first to react, his expression shifting from protective anger to stunned awe. He nodded stiffly. "Uh... sure. Come in, Mr. Pele." Pele stepped inside, his eyes immediately going to Leon's mother, Mmathapelo. He offered a respectful, genuine smile.
"Mrs. Blake," Pele said, his voice quiet and respectful, with a slight Brazilian lilt. "Please, forgive the intrusion. And forgive the mess on the field today. That was a moment of... poor sportsmanship." He paused, then offered a slight bow of his head. "I am Antonio. It is an honor to meet the woman who raised such a fierce competitor."
Mmathapelo, momentarily forgetting her worry, managed a soft, almost surprised smile. "Mmathapelo, please. And thank you, Antonio. He gets his fire from his father, though." She glanced at Jake, who was still looking at Pele like he was an apparition.
Pele chuckled softly, then turned to Jake, extending a hand. "Mr. Blake. You must be very proud. That boy of yours is unbelievable."
Jake took the extended hand, shaking it firmly, the legend's compliment clearly piercing through his stern demeanor. "Jake. Thank you. We are."
Pele then knelt down slightly to address little Thapelo, who was still clinging to her teddy bear. "And you must be his good luck charm, no? You must tell your brother to come back quickly. The game is much more boring without him." Thapelo giggled, a tiny sound of relief cutting the tension in the room.
Finally, Pele's eyes returned to Leon, a serious, direct look of concern now settling on his face. He walked closer to the table where Leon lay. "Amigo. We need to talk."
Leon looked at his family, who were all watching the exchange with a mixture of curiosity and concern. He then looked up at the legendary player. "Sure," Leon said, his voice a little strained as he shifted slightly on the table.
Pele glanced at the family, then back at Leon. "I am sorry, but... alone, if it is possible. It is about the game. A moment, that is all I ask."
Mmathapelo immediately understood, placing a gentle hand on Jake's arm. "Come on, everyone. Let's give them a minute. Thapelo, come stand with me."
Jake hesitated for a moment, still looking at Pele with a guarded expression, but he ultimately nodded to his son. "We'll be right outside, Leon." The family quietly filed out of the room, Coach John followed, closing the door softly behind him. The room was silent, save for the hum of the ventilation system. Pele was now standing beside the treatment table, and Leon was looking up at the man who had simultaneously defeated him and offered him the greatest compliment.
Pele didn't waste any time. He reached behind his back, grabbing the collar of his Arsenal jersey,the iconic red shirt with the white sleeves, and the number 10 emblazoned on the back. He pulled it over his head, revealing the training shirt underneath. He held the jersey out to Leon, the garment still warm from the match.
"First things first," Pele said, his voice low and sincere. "I wanted to give you this. As a token of my appreciation. What you did out there today... that was true genius. I see you, I respect you, and I look forward to your return."
Leon looked down at the legendary number 10 jersey, the weight of the gesture momentarily eclipsing the pain in his leg.
"Thank you, Antonio. That means more than you know," Leon said, accepting the shirt and carefully folding it over his good knee.
He then reached down and, with a wince, managed to pull the Spurs No. 30 jersey over his head. It was dirty, sweat-soaked, and marked by the frantic battle of the first half. He held it out to Pele. "Here," Leon said, his eyes meeting the legend's. "I know it's not on the same level as yours."
Pele took the offered Tottenham jersey. He held the sweat-soaked shirt carefully, examining the No. 30. There was a slight pause as he appreciated the gesture.
"I will treasure it, Leon. This shirt represents a fight I haven't had in a long time," Pele said, folding the jersey neatly. He then looked directly at the young player, a knowing smirk touching his lips. "But I hope the next time we meet on the pitch, you have a number matching my own. You are too good to be anything less than the main man, amigo." He said as he leaned closer to Leon, his expression turning serious once more. The jerseys were a gesture of respect, but now it was time for the lesson.
"The physical part is easy to fix, Leon," Pele said, tapping Leon's forehead. "It's the mental package that decides if you become a great player or just a memorable talent."
He looked directly into Leon's eyes. "When I stepped onto that field today, you and Alex started playing selfishly. You both felt the pressure to prove you were better than me, and you forgot your greatest weapon,the trust between you. I called you 'boring' not to hurt you, but to give you a mirror. I was taking advantage of your ego, which is the fastest way to kill genius."
Pele placed a firm hand on the treatment table. "You must learn two things from this match. Firstly, Never Chase the Ghost. Don't play against the name on the back of the jersey. You focused on me, and that fixation broke your synchronicity with Alex. Your goal is the next challenge, not the last legend." He paused before continuing. "Secondly, Trust Your Twin, Your dynamic with Alex is something the world hasn't seen since I played alongside the greats. It's an almost perfect balance. His skill is your grounding; your flair is his freedom. When you play together, you're unbeatable. When you play for yourselves, you're just two very good players who are easy to plan against."
"The tackle that took you out? That was my doing in a way," Pele admitted, his voice dropping slightly. "When you finally played together, passing to Hall, who then found you for the beautiful bounce-goal... I knew we couldn't stop you legally. I felt the thrill, but my team felt the fear. That fear forced them to make a dirty move. That's the compliment you must take from this injury. They feared your teamwork." He straightened up, a final, intense look passing between the two of them. "Get fixed. Get hungry. And when you come back, don't play to match my legacy. Play to start your own. And do it with Alex."
He looked at the ceiling , the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement at the prospect of the impending chaos. "And one last thing, Leon," he said, keeping his voice deliberately low, ensuring only the player could hear. "If you ever get bored of Tottenham, if you ever feel your genius is restricted here...know that you and Alex are always welcomed at Arsenal. We will always have a place for the Phoenix Twins."
At that moment, the door burst open with a deafening bang. Coach John stood framed in the doorway, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. He'd clearly heard the last, provocative remark. "What do you think you're doing, Pele!" Coach John bellowed, his voice echoing off the sterile walls. "Are you trying to take my players away from me?! Have you no shame? You come into my medical room, you talk about the game, and then you start trying to poach my stars?! Get out! Now! That boy is a Spur, and he's going nowhere!"
Pele simply raised his hands in a gesture of mock surrender, a mischievous glint in his eye. He backed away slowly, never taking his eyes off Leon. "Easy, Coach John," Pele said smoothly, a wide, challenging smile spreading across his face. "Just a bit of healthy competition." He turned, glancing over his shoulder at the furious Spurs manager, then faced Leon one last time.
"Well, Leon, I'll seee you next time," Pele conceded with a wink, gesturing toward the charging coach. "You heard the coach."
His voice dropped to a final, low sign-off. "But don't forget, amigo, you and Alex are always welcome." With that, Antonio Pele turned and walked out of the medical room, closing the door softly behind him, leaving silence in his wake, which was quickly filled by the sputtering rage of Coach John and the thoughtful gaze of the injured young star.