Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

The look on Leon's face was one of pure, manic, tactical ecstasy.

Sofia watched, a look of profound amusement on her face, as Leon arranged the restaurant's tableware into a miniature football pitch.

"Okay, so look," he said, his voice a low, excited whisper.

He pointed a breadstick at a sugar packet dispenser he'd placed in the middle. "This is the Torino back three. The 'Triangle'. It's strong, it's organized, it moves together. My dad—I mean, your dad—I mean, the Coach," he stammered, his cheeks flushing slightly, "is trying to attack it from the wings, or go through the middle. He's trying to punch the wall."

"Right," Sofia said, taking a slow, deliberate sip of her water, trying to follow along. "Punching the wall. Got it."

"But that's the mistake!" Leon continued, tapping the sugar dispenser with his breadstick for emphasis. "You don't punch the wall. You invite the wall to come to you." He grabbed a salt shaker. "This is me, the False 9. I don't stay high. I drop deep, into the midfield. One of the triangle guys, one of the sugar packets, has to follow me, right? He has to."

He dramatically dragged one of the sugar packets away from the other two. "And when he does... boom." He pointed to the gap he'd just created. "The wall is broken. Then," he grabbed the pepper shaker and a spare olive, "Palmer and Lautaro, they don't run wide. They run inside, into the space the sugar packet just left. It's a simple overload. It's not about power. It's about misdirection." He sat back, a triumphant, breathless grin on his face, as if he had just solved the mysteries of the universe.

Sofia looked at the chaotic mess of shakers, packets, and olives on the table.

She looked at Leon's wild, passionate expression.

And she laughed, a bright, happy sound that made him feel ten feet tall.

"Okay, I think I get about half of that," she said, her eyes sparkling. "It sounds incredibly clever. But... isn't that my dad's job to worry about? Figuring out how to beat the sugar packets?" She reached across the table and gently tapped his hand.

"You should just focus on playing. You're pretty good at that part."

Her words were like a cool, calming breeze on the fire of his tactical obsession.

She was right. He was a player.

He had to trust his coach. He smiled, a genuine, relaxed smile this time. "You're right. No more tactical analysis with condiments. I promise."

They said their goodbyes outside the bistro, the afternoon sun casting long, warm shadows.

The date had been perfect. Easy, funny, and surprisingly profound.

"I had a really great time today, Sofia," he said, his voice sincere.

"Me too, Leon," she replied, her smile making his heart do a little flip. "Even if you did nearly start a food fight with the sugar packets."

As she was about to turn and leave, his phone, which had been blissfully silent all afternoon, began to ring.

He pulled it out of his pocket, expecting it to be one of his teammates with a ridiculous question. But it wasn't.

The screen displayed an unknown number, but the country code was unmistakable: +34. Spain.

Leon froze. The easy, happy bubble of his afternoon popped, replaced by a jolt of cold, complicated reality. Real Madrid.

The scout. The dream that had always been a distant, hazy star on the horizon was now a ringing, insistent presence in his pocket.

Sofia noticed the change in his expression instantly. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," he said, his voice a little tight as he silenced the call, not declining it, but not answering either. "It's nothing. Probably just a wrong number."

He knew it was a lie. Wrong numbers didn't make your stomach clench like that.

He knew he should answer it, that this was a huge, career-defining moment

. But he couldn't. Not now. Not after this perfect afternoon. He didn't want to be 'Leondona', the global superstar, right now.

He just wanted to be Leon, the guy with the crazy white hair who had just had a great date.

The moment was broken, the easy atmosphere replaced by a slightly awkward tension.

"I should probably get going," he said, a little too quickly. "Big training session tomorrow."

"Of course," she said, her smile a little more reserved now. "Match day."

He walked her to her bus stop, the silence filled with unspoken things.

He got in his car, the unanswered call feeling like a physical weight in his pocket, and drove home, his mind a confusing swirl of happiness, ambition, and a strange, new kind of anxiety.

He let himself into the apartment, the day's events replaying in his head. His mother was in the kitchen, humming as she packed away some leftovers.

"You're back!" she said cheerfully. "How was the pretty art student?"

"She's great, Mom," he said, forcing a smile.

His mother, with her superpower of seeing straight through his soul, just raised an eyebrow. "You look like you've seen a ghost. A Spanish ghost, maybe?" she teased, having noticed the country code on his phone when he was showing her pictures earlier.

"It was nothing," he said, trying to sound casual. "Just tired."

He went to his room, the weight of the day finally crashing down on him. He felt an overwhelming need to just... shut it all down.

The tactics, the phone calls, the future.

He fell into bed without even changing and was asleep in minutes.

The next morning, he woke up feeling refreshed, the mental fog of the previous day completely gone. The sleep had worked its magic, resetting his brain.

He walked into the kitchen to find his mother making coffee, the rich aroma filling the apartment.

"There's my champion," she said, handing him a cup. "You look much better. Less like you are being haunted by the ghost of a tapas bar."

He laughed, a real, genuine laugh this time. "Thanks, Mom. I just needed some sleep."

"And maybe some breakfast," she said, pushing a plate of fresh cornetti towards him. "You have a big day. You must be strong for your team."

They ate together, laughing and talking, the easy, comfortable routine a perfect start to the day. He felt grounded. He felt focused.

The phone call from Spain was a problem for another day. Today was match day. Today was about Torino. Today was about taking one more step towards the Scudetto.

He finished his coffee, gave his mom a hug, and grabbed his car keys. A

s he walked out the door, he felt a familiar, powerful sense of purpose.

He knew exactly what he had to do. He had a fortress to break down. He had a title to win.

And he had a very good reason to get back to Milan as quickly as possible after the match.

He got in his car, the engine humming to life, a determined smile on his face.

The road ahead was clear.