The winter transfer window was in full swing, clubs everywhere scrambling to strengthen their squads.
But Leicester City’s board and manager were perfectly satisfied with the current setup.
Aside from selling one fringe midfielder who hadn’t seen a single minute of action and promoting Leo Hale from the youth squad, Leicester made no moves at all.
The first team now stood at exactly twenty-six players.
Leo pulled on the black monitoring vest, zipped up his training gear, and followed the squad out to the pitch.
Under the manager’s direction, they opened with a fitness session to get warm.
On the touchline, Nigel Pearson and assistant Steve Walsh tracked Leo’s every move, murmuring to each other.
“His burst and pace are decent.
Decent frame.
But his physicality in duels worries me.” “Stamina’s good.
If we put him in midfield, he can contribute something defensively.” “Solid fundamentals.
Give him enough time, he should adapt to the Championship’s tempo quickly enough.” The fitness block ended, and the technical and tactical drills began.
Through every exercise, Leo’s strengths and weaknesses were laid bare for teammates and coaches alike.
First, the strengths.
His passing technique was a full tier above every other first-team player on that pitch.
The variety alone was dizzying.
Outside-of-the-boot flicks.
Driven through balls along the turf.
Lofted passes over the top.
Diagonal forty-five-yard switches.
Every single pass landed as if measured with a ruler.
Terrifyingly precise.
And the weight was perfect.
Teammates received the ball clean and easy, no adjustment needed.
The weaknesses?
Everything beyond passing.
His first touch, dribbling, and shooting were all merely adequate.
Nothing stood out.
His defending was passable.
He could stick with his man without losing position, and every so often he read the passing lane and cut it out.
Watching Leo in training, the manager and his assistant felt no regret about the promotion.
If anything, it confirmed something crucial.
That stunning passing display in the FA Cup a few days ago was not a one-off flash of brilliance.
It was a reproducible gift.
In professional football, “average” is the worst thing you can call a player.
It means he has no defining trait.
A defining trait means the player has elite talent in one area.
In the eyes of the manager and his teammates, Leo possessed extraordinary natural gifts in vision and passing.
He had the potential to become a midfield maestro in the mold of Xavi, Rui Costa, or Cesc Fabregas.
As for the other shortcomings, those could be developed through training.
But training was training.
Matches were matches.
Shining in unopposed drills didn’t guarantee you’d deliver at full speed under pressure.
Pearson raised his voice.
“Alright, lads.
Take a breather.
Five minutes, then we run a scrimmage.” After a short rest, the manager split the squad into two sides.
The starters pulled on orange bibs.
Team A.
Leo, the newcomer, was assigned to the reserves on Team B.
No surprise there.
Both sides lined up in the same flat 4-4-2.
Leo partnered Andy King in Team B’s midfield.
The whistle blew, and Leicester’s intra-squad scrimmage was underway.
From kickoff, the stronger starters seized control.
Leicester’s 4-4-2 lived and died by its two central midfielders.
They had to orchestrate the attack and shield the back line.
Near total football.
Danny Drinkwater and Matty James were both technically sound, physically robust, and relentless runners.
Classic English midfielders.
They had also come up together in Manchester United’s academy.
The understanding was there.
With superiority across the pitch, Team A pinned Team B in their own half from the opening whistle.
The one-sided picture didn’t surprise the manager.
Pearson’s expression stayed neutral.
His eyes stayed locked on the black-haired kid in the middle.
He wanted to see whether Leo could still perform when his team was under the cosh.
Because that was the thing about genuine talents.
They did what ordinary players couldn’t.
Leo was already in rhythm, gliding across the natural grass.
Through the overhead view in his mind, he could track every teammate’s run, every opponent’s position.
He knew where the space was about to open.
He knew where a teammate was about to burst into.
The entire pitch was under his control.
When Team A built through their two midfielders, Leo made the smart choice.
He didn’t engage and battle.
He used God’s Eye View to read their movement, position himself early, and step into the passing lane.
Sharp defensive positioning let him cut out Team A’s passes again and again, breaking up their attacks before they could develop.
Between Leo’s well-timed interceptions and Andy King’s tireless running, Team A couldn’t play through the middle.
They were forced wide, trying to create chances from the flanks.
The results were mediocre.
On Leicester’s left, Team A had thirty-one-year-old veteran Lloyd Dyer.
Once one of the fastest in the squad, with a decent long-range strike on him.
But past thirty, his pace had dropped off hard.
His ability to beat a man had fallen with it.
Most of the time, he couldn’t get past his marker and had to check back and recycle.
On the right, Anthony Knockaert was in his early twenties.
Not particularly quick, but he had a full tank and tidy close control.
He won his one-on-one battles with Team B’s left back repeatedly and whipped in several dangerous crosses.
Clang.
David Nugent, only five foot ten but built like a tank, rose and met one.
His header smashed off the crossbar.
Ten minutes in.
Team A’s best chance yet.
The keeper restarted play.
A few passes later, the ball found Leo’s feet.
The moment he received it, Pearson’s voice cut across the pitch.
“Press him!” “Don’t let him pick his head up!” Steve Walsh frowned beside him.
“Nigel, what are you doing?” Pearson didn’t turn.
“This is a first-team scrimmage.
Championship matches, Premier League matches, they’re only going to be faster and more intense.
I want to see if he can still deliver those passes when the pressure’s on.” Walsh opened his mouth, then let it go.
He just looked out at Leo and silently urged him on.
Come on, kid.
Show them what you’ve got.
Leo did not let them down.
Every time a teammate fed him the ball, he released it instantly.
No chance for the opponent to close him down.
He knew exactly how poor his physicality in duels was right now.
The best choice was simple.
Don’t duel.
Through one-touch passing and constant movement into space, Leo adjusted to the first team’s tempo while calmly conducting Team B’s attack.
God’s Eye View gave him total command of the pitch.
He could always find the pocket, receive, and then play a quick one-two or a sharp pass to slip free of pressure.
Whether dropping deep to collect in his own half or linking play in tight areas up front, Leo showed a maturity well beyond his years.
Every pass he made was rational.
And every pass had penetration.
Watching Leo operate a level above everyone else, the same images rose unbidden in the minds of both Pearson and Walsh on the touchline.
Barcelona’s number six.
Juventus’s number twenty-one.
Real Madrid’s number fourteen.
The silhouettes of those midfield maestros began to overlap with the kid in the middle of their training pitch.
A player who could deliver killer passes and control the rhythm of a match from the heart of midfield.
With someone like that in the side, the attack would never be a problem.
Pearson’s brow furrowed.
He turned to his assistant, voice dead serious.
“Steve.
We might need to prepare another tactical system.”