Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

My Boy... a draw is a draw. Here, we only celebrate victories... Call me.

A year ago, a message like that from a man of Briatore's stature would have sent him into a spiral of anxiety. But now, with a Scudetto, a Coppa Italia, and two reality-bending wonder-goals under his belt, his reaction was different. He didn't feel fear. He felt a profound, almost comical sense of annoyance.

He looked at the message, at the imperious "Call me," and a slow, defiant grin spread across his face. He put his phone back in his pocket, took a deep breath of the fresh, salty air, and continued his walk. The king of Milan could wait. The prince of Liverpool was enjoying his day off.

He came home to find his mother in a state of high culinary alert.

"The circus is over," she announced, pointing a wooden spoon at him as he walked in. "The big, loud football match is finished. Now, it is time for peace. And for pasta."

"I thought we had pasta yesterday," Leon said, laughing as he dodged the spoon.

"Yesterday's pasta is history," she replied with the unshakeable authority of a four-star general. "Today's pasta is the future."

As they ate, a simple, perfect, and profoundly peaceful meal, she could see the last vestiges of the match's tension still clinging to him. "You still have the look of a man who has been in a fight," she said softly.

"It was a big fight, Mom," he admitted.

"This new boss of your old team," she said, her eyes sharp and perceptive. "The one with the sunglasses and the very important boats. He is a part of this fight?"

Leon just nodded, surprised by her insight.

"Leo," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "You cannot control the circus. But you do not have to be the clown. You have made your choice. You are here. This is your home. The rest," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand, "is just noise from another town."

Her words were a simple, beautiful truth that cut through all the complex, high-stakes noise in his head. She was right. He smiled, a genuine, relaxed smile for the first time since the final whistle. "Thanks, Mom."

The dressing room at the AXA Training Centre a few days later was a place of quiet, simmering pride. The 3-3 draw against City had been a statement. They had looked into the abyss and hadn't flinched. Now, it was time for the next challenge: a trip to Burnley, a team with a reputation for a physical, no-nonsense, and deeply uncomfortable style of football.

"So," Julián Álvarez began, his voice filled with the tone of a man who has just spent three days researching a very important topic. He was addressing a captive audience of Trent Alexander-Arnold, Andy Robertson, and a very confused-looking Hugo Ekitike. "I have studied the tapes. And I have a theory about Burnley. They do not play football. They play 'anti-football'. Their goal is not to win, but to make sure the concept of football itself has a very bad day."

"What are you on about, you madman?" Robertson grumbled, a grin on his face.

"It is simple," Julián explained, his hands gesturing wildly. "Their main tactic is 'aggressive boredom'. They will kick the ball very high. They will run very hard. They will make tackles that are less like tackles and more like small, localized car crashes. Our beautiful, flowing, tiki-taka football is like a delicate sports car. They are a tactical tractor. We cannot race a tractor. We must be smarter."

"So your plan is what?" Trent asked, playing along. "We just pass the ball around them until they fall asleep?"

"Exactly!" Julián said, his eyes shining with a brilliant, insane light. "We will defeat them with the power of 'prolonged, tactical ennui'!"

The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Arne Slot. He walked into the center of the room, a calm, focused smile on his face. "I see our head philosopher has already prepared the tactical briefing," he said, a nod to a beaming Julián. "He is not entirely wrong."

The room quieted.

"Burnley will be a fight," Slot began, his voice a steady, authoritative hum. "They will be physical. They will be direct. They will try to drag us into a street fight." He looked around at his team of world-class superstars. "And we are not street fighters. We are artists. A street fighter wants a brawl. He wants chaos. An artist wants a canvas. They want a fight," he said, a slow, confident smile spreading across his face. "We will give them a waltz. We will pass. We will move. We will make them dizzy. We will make them chase ghosts. We will win with our brains, not our bruises. Now go and show them how it's done."

The speech was a perfect, inspiring, and slightly terrifying work of art. The players were fired up, a new, intelligent fire in their eyes. Leon felt a profound sense of peace. This was his team. This was his coach. This was his home.

That night, as he was in his room, going over some final tactical notes on his tablet, his phone, which had been silent for days, began to ring. It was an unknown Italian number. His heart skipped a beat. He's calling.

He took a deep breath, the 'Unshakeable Heart' bracelet a cool, steadying presence on his wrist, and he answered.

"Leon," a voice that was pure, expensive silk and cold, hard steel said on the other end of the line. It was Flavio Briatore.

"Mr. Briatore," Leon said, his voice calm and professional.

"The Golden Goose of Liverpool!" Briatore's voice boomed with a false, theatrical warmth. "I saw your little draw. Very... dramatic. But a point is a point. Here in Milan," he said, the warmth instantly vanishing, replaced by a cold, dismissive tone, "we prefer three."

"I'm very happy in Liverpool, sir," Leon said, getting straight to the point.

"Happy?" Briatore scoffed, as if the word was a strange, peasant concept. "Happiness is for children. We are in the business of glory. And of making deals." He paused, a dramatic, calculated silence. "I have been speaking with your friend's club. The blue side of Manchester. They are... reluctant to part with your little German friend, Byon."

"He's not for sale," Leon said simply.

"Everything is for sale, my boy," Briatore chuckled, a low, dangerous sound. "It is just a matter of finding the right price. And I have found it. I have made them an offer they cannot, and will not, refuse. A gift. To them, and to you."

A cold, sick feeling of dread began to creep up Leon's spine. "What are you talking about?"

"I am talking about unfinished business," Briatore said, his voice a triumphant, almost gleeful, whisper. "I am talking about bringing your best friend home to you. I am officially proposing a trade. Your Byon... for Inter's new vice-captain."