Chapter 43: The Calm After the Storm
The morning after Old Trafford, Leo woke in a hotel room that smelled like champagne and grass. His Champions League medal sat on the bedside table, the ribbon tangled around a half-empty glass of water. He stared at it for a long moment. Real. It was real.
Chloe was asleep beside him, her dark hair spread across the pillow, one arm flung over his chest. She'd cried after the final whistle. Not journalist tears—real ones. "I'm supposed to be objective," she'd whispered, her face buried in his shoulder. "I'm failing miserably."
He'd kissed her forehead. "Good."
Now he lay still, listening to the muffled sounds of Manchester waking up outside. His phone buzzed. A text from his mum.
"I'm in the lobby. Your father's seat was empty, but I know he was there. I felt him. Breakfast when you're ready. Proud of you, love."
Leo set the phone down and stared at the ceiling. The weight of the night settled over him—not heavy, just present. European champion. Eighteen years old. And somehow, it didn't feel like the end of anything. Just a checkpoint.
---
The Lobby. 9:47am.
His mum was sitting in a plush armchair near the window, a cup of tea cooling in her hands. She looked up when he walked in, and her face did something complicated—pride, exhaustion, love, all at once.
"There he is," she said, standing to hug him. "The king of Europe."
"Mum, please don't call me that."
"Why not? It's what the papers are calling you." She pulled back and studied his face. "You look tired."
"I am tired."
"Good. Means you worked for it." She sat back down and gestured to the chair opposite. "Sit. Eat something. You're too skinny."
Leo laughed and flagged down a waiter. "I just won the Champions League and you're worried about my weight."
"I'm your mother. It's my job." She waited until he'd ordered, then leaned forward. "So. What now?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, you've won the biggest trophy in club football. You're eighteen. You could go anywhere, do anything. What do you want?"
Leo thought about it. The question had been floating at the edge of his mind for weeks, but he'd pushed it away, focused on the next match, the next goal. Now there was space. Silence.
"I want to finish the season. Win the Coppa Italia. Then... I don't know. Stay at Milan, maybe. See what we can build."
His mum nodded slowly. "And Chloe?"
"What about her?"
"She's moving to Milan, isn't she? After the season."
Leo felt his face warm. "Yeah. She is."
His mum smiled—a knowing, slightly sad smile. "You love her."
"I do."
"Then don't mess it up. Football is football. But people... people are what matter." She reached across and squeezed his hand. "Your father knew that. He wasn't a great player, but he was a great man. Be both."
Leo nodded, his throat tight. "I'll try."
---
The Phone Calls.
Back in his room, Leo sat by the window and worked through a list of calls. Mendes first.
"Leo! The hero of Milan! I've had twelve clubs contact me since the final whistle. Twelve. Madrid. Barcelona. United—yes, United. Chelsea. Bayern. Even Juventus, can you believe it? After you knocked them out of the Coppa."
Leo laughed. "Tell them all no. I'm happy at Milan."
"Of course you are. And that's why they want you more." Mendes paused. "But seriously, Leo. Enjoy this. Rest. We'll talk about the future later. You've earned a break."
"Thanks, Jorge."
"Don't thank me. You did the work. I just answer the phone."
Next, Maldini.
"Carter. Where are you?"
"Still in Manchester. Heading back to Milan tomorrow."
"Good. The city is waiting for you. There's a parade planned. Tuesday. Try to look presentable."
Leo grinned. "I'll do my best, capitano."
A pause. Then Maldini's voice softened. "You know, I've won this trophy four times now. But watching you lift it... it felt different. You reminded me why I love this game. Thank you."
Leo didn't know what to say. "Paolo, I—"
"Don't get emotional. Just be ready for the Coppa Italia final. We have one more trophy to win."
The line went dead. Leo stared at his phone, a strange warmth in his chest.
---
Southampton. Three Days Later.
Leo hadn't planned to go back. But his mum had insisted. "The people who supported you before the fame—they deserve to see you. Not the Milan star. Just Leo."
So he flew to Southampton, alone, no entourage. He walked the familiar streets, past the corner shop where he'd bought sweets as a kid, past the park where his dad had taught him to kick a ball. The bench where they'd sat was still there, weathered but standing.
He sat down and stared at the empty field. A group of kids were playing a chaotic five-a-side match on the far end, shouting and laughing. One of them—a boy with floppy hair and a Southampton shirt—spotted him and froze.
"Mum! Mum, it's Leo Carter!"
The game dissolved. Kids swarmed him, asking for autographs, photos, asking if he'd really scored against Zidane, if Beckham was nice, if he missed Southampton. Leo answered as best he could, signing shirts and scraps of paper.
The boy with the floppy hair lingered after the others drifted back to their game. "Are you coming back? To Southampton, I mean."
Leo looked at him—really looked. The kid was maybe ten, with bright eyes and a hopeful expression.
"Not right now," Leo said. "But maybe one day. When I'm old and slow."
The boy grinned. "You'll never be slow. You're Leo Carter."
Leo laughed and ruffled his hair. "What's your name?"
"Tommy."
"Keep playing, Tommy. And don't let anyone tell you you're not good enough."
Tommy nodded solemnly and ran back to his game. Leo watched him go, then stood and walked back toward the street. The bench behind him sat empty, but he could feel his father there, in the rustle of the leaves, in the distant laughter of children.
---
Milan. The Parade.
The city had shut down. Streets were closed. Balconies were draped in red and black. Thousands of people lined the route, singing, waving flags, setting off flares. The team bus crawled through the chaos, players hanging out the windows, trophy in hand.
Leo stood near the front with Maldini and Gattuso. The noise was indescribable—a constant roar, punctuated by chants of his name.
"Leo Carter! Leo Carter! Il re di Milano!"
Gattuso elbowed him. "Senti? Ti amano." Hear that? They love you.
"I hear it."
"Non fare il modesto. Goditelo." Don't be modest. Enjoy it.
Maldini leaned over. "He's right. Moments like this don't come often. Even for us."
Leo looked out at the sea of faces—young, old, families, ultras. People who'd waited years for this. People who'd believed in him from the moment he'd arrived.
He raised the Champions League trophy above his head, and the roar doubled. Chloe was somewhere in the crowd, he knew, taking photos for her piece. His mum was in a hotel room, watching on television. And somewhere, he believed, his father was watching too.
---
Chloe's Flat. That Night.
They sat on her small balcony, the city lights glittering below. A half-empty bottle of prosecco sat between them. The sounds of celebration still drifted up from the streets.
"So," Chloe said, tucking her feet under her. "European champion. How does it feel?"
"Honestly? It doesn't feel real yet. Like I'm going to wake up and be back in my old life, working a job I hate, watching football on the telly."
Chloe was quiet for a moment. "You never talk about your old life. Before football."
Leo stared at the lights. "There's not much to talk about. I wasn't good enough. I gave up. And then..." He trailed off. He couldn't tell her about the system. About waking up in 2001. Not yet. Maybe never.
"And then you got a second chance," she finished.
"Something like that."
She reached over and took his hand. "Well, whoever gave you that second chance—thank them for me. Because I got to meet you."
Leo squeezed her fingers. "I love you, you know."
"I know." She grinned. "You tell me every day. It's very annoying."
"Want me to stop?"
"Never."
---
Milanello. The Next Morning.
The training ground was quiet. Most of the squad had been given a few days off before Coppa Italia final preparations began. Leo had come anyway, needing the routine.
He was alone on the pitch, running through drills, when a voice echoed from the tunnel.
"Carter. What are you doing here?"
Ancelotti walked toward him, hands in his coat pockets, eyebrow raised.
"Couldn't sleep. Needed to move."
Ancelotti nodded. "I understand. After my first European Cup as a player, I didn't sleep for two days. Too much adrenaline."
"What did you do?"
"Drank wine. Talked to my wife. Waited for it to pass." He smiled. "It passes. Everything passes. The trick is to enjoy it while it's here."
Leo nodded. "I'm trying."
"I know." Ancelotti put a hand on his shoulder. "One more match. The Coppa Italia. Roma again. Totti again. Then you can rest. Really rest."
"I'll be ready."
"I don't doubt it." Ancelotti turned to leave, then paused. "Leo. Whatever you decide about your future—stay at Milan, go elsewhere—know that you are always welcome here. You gave us something special."
He walked away before Leo could respond.
---
Later That Day. A Café Near the Duomo.
Leo sat at a small table, nursing a cappuccino. Chloe was across from him, scribbling in her notebook.
"What are you writing?"
"Notes for my piece. 'The Boy Who Conquered Europe.' Working title."
"Sounds dramatic."
"Football is dramatic." She looked up and smiled. "You're dramatic."
He laughed. "Fair enough."
A group of teenagers walked past, spotted him, and froze. One of them—a girl with a Milan scarf—approached nervously.
"Scusi, sei Leo Carter?"
"Sì."
She handed him a napkin and a pen. "Posso avere un autografo? Per mio fratello. È malato e non è potuto venire alla partita." My brother is sick and couldn't come to the match.
Leo took the napkin and wrote: A tuo fratello—guarisci presto. Il calcio ti aspetta. Leo Carter. To your brother—get well soon. Football is waiting for you.
The girl's eyes filled with tears. "Grazie. Grazie mille."
She ran back to her friends, clutching the napkin like a treasure. Chloe watched her go, then turned to Leo.
"You know, you're good at this. The human stuff."
"I had a good teacher." He reached across and took her hand. "My mum. And now you."
She squeezed back. "Smooth, Carter. Very smooth."
---
The Night Before Roma.
Leo lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The Coppa Italia final. One more match. One more trophy. Then summer. Rest. And then... the future. Whatever that meant.
His phone buzzed. A text from Shevchenko.
"Ready for tomorrow, fratello?"
Leo smiled and typed back. "Always."
Another buzz. Gattuso.
"Dormi. Domani facciamo la guerra." Sleep. Tomorrow we make war.
Leo laughed. Gattuso never changed.
He set his phone down and closed his eyes. The Clutch Gene pulsed quietly, but he didn't need it tonight. Tonight, he just needed sleep.
Tomorrow, the final battle.