Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

The news of Cristian Chivu's sacking was a bomb that had detonated in the quiet, orderly world of professional football, and the shockwaves were still being felt a day later. For Leon, it was a strange, unsettling feeling. He had spent the last year of his life in a tactical chess match with the man, and suddenly, one of the grandmasters had been unceremoniously knocked off the board.

His first thought, his only thought, was of Sofia.

He called her that morning, his heart a knot of anxious concern.

"Hey," he said softly when she answered, her voice sounding tired. "I saw the news. I'm... I'm so sorry. How are you? How's your dad?"

He heard her let out a long, weary sigh on the other end of the line. "He's... okay," she said, though her voice wavered slightly. "He's a fighter. You know that. He's pretending he's fine, analyzing where it all went wrong, treating it like a match he just lost. But my mom is worried. He hasn't slept." She paused. "It's just... the way they did it. So cold. So fast. One minute you're the king of Madrid, the next you're a headline."

"He's one of the best managers in the world," Leon said, a fierce, protective loyalty in his voice. "He'll have a hundred offers by the end of the week."

"I know," she said, and he could hear a small smile return to her voice. "Thanks, Leon. It means a lot to hear you say that, especially after... well, you know."

"We were rivals," he said simply. "We were never enemies."

"I have to go," she said, her voice a little brighter now. "I'm helping my mom pack up their house in Madrid. It's a whole mess. But... I'll call you tonight?"

"Call me anytime," he said. "For anything."

He hung up the phone, a strange mixture of sadness for his old coach and a profound, selfish relief that Sofia was okay. He walked into the Liverpool training ground, the news a heavy cloud that seemed to follow him.

The locker room, usually a place of booming music and terrible jokes, was abuzz with the biggest story in their world.

"Sacked! Just like that!" Andy Robertson was saying to a thoughtful-looking Virgil van Dijk. "Brutal. Absolutely brutal. I don't care if he's the enemy's gaffer, you don't like to see that."

"He is a top manager," van Dijk said, his captain's voice a low rumble of respect. "But Real Madrid is a different kind of beast. The pressure there... it is not normal. He will be back, at another big club, very soon."

Mo Salah, who had seen it all in his long and storied career, just shook his head. "This is the business," he said with a pragmatic shrug. "One day you are a king, the next you are a memory. It is the life we choose."

Then, from the corner of the room, the voice of the team's resident philosopher cut through the serious analysis. "Okay, new question," Julián Álvarez said, a look of deep, profound concentration on his face. He was holding up a roll of athletic tape. "If a manager gets sacked, does his tactical board also get fired? Or does it get a holiday? And does it dream of little x's and o's on a beach in the off-season?"

The room fell silent for a second, a collective processing of the sheer, beautiful absurdity of the question. Then, it erupted. A wave of cathartic, hysterical laughter that washed away all the tension.

"Julián," Robertson roared, wiping a tear from his eye. "You are a gift to this sport. An absolute, confusing, beautiful gift."

The laughter was a perfect, defiant statement. The world outside could be a chaotic, ruthless mess. But in here, they were a family. They were Liverpool. And they had a job to do.

Arne Slot let the laughter die down before he stepped into the center of the room. "Alright, you madmen," he said, a rare, wide grin on his face. "As much as I would love to discuss the holiday plans of our opponent's tactical equipment, we have a match to prepare for." The room instantly snapped into focus. "Next up, our rivals. Manchester United. At Old Trafford. It does not get bigger, or uglier, than this."

He looked around the room, his eyes burning with a familiar, intelligent fire. "They are a different team this season. They are organized. They are confident. And they have a new weapon." He tapped his tablet, and the face of their former teammate, Cole Palmer, appeared on the screen. "Do not treat him as a friend. On that pitch, he is the enemy. A very clever, very dangerous enemy who knows how we play. We give him no space. We give him no respect. We make his return to the North-West a nightmare. Clear?"

A chorus of "Yes, gaffer!" filled the room. The mission was clear. The enemy was defined. The battle lines were drawn.

That night, Leon was in his living room, a textbook on English for beginners open on his lap (a "gift" from his mother, who was convinced he was going to accidentally order a car instead of a coffee one day). He was about to call it a night when his phone rang. It was Sofia.

"Hey, you," he said, a warm smile spreading across his face.

"Hey, yourself," her voice came through, tired but happy. "We're almost done here. It's been a long day."

"You sound better," he said.

"I am," she replied. "My dad is already on the phone with his agent. He's treating this like a transfer window. He's already analyzing the tactical weaknesses of his next potential job."

They laughed, a comfortable, easy sound. They talked for a while, about her day of packing, about his day of training, about Julián's tactical-board-on-a-beach theory.

"So," she said finally, a playful, teasing tone in her voice. "Big game for you next week, huh? Manchester United. My dad always said that was one of the few stadiums in the world that could be as loud and as crazy as the ones in Italy."

"It's a big one," he agreed. "They've got a good team this year. And they've got my old teammate, Palmer."

"Yeah, I saw that," she said. "And they've got that striker, Rashford. He's pretty good, right? I think I remember my dad being worried about him in a Champions League match once." She paused. "Actually, now that I think about it, I think I used to have a poster of him on my wall when I was a teenager. My dad was not happy about that."

Leon chuckled. "Well, don't tell your dad, but he's a fantastic player. Fast, skillful..."

He was in the middle of his sentence when a notification popped up on Sofia's end of the video call. She glanced down at it, a small, almost imperceptible smile touching her lips.

"Speak of the devil," she murmured, almost to herself.

"What was that?" Leon asked.

"Oh, nothing," she said, her smile widening slightly. "Just... an old friend saying hi." She angled her phone screen towards the camera for a fraction of a second, a playful, mischievous glint in her eye.

Leon's blood ran cold. The notification on her screen wasn't a text. It was a "Facelook" message request. And the profile picture was a slick, professional headshot of a smiling, confident, and very famous Manchester United superstar. Below the picture was the name: Marcus Rashford. And next to the name, a single, tiny, and utterly devastating symbol: a red heart emoji.