Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

The four-point lead, which had once felt like a vast, comfortable ocean, now felt like a shallow, treacherous puddle.

This was the mood as the players gathered for their first training session after the disastrous draw.

The usual pre-training banter was gone, replaced by a tense, somber silence.

They were a team that had tasted complacency and found it to be a bitter poison.

Coach Cristian Chivu stood before them, his face carved from stone.

"Two matches," he began, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that commanded the absolute attention of every player.

"That is our season. Everything we have fought for, every comeback, every drop of sweat, comes down to one hundred and eighty minutes of football."

He looked around the room, his eyes lingering on each player. "First, Sassuolo. A good team. A tricky team. A team with nothing to lose and a desire to make a name for themselves by taking down the league leaders. And," he said, his gaze sharpening, "a team with a player who knows us. Stefano Sensi. He is on loan from us, and he will be playing with a fire in his belly, desperate to prove a point. We do not underestimate him. We do not give him an inch."

A murmur went through the squad. They all knew Sensi, a talented but injury-prone midfielder.

The thought of him coming back to haunt them was an unwelcome one.

"And if we get through that," Chivu continued, his voice dropping even lower, "our final match is away. Against Lazio. In their stadium. A team that hates us, in a city that will be baying for our blood. It will be a war. It will be the hardest ninety minutes of your lives."

He paused, letting the immense weight of their task settle on their shoulders.

"The time for pretty football is over," he declared, his voice a final, unshakeable command.

"The time for 'Olé!' passes is over. From now on, we are not entertainers. We are soldiers. We fight for every ball. We win our duels. We bleed for the three points. We will be disciplined, we will be focused, and we will be ruthless. We will win these two matches, and we will lift that Scudetto. There is no other option. Now, to the gym. Let's work."

The gym was a symphony of clanking weights and whirring machines, the sounds of a team trying to sweat out its demons.

Lautaro Martínez was on the bench press, a mountain of weight on the bar, his face a mask of pure, focused rage as he pushed out another rep.

Nicolò Barella was on the treadmill, running at a speed that seemed almost impossible, a man trying to outrun his own red card from the cup final.

But even in this temple of seriousness, the spirit of the team was impossible to completely suppress. Julián Álvarez, who was doing some light core work, paused and looked over at Cole Palmer, who was methodically going through a series of stretches.

"Cole," Julián said, his voice completely serious.

"If a muscle gets sore, is it angry at you for using it, or is it proud that it helped you become stronger?"

Palmer, without missing a stretch, replied in his deadpan English accent. "In England, we just call it 'sore.' Saves a lot of time on awkward conversations with your own biceps."

A few players nearby who overheard the exchange snorted with laughter, a brief, welcome release from the tension.

After the gym, they headed to the showers and the locker room, the mood lighter, the camaraderie returning.

They were a team that had been through the fire together, and they knew, deep down, that they could rely on each other.

"Okay, I'm just going to say it," Federico Dimarco announced as he was getting dressed.

"I am officially scared of Lazio. Their fans are... intense."

"Scared?" Bastoni scoffed, a new, hard-won confidence in his voice. "After the final we just played? After coming back against Juve? We're not scared of anyone. Let them be intense. We'll be better."

The team murmured in agreement. The confidence was returning, forged not in arrogance, but in the shared experience of overcoming adversity.

As Leon was walking to his car, feeling the familiar, pleasant ache of a hard day's work, he saw a figure leaning against the far wall of the car park.

A figure that made his heart do a little happy, nervous jump. It was Sofia.

"Hey, footballer," she said, a warm, easy smile on her face as he approached.

"I was in the neighborhood. Thought you might need a non-tactical debrief after a tough day at the office."

He couldn't help but grin. "It's a good thing you weren't in the neighborhood an hour ago. You would have heard your dad screaming so loud it probably registered on the Richter scale."

"Sounds about right," she laughed.

"So, how are the mighty champions-elect holding up after their little slip-up?"

"We're... focused," he said. "We know what we have to do."

He looked at her, at her bright, intelligent eyes, and felt the weight of the Scudetto race, of the Liverpool offer, of everything, just melt away.

"You know what? I'm starving. And I am tired of talking about football. Can I take you to my mom's place? She's making lasagna."

Sofia's eyes lit up. "The famous victory lasagna? The one made with the secret ingredient?"

"The very same," he confirmed with a mock-serious expression.

"Then lead the way," she said, linking her arm through his. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

The scene at the apartment was one of beautiful, chaotic joy. The moment Elena saw her son walk in with a beautiful girl, she let out a little shriek of delight and immediately went into full-blown Italian-mother mode.

"Sofia! Benvenuta! Welcome! You are even prettier than Leon said!" she exclaimed, pulling Sofia into a warm, flour-dusted hug before a flustered Leon could even make the proper introductions.

"Come in, come in! You are too thin! Sit! Eat!"

Sofia, to her credit, handled the whirlwind of hospitality with a grace and charm that left Leon in awe.

She laughed at Elena's jokes, complimented her on the smell of the lasagna, and listened with rapt attention as Elena recounted embarrassing stories from Leon's childhood.

"Did he tell you about the time he tried to pay the ice cream man with a very rare and valuable leaf he found?" Elena asked, her eyes twinkling.

"Mom!" Leon groaned, his face bright red.

"He was a very serious businessman, even at seven," Elena continued, patting Sofia's hand.

They sat down to eat, the lasagna every bit as delicious as advertised.

As they were finishing up, Elena looked at Sofia, a warm, genuine smile on her face.

"You know," she said, "it is so nice to see Leon with someone who makes him smile like this. With all the football, sometimes I worry he forgets to just be... happy." She then turned to Leon. "She is a keeper, this one. Just like that nice Swiss boy who plays in your goal."

Leon and Sofia just looked at each other and burst out laughing.

As Sofia was getting ready to leave, Elena pulled Leon aside for a moment.

"So," she whispered conspiratorially. "Her father. Does he know about my little champion?"

Leon just smiled.

"Yeah, Mom," he said quietly. "He knows."

He walked Sofia to the door, a comfortable, happy silence between them.

"Your mom is amazing," Sofia said, turning to him.

"She's my biggest fan," he agreed.

As he stood there, watching her walk down the hallway, the feeling of pure, uncomplicated happiness was so strong it was almost overwhelming.

He closed his door, leaned against it, and let out a long, contented sigh. His life was a crazy, beautiful, wonderful mess.

He went to his room, his mind clear, his heart full. He had a title to win. He had a family that loved him. He had a girl who made him feel like the luckiest man on the planet.

He picked up his phone, intending to set his alarm for the next day's training.

But as he did, an alert popped up on his screen.

It was a news notification from the biggest sports publication in Spain.

He almost dismissed it, but the headline caught his eye, a single, shocking sentence that made the blood in his veins run cold.

[BREAKING: FC Barcelona agrees in principle to a world-record transfer fee with Paris Saint-Germain for the sale of Lamine Yamal.]