He tumbled across the turf a few times before his momentum finally died.
Luckily, the moment he hit the ground, instinct took over and he rolled with the impact, letting his back absorb the force.
Otherwise, even on soft grass, he would have felt it in his bones.
Sitting on the turf, Leo frowned, eyes locked on Michael Brown as if burning the man’s face into his memory.
Fouls were part of football.
He knew that.
But the instant Brown slammed into him from behind, a surge of anger flared up from deep in his chest.
If it had been accidental, Leo wouldn’t have cared.
But the ball was already gone.
Brown had charged into him with force, deliberately.
That was a dirty foul, plain and simple.
Then, a sharp blast of the whistle.
The referee jogged over to the scene.
Without hesitation, he pulled a yellow card from his pocket and showed it to Brown.
Then he warned the notorious pitch thug, a man who collected cards like they were trading cards: “Keep your challenges in check!” Brown, the one who had committed the foul, just slapped his own shoulder and argued: “Fuck!
I barely touched him with my shoulder.
That’s not a yellow!” “He’s too soft…” “I’m warning you, the ball was gone.
That was an unnecessary and dangerous challenge!” “And watch your mouth!” Realizing he couldn’t sway the referee, Brown dropped the act.
He shot Leo a glare, then turned and stalked off, disgust written all over his face.
The moment the home crowd saw their player booked, Elland Road erupted in boos.
Half aimed at the referee, half at Leo.
“That kid’s made of glass!
That wasn’t a foul!” “That’s just normal contact!” “What’s the ref doing?
Eating shit?!” “He dove!” Amid the torrent of abuse, Drinkwater and Mahrez, who were closest, and Vardy from further up the pitch, all rushed over to Leo, forming a protective wall around him.
“Leo, you okay?” Taking Mahrez’s offered hand, Leo pulled himself up.
He shook his head and managed a small smile.
“I’m fine.” Glancing at Brown, who still looked defiant, Drinkwater spoke up.
“That bastard’s got his eye on you.
Watch yourself.” Leo just nodded.
Michael Brown, yellow card in hand, didn’t seem to care one bit.
Once the referee moved away, he suddenly stepped closer, right into Leo’s face, and growled: “Football isn’t a sport for soft little shits like you!” “Go home and drink your milk!” Leo’s expression hardened.
He stared at Brown for a long moment, saying nothing.
He saw right through the old veteran’s game.
This pitch rat was cunning.
He was trying to rattle Leo with a dirty foul and some trash talk, hoping to make him scared, or angry enough to lose his head and do something stupid.
Leo knew exactly what was going on.
The boos and curses from the stands, the cheap shots from the players on the pitch, it was all aimed at one thing: helping Leeds win this match.
And he wasn’t about to give them that satisfaction.
The best way to shut them up?
Beat them on the pitch.
Let his game do the talking.
— The referee’s whistle blew, and play resumed.
Leeds figured Brown’s “message” would make Leo think twice before holding onto the ball again.
They expected him to shy away from pulling the strings.
Instead, the cheap trick only made Leo more active.
He kept finding pockets of space, even dropping deep to the defensive midfield position, linking up with the two central midfielders in short, sharp passing sequences.
“Quick, short passes.
Leicester are in complete control…” “Leeds need to be careful.
This is exactly how Derby County got picked apart last time.” Even with the commentator’s warning, Leeds’ manager and players were powerless.
They knew the danger of letting Leicester keep the ball.
They just couldn’t win it back.
Across the entire Championship, most of the twenty-four teams, Leicester included, played a direct, physical English style.
Long balls over the top, or quick transitions through midfield, attacking down the flanks.
But with Leo and Mahrez on the pitch, Leicester had the tools for a possession-based game.
Sure, compared to teams like Barcelona or Arsenal, where tiki-taka is woven into the club’s DNA, this was a budget version at best.
But that budget version, combined with Leicester’s top-tier Championship squad, was enough to keep most teams in the league chasing shadows.
Leicester’s players were like seasoned fishermen, using short passes in their own half to lure Leeds’ entire shape further and further up the pitch.
And Leo was the hook.
Watching his team get turned on their own turf, the Leeds manager was off his seat, pacing the touchline, shouting frantically.
Meanwhile, Leicester boss Nigel Pearson sat back in the away dugout, legs crossed, looking completely at ease.
The contrast said everything about the state of the match.
Pearson could see it clearly.
With Leo conducting, his team had total control of the tempo.
A goal was only a matter of time.
And just as he expected, in the seventy-fifth minute, the deadlock finally shattered.
Leicester’s patient probing had pulled Leeds apart.
Frustrated and reckless, they kept pressing higher and higher, their entire shape pushing forward, leaving a gaping hole behind the back line.
And with God’s Eye View, there was no way Leo would miss it.
A quick one-two with the dropping striker Nugent, a burst past the midfield pressure, and Leo took two touches forward.
Without a second’s hesitation, he swung his right leg and whipped a low, diagonal through ball along the ground.
The pass, hit with pace, sliced through the seam between the center back and right back, rolling into the space just outside the box.
And arriving there, having burst forward from the left and timed his run to perfection, was Vardy.
“What a pass!” “Number twenty-three, Leo, finds his teammate again!
Vardy!” “Into the box…
one on one with the keeper…” With tens of thousands of home fans cursing and praying, Vardy didn’t waste Leo’s delivery.
He smashed the ball with ferocious power, rifling it into the near corner.
The net billowed, the force of the shot lifting it off the ground.
“Goal!” “Leicester break the deadlock!
They lead one-nil at Elland Road!” As the commentator’s voice rang out, the thousands of home fans inside Elland Road fell silent.
Hands went to heads.
Faces twisted in agony.
They had pinned Leicester back for so long.
And now, the visitors had struck first.
The away supporters, meanwhile, erupted.
They waved their blue Foxes scarves and belted out the Vardy chant: “Jamie, Jamie, our super Jamie!!” Amid the singing, the goalscorer Vardy didn’t sprint to the corner flag for a wild celebration.
Instead, he immediately sought out the man who had set him up, pulling Leo into a crushing hug.
“Mate, that ball was perfect!” As he praised Leo’s pass, Vardy couldn’t help but feel deeply satisfied with his own decision to get close to the kid.
Yeah, staying on Leo’s good side was definitely paying off.
After a high-five and a hug, Vardy raised his arm and pointed high at the dark-haired young man beside him, as if announcing to the entire stadium: “This goal?
All thanks to this kid right here!”