When the traveling Leicester City supporters saw Leo Hale and Mahrez make their way to the sideline, ready to come on, they erupted.
“About time, Pearson!” “Should’ve put Leo on ages ago!” “Mahrez too.
Those two have real chemistry.” Among the sea of blue stood Big Will, wrapped in a Leicester City fan jacket with a Foxes knit cap pulled low.
A born and bred Leicester man, he was a member of the Foxes Club, the largest unofficial supporters’ group for Leicester City, and a diehard Foxes fan through and through.
He had held a season ticket since the first time his father took him to a match at five years old.
Every home game.
Rain or shine.
And whenever his schedule allowed, he packed his pickup and followed the team to every away ground, standing in the away end and roaring his lungs out.
The textbook twelfth man.
Right now, face flushed, he was swinging his blue Foxes scarf over his head and bellowing the name of the academy kid about to step onto the pitch.
“Leo Hale!
Leo Hale!
Leo Hale!” Around him, Leicester fans picked up the chant, calling out the name of their homegrown teenage talent.
To them, Leo was the secret weapon.
The key to cracking a match that had been locked shut for sixty minutes.
The hero who dragged them back from the brink and into a win.
The away fans’ fervor was impossible to ignore.
Even the commentator could not resist a wry remark.
“Leicester preparing a double change.
Number twenty-three, Leo Hale, and number twenty-six, Mahrez, standing by at the touchline.” “In the last match against Derby County, Hale set up Mahrez for Leicester’s third goal.” “That was the eighteen-year-old’s third assist in just two appearances.” “You can understand why the traveling fans are welcoming him like this.” “Will he be the hero tonight?
Or will the Whites’ thorns draw blood?
We are about to find out.” The home crowd was not about to let the away fans have the last word.
They fired back with a wall of jeers and venom, every insult aimed at rattling the kid about to step onto their turf.
The boos and abuse hammered Leo’s ears.
His brow tightened, but his face stayed still.
Beside him, Mahrez wore the same grim expression.
His English was not great, but he understood the filth raining down from the stands well enough.
He did not get why Leeds fans had such a hard-on for Leo.
Was this just what English football was like?
“Leo.
You good?” Leo turned to him and flashed a bright, easy grin.
“Never better.” The fans could curse him and his whole family for all he cared.
It was just noise.
Ducks quacking.
He knew the deal.
This was part of being a pro.
If you wanted them to shut up, you had to make them.
Out on the pitch.
With your feet.
*Boo louder.
Go on.
I’ll shut every last one of you up.* The promise burned in his chest as he slapped hands with the players coming off and jogged onto the field.
Just like the Derby County match, the moment Leo stepped on, Leicester’s shape shifted from a flat 4-4-2 to a 4-2-3-1.
Leeds, who had been on top, did not adjust.
Their manager, Brian McDermott, simply barked from the touchline, “Stay tight on twenty-three.
Give him some contact!” and dropped back into his seat.
In his mind, football was a team game.
One man could only do so much.
An eighteen-year-old kid with a nice pass?
Put a body on him and that pretty ball of his would disappear.
His side had the upper hand.
Keep pushing and the goal would come.
Leeds played a brutal, direct brand of football.
Hoof it long from the back, find the striker, and let him hammer the back line with everything he had.
Fortunately, Leicester’s defense was the best in the league.
The two starting center backs, captain Wes Morgan and Wasilewski, both stood over six foot three.
They were not quick on the turn, but in a straight duel or an aerial battle, they were monsters.
They gave the Leeds forwards nothing.
Not an inch.
The reverse fixture at the King Power had ended in a goalless stalemate.
This time, Leeds had Elland Road behind them, and they were dead set on snapping Leicester’s streak, taking all three points, and climbing into the playoff places.
That aggression had given them control for the first sixty minutes.
They had pinned Leicester back and thrown wave after wave at Schmeichel’s goal.
The Leicester net had wobbled.
It had creaked.
It had looked ready to tear open.
But the final layer of paper never broke.
And then Leo and Mahrez came on.
Everything shifted.
Leo’s passing accuracy and completion rate were the highest in the squad.
Mahrez’s dribbling and close control were on a level no one else in that Leicester side could touch.
The two of them changed the entire texture of Leicester’s buildup play.
The ball started moving cleanly along the ground.
Fresh legs, quick one-twos, constant movement.
Leicester seized control of possession and took the weight off their back line.
With Leo pulling the strings, the Leeds players made a frustrating discovery.
No matter how hard they pressed, they could not win the ball back.
Without it, their attack ground to a halt.
Instead, Leicester, with Leo conducting, began to dictate the tempo.
The minutes bled away.
Leicester kept passing, kept recycling, kept the ball just out of reach.
And the Leeds players, desperate for a breakthrough, finally lost their cool.
None more so than their midfield enforcer, Michael Brown.
The former Manchester City man had carved out a long career in English football on the back of vicious tackles and a thick stack of yellow and red cards.
He had once made national headlines for a two-footed lunge on Manchester United legend Giggs.
Now, at thirty-six, the old midfield bruiser had his sights set on a target half his age.
Leo dropped deep to receive the ball with his back to goal.
Brown’s eyes went cold.
He charged.
“Little shit.
Pass that!” Leo felt the pressure closing in and laid it off first time, a simple sideways ball to Drinkwater in midfield.
What he did not expect was that Brown had no intention of pulling up.
Maybe his legs were gone and he could not stop his momentum.
Or maybe he wanted to put the kid on notice.
Either way, Brown did not slow down.
He plowed straight into Leo.
*Crap.
He’s gunning for me.* Before Leo could twist away, a shove slammed into his back.
His balance vanished.
He was sent flying.