As Leon reached the gates of the Hotspur Way Training Ground, he realized Alex hadn't been exaggerating. Usually, there were a couple of dedicated fans and maybe one photographer waiting for a quick snap of the players arriving. Today, it looked like a red-carpet premiere. At least twenty photographers and a dozen reporters with microphones were crowded around the entrance, held back only by the heavy iron gates and a very stressed-looking security team.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Leon muttered, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. The moment his car was spotted, the flashing of bulbs became a strobe light. As the gates slowly groaned open, the reporters surged forward, their voices muffled by the glass but their intent clear.
"Leon! Over here! Are you and Amaya Starling official?"
"Is she the reason you're recovering so fast, Leon?"
"Did Landon Asher introduce you two?"
"Leon, one word on the 'Queen of London'!"
Leon kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, his jaw set. He didn't lower the window. He didn't acknowledge them. He just drove through the gap as security pushed the crowd back. Once inside the sanctuary of the facility, he parked in his designated spot and let out a long, frustrated breath. He grabbed his crutches from the passenger seat and swung himself out of the car. The quiet of the training ground was a stark contrast to the madness at the gate.
"The 'Queen of London,' huh?" he whispered to himself, hobbling toward the medical wing.
The Medical Wing
Inside, the atmosphere was strictly business. The smell of deep-heat rub and disinfectant filled the air. Dr. Aris, the head of sports science, was already waiting for him next to a high-tech resistance pool.
"Morning, Leon," Aris said, looking up from his tablet. "I saw the circus at the front gate. I assume you aren't here to discuss your music career?"
"I'm here to get back on the pitch, Doc," Leon said firmly, sitting on the edge of the treatment table. "How's the scan looking?"
"The inflammation has gone down significantly. Your body heals at a rate that honestly defies the data we have on nineteen-year-olds," Aris admitted, tapping the screen. "But today is the real test. We're moving from passive recovery to accelerated load testing. If your knee holds up under the water-resistance drills today, I'll clear you for light ball work tomorrow."
Leon's eyes lit up. "Let's get to it then."
The session was grueling. For two hours, Leon worked in the pool, performing high-intensity movements while the water took the weight off his joints. Every time his knee twinged, he thought of the comments Alex mentioned,the people saying the Phoenix only had one wing. He thought of Pele telling him to "get hungry."
And, despite himself, he thought of Maya. He wondered if she was currently dealing with the same swarm of reporters, or if she was used to this kind of chaos. As he finished his final set of lateral jumps in the water, Coach John walked into the gym area, his arms crossed over his chest. He watched Leon for a moment before speaking.
"You're working hard, Blake. Good. Because after that media storm outside, you'd better be twice as good on the pitch to make them talk about your feet instead of your dating life."
Leon wiped the sweat and water from his face. "They can talk all they want, Coach. I'll be ready for next weekend."
"See that you are," John said, though a small, proud glint was visible in his eyes. "By the way... you have a visitor in the lobby. She didn't come through the front gate. Apparently, she knows how to use the 'VIP' back entrance."
Leon's heart skipped a beat. "Is it...?"
"Go see for yourself," John grumbled, turning to leave. "Ten minutes. Then you're back on the ice bath."
Leon grabbed a heavy towel, draping it over his broad shoulders to catch the water dripping from his dreadlocks. The damp twists felt heavy against his neck as he hobbled toward the lobby, his crutches clicking rhythmically against the polished floor. Standing near the glass display cases filled with Spurs memorabilia was a woman who looked vastly different from the frantic reporters outside. She was dressed in a sharp, professional trench coat, holding a small, elegantly wrapped bag. She looked perfectly calm, as if the security guards and the high-performance atmosphere didn't faze her at all.
"You aren't Amaya," Leon said, coming to a stop. He reached up, shaking his head slightly to clear some of the water from his hair, the damp dreadlocks swaying with the movement.
The woman turned and offered a polite, knowing smile. "No, I am not. I'm Mariah. I work for AMaya, or maya , as you now know her."
Leon let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, leaning his weight onto his crutches. "Right. The 'Queen of London.' Alex gave me a very loud history lesson this morning."
Mariah chuckled softly, her eyes briefly taking in the sight of the young athlete half soaked, recovering, but still radiating a quiet intensity. "She figured as much. She's actually quite mortified, Leon. She sent me here to personally apologize for the... let's call it the 'circus' at your front gates. She knows how much your recovery means to you, and the last thing she wanted was to turn your workplace into a tabloid set."
"It's not her fault," Leon replied, the water from his hair dampening the towel on his shoulders. "I'm the one who sat in the VIP box with a superstar without realizing it."
"She appreciates that. But in Maya's world, everything is a headline," Mariah said, stepping forward to hand him the bag. "She wanted you to have this. It's a specialized recovery kit from a therapist she uses for her dancers,it has some high-grade herbal anti-inflammatories and a note. She said to tell you that the next time she wants to talk football, she'll make sure it's somewhere the cameras can't follow."
Leon took the bag, feeling the weight of it. "Tell her... tell her thanks. And that she doesn't need to apologize. I've dealt with tough defenders; I can deal with a few photographers."
Mariah's eyes twinkled with amusement. "You have a lot of heart, Leon Blake. Maya was right about you. Just a word of advice: the paparazzi won't go away just because you ignore them. They'll keep pressing until they get a result."
She checked her watch, then nodded toward the gym. "I should let you get back to your ice bath. Wouldn't want Coach John coming after me next. He looked like he was ready to tackle someone."
"He usually is," Leon admitted with a grin.
As Mariah turned to leave through the private side exit, Leon looked down at the bag. He realized that the "simple fan" he'd met in the stands was quickly becoming a permanent fixture in his life,whether the media was watching or not.
Leon retreated to the quiet of the locker room, the heavy steam from the nearby showers lingering in the air. He sat on the wooden bench, his dreadlocks still damp, occasionally dripping beads of water onto his gray Spurs training top. He set his crutches aside and pulled the elegantly wrapped bag onto his lap. Inside, he found several jars of high-end, organic balms and a sleek, silver-labeled bottle of recovery oil. But tucked beneath the jars was a heavy, cream-colored envelope. Leon opened it, revealing a note written in elegant, confident script.
Dear Leo,
I'm truly sorry about the noise outside. Being a star has its price, but I never intended for you to pay it while you're trying to heal.
The blue jar is magic for inflammation, my lead dancers swear by it. It'll have you back to your "classy" self in no time.
Since you're so determined to be back by next week, here's a challenge:
If you make it onto the pitch for the next match and manage to score a brace with actual finesse, not just Alex's raw power,I'll take you to the one place in London where the paparazzi are strictly forbidden.
Consider it a victory lap.
Don't keep me waiting, Leo.
Maya
(P.S. This is my private number. Use it only if you're planning on winning.)
Below the signature was a ten-digit number. Leon stared at the paper for a long moment, a slow, determined smile spreading across his face. He wasn't just recovering for the fans or the league anymore; now, there was a personal stake on the line.
"What's that?"
Leon jumped slightly as Alex strolled in, his jersey soaked with sweat from the morning's tactical drill. He leaned over, trying to catch a glimpse of the note. "Is that from the 'Queen'? Did she send you a royal decree?"
Leon quickly folded the note and tucked it into his gym bag. "It's a recovery kit, Alex. Something to help with the swelling."
"Yeah, right. And I'm a world-class ballerina," Alex snickered, grabbing a water bottle. "You've got that look on your face. The 'I'm-about-to-do-something-crazy' look. What did she say?"
Leon stood up, grabbing his crutches and feeling a fresh surge of energy. The dull ache in his knee suddenly felt like a minor hurdle rather than a wall.
"She gave me a challenge," Leon said, his eyes locking onto the tactical board at the end of the room. "And you're going to help me win it. We're doing extra shooting drills as soon as the Doc clears me for ball work."
Alex grinned, clapping Leon on the back. "Now that's the Leon I know. Let's get you back on that pitch, Romeo. We've got a game to win
A week later*
The floodlights of the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium sliced through the thin London mist, illuminating the pitch like a stage set for a drama. The roar of the crowd was a physical weight, a wall of white noise that surged as the cameras panned across the emerald turf.
M.D:
"Welcome everyone to a night that feels like much more than just three points,I'm Mark Davis, joined in the booth by Jack Harries. Jack, look at this atmosphere. It's like the fans have been waiting for a lost relative to come home."
J.H:
"And in a way, they have, Mark. The last fourteen days have been a rollercoaster for Spurs. When Leon Blake went down in that 6-5 thriller against Arsenal, people feared the worst. And the results since then? They've been... well, inconsistent is the polite word."
A graphic flashed on the screen, detailing the statistics.
M.D:
"It's been a mixed bag. A frantic 3-2 win over Palace in the league, that gritty 2-1 result against Ajax... but then that 3-1 reality check against Galatasaray. The common thread? They look vulnerable. They look like they're missing that bit of 'class' in the final third."
J.H:
"Exactly,Without Blake, the burden has fallen entirely on Alex Owen. While Owen has been a warrior, he can't be the creator and the finisher at the same time. But tonight, the narrative changes. Look at the bench."
The camera zoomed in on Leon Blake. He sat calmly in the dugout, dreadlocks pulled back into a tight bundle. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his eyes narrowed as he watched the West Ham players finish their warm-up.
M.D:(excited)
"There he is. The other half of the Phoenix is back on the team sheet. It's only been two weeks, which is a testament to the club's medical staff,or perhaps just the sheer will of the boy himself."
J.H:
"The whispers around the stadium are that he's only fit for twenty, maybe thirty minutes. "But with the way the fans are chanting his name already, Coach John might not be able to keep him sitting for long. The pressure is on, the stars are out, and the 'Queen of London' is rumored to be watching from somewhere in this building. The stage is set, Mark."
M.D:
"It certainly is. The players are in the tunnel. Let's see if Spurs can find their rhythm, or if they'll be forced to call upon their young savior sooner than planned."
The whistle blew, and the match began with a frantic pace. West Ham had clearly come with a plan to bruise and batter Alex Owen, but the Spurs striker was playing like a man possessed, determined to show he could hold the line until his partner was ready.
In the 11th minute, the stadium erupted.
Eduardo sprinted down the left flank, skipping past a lunging challenge from the West Ham fullback.
He looked up and whipped a pinpoint cross toward the edge of the box. Alex Owen tracked the flight of the ball perfectly. He didn't even bother to take a touch; he threw his entire frame into the air, connecting with a ferocious volley that screamed through the air like a guided missile.
CLANG,SWISH!
The ball clipped the underside of the crossbar and hammered into the roof of the net. The keeper hadn't even moved.
M.D: (bellowed over the roar.)
"WHAT A STRIKE! Alex Owen! Pure, unadulterated power! He's silenced the critics in under fifteen minutes!"
J.H:
"He caught that perfectly, A thunderbolt!"
Jack Harries added
Leaning over the railing. Adrenaline surging, Alex didn't head for the corner flag. Instead, he bolted straight for the Spurs bench. The substitutes scrambled out of the way as Alex skidded to a halt right in front of Leon. With a wild, intense look in his eyes, he pointed directly at Leon, then grabbed the Spurs badge on his chest, kissed it aggressively, and pointed back at his friend. Leon, sitting with his arms crossed and his dreadlocks swaying as he leaned back, didn't give the emotional reaction Alex was looking for.
Instead, he let out a dry, audible groan.
"The hell?" Leon shouted over the noise, a look of mock disgust on his face. "That's cringe as hell, Alex! Get back on the pitch!"
Alex just laughed, flashing a jagged grin before sprinting back to the center circle. Leon shook his head, a small, genuine smirk finally tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Kid's a dork," Leon muttered to himself, but he felt the fire in his chest. The challenge was on. Spurs are up 1-0, but the physical game is just beginning.