Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

The next forty-eight hours were a dizzying, exhilarating blur.

The medical was a series of prods, pokes, and strenuous tests on a treadmill.

The paperwork was a mountain of contracts and clauses that made Leon's head spin.

But finally, it was done. He was officially a Liverpool player.

And then came the real chaos: Media Day.

Leon stood in a brightly lit studio at the AXA Training Centre, Liverpool's state-of-the-art facility.

He was wearing the iconic red home kit for the first time, the Liver bird crest sitting proudly over his heart. It felt... surreal. He had grown up watching legends wear this shirt, and now it was his.

A club official, a kind, bustling woman named Claire, walked in holding a freshly pressed jersey, his name emblazoned across the back in brilliant white.

"Here we are, Leon," she said with a warm smile.

"Your new number. Ready for the big reveal?"

Leon grinned, a thrill of anticipation running through him.

He expected a classic attacker's number—maybe 7, or 11. Instead, she turned the shirt around.

The number was 30.

He must have looked confused, because Claire laughed.

"Sorry, Mo Salah is a bit attached to the number 10, and our other big numbers are taken by some very senior players. We thought you could start a new legacy."

Leon looked at the number, and a slow, genuine smile spread across his face.

"No," he said, his voice soft. "It's perfect." He thought of the date of his mother's birthday, the 30th of May. A quiet, personal tribute in a world of global superstardom. "It's absolutely perfect."

He walked out of the dressing room and onto the training pitch for the first time, the perfectly manicured grass feeling like a sacred carpet under his boots.

The English air was cool and crisp. This was his new home.

He was met by a mountain of a man with a calm, authoritative aura and a warm, welcoming smile. Virgil van Dijk, the captain.

"Leon," the Dutchman said, his handshake firm and strong.

"Welcome to the club. We expect big things from you. Work hard, and you will fit in just fine."

"Thank you, Captain," Leon said, feeling like a new kid on the first day of school.

Then, a flash of red. Mohamed Salah, a living legend, jogged over, a wide, friendly grin on his face. "The magician from Milan!" he said, his voice full of energy.

"It is good to have you. I have seen your goals. Now, we make some more together, yes?"

"I'd like that a lot," Leon said, shaking the hand of a player he had idolized for years.

A third figure approached, a look of pure, unadulterated mischief in his eyes. It was Trent Alexander-Arnold.

"So," the fullback said, a classic Scouse lilt in his voice. "You're the one who's been trying to steal my free-kick technique."

Leon burst out laughing, the last of his nerves melting away.

"Still working on it," he admitted. "My knuckleball has a nasty habit of attacking the car park. I think I almost took out the club nutritionist's car back in Milan."

Trent howled with laughter. "Good lad. As long as you don't hit my car, we'll get along just fine."

The rest of the morning was a whirlwind of flashing cameras and shouted instructions.

"Leon, to your left! Big smile!"

"Now hold the scarf above your head! Yes, brilliant!"

"Okay, now look serious! Look like you're about to win the league!"

"Now point to the badge! Show them you love the badge!"

He felt a little ridiculous, a performing seal in a football kit, but he did it all with a smile. This was part of the dream.

In the middle of the chaos, Arne Slot appeared, a calm, reassuring presence. He put a hand on Leon's shoulder.

"See?" he said, his voice a low, friendly hum.

"Not so bad. Forget the cameras, forget the numbers on the contract. The only thing that matters is what happens on that grass." He gestured out towards the empty training pitch.

"You, Mo, Isak... it is going to be beautiful to watch. I am very glad you are here, Leon."

"I'm glad to be here, Coach," Leon said, and he meant it.

The final act of the day was the grand unveiling: the official press conference.

The room was packed to the rafters with journalists from all over the world, the constant clicking of cameras a sound like a swarm of mechanical insects. Leon sat at a long table, a row of microphones in front of him, with Arne Slot to his right.

The first few questions were softballs.

"Leon, how does it feel to be a Liverpool player?"

"It's a dream come true," he said, giving the classic, honest answer.

"This is one of the biggest clubs in the world. I can't wait to get started."

"The Premier League is a big step up. Are you ready for the physicality?"

"I'm ready for the challenge. I'm here to learn, to work hard, and to help the team win trophies."

Then, the inevitable question about the money. "Leon, this is a world-record transfer for a player of your age. Does that immense price tag add any pressure?"

He had prepared for this one. "The price tag is between the clubs," he said smoothly. "It has nothing to do with me. My job is to play football. I don't think about the numbers."

He was handling it well. The questions were predictable, the answers easy.

He was starting to relax.

But then, a journalist in the front row, a sharp-looking Italian man with a notebook and a predatory glint in his eye, raised his hand. Leon recognized him from the Gazzetta dello Sport.

"A question for both of you," the journalist said, his voice cutting through the room's buzz. "There are persistent rumors in Milan that this was not a straightforward transfer. That Inter's new president, Flavio Briatore, insisted on a highly unusual and specific condition in the contract. A 'Briatore Clause', they are calling it. Can either of you confirm what this clause entails, specifically in relation to any future Champions League matches between Liverpool and Inter Milan?"

A complete, dead silence fell over the room. Leon froze.

The clause. The final, nagging, unanswered question. He had no idea what it was. He was completely blindsided. H

e looked at Arne Slot, a desperate, silent plea for help in his eyes.

The manager's calm, friendly smile tightened ever so slightly at the edges. He leaned forward, towards the microphone, his expression completely unreadable.

"That," Arne Slot said, his voice a cool, even, and utterly unhelpful wave of Dutch calm, "is a very interesting question."