Chapter 74: What’s On Your Mind.
Leo kept staring at the card, turning it between his fingers like the answer might appear if he just held it long enough.
Ezra finally leaned forward, curiosity beating patience.
"Oi, what’s that, then?" he asked, pushing off the couch and walking over.
Jake followed, slower but just as nosy, craning his neck.
They both peered down at the card in Leo’s hand.
The name was printed neatly across the middle in black font: Noah Sarin.
Ezra squinted. "Doesn’t ring a bell."
Jake shook his head, too. "Come on, Ezra, nothing ever rings a bell to you but true, though I have never heard of him."
Ezra wanted to interject, but found himself forgetting the words he wanted to say.
Jake, seeing Ezra short of words, smirked before looking back at Leo.
"You know this guy?" Jake asked.
Leo hesitated for a second before giving a small nod. "He... contacted me. After the last game."
That earned a low whistle from Ezra. "What, like agent stuff?"
"Something like that."
Jake frowned, folding his arms.
"You sure he’s not some random? People out here love to sell dreams. One DM, one handshake, and they’re your ’agent’."
Leo didn’t reply.
His eyes drifted around the room, searching for something, anything, to validate the name.
"Where the hell is my phone?" he muttered as he lifted his sheets, but when he didn’t find it, he stood and crossed to the small desk by the window.
His old laptop sat there, lid closed, the charger light blinking faintly.
He flipped it open as the screen lit with life.
The device was slow, the kind that still carried bits of Sofia’s browsing history from when she’d used it at school before handing it down to him.
Leo typed the name: Noah Sarin.
The results loaded.
And then, there he was.
Picture after picture.
Noah, in tailored suits, standing alongside players Leo had only ever seen on posters.
Pogba. Depay. Ryan Sessegnon.
Even Pedro from his Chelsea days.
Ezra blinked hard. "Wait... what?"
Jake leaned in closer, his jaw slackening. "No way."
Leo scrolled further down, stopping when a headline caught his eye.
[ 2 yrs ago]
[’Agent Noah Sarin Splits With Rising Star After Rift Over Player’s Partner.’]
He clicked.
The article opened with long paragraphs about a promising relationship gone sour, Sarin walking away from a big client after the player’s girlfriend reportedly interfered with business.
The tone was half scandal, half obituary for a career that had once been touted as one of the brightest in football representation.
Leo scrolled again.
More pieces.
Blog posts, half-forgotten news clippings.
Each repeated the same theme: Noah was talented, gifted even, but prone to bad breaks as he was known not to concede or compromise, declining mega deals when he found it fishy or even condescending to his clients.
And these caused some cracks between him and the players, but there was another thing that could be noted from the whole fiesta.
The clients he stopped managing either fell off the map, faded into lower leagues, or stopped playing altogether.
Leo leaned back, eyes narrowing as he processed it.
Beside him, Jake finally spoke, snapping his fingers as the recognition hit him.
"Wait. Wait. I remember now. Sarin. Yeah. He used to be, bro, he was legit. He was up there with Mino Raiola. Mendes, Raiola... Sarin. All in the same conversations. He was also very young for an agent at that time."
Ezra frowned, pointing at the laptop screen.
"Didn’t recognise the name. But this guy? Yeah, I’ve seen him. Press boxes, transfer shows, whatever. That’s him."
Jake nodded quickly. "Yeah. Proper big time. He had Pogba under his wing at one point. Pogba!"
Ezra still looked half sceptical.
"So what’s he doing here, chasing you around? Didn’t look too glamorous when he was standing in that car park."
Leo didn’t answer.
His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, on the face staring back at him from the search results.
The card still rested between his fingers.
Heavy now.
For all the noise Jake and Ezra were making, for all their surprise, Leo couldn’t shake the one thing he’d read between the lines of those articles.
Talent, yes.
Mistakes
, a few.But every story carried the same undertone: Sarin bet everything on his players. And when they failed, he failed with them.
And now he was here.
With him.
Behind Leo, Jake and Ezra were still hovering, the card being passed between their fingers like it was some kind of artefact.
Until the knock at the door broke it.
Before Leo could even move, the door creaked open and Ben stepped in, breathless like he’d been jogging across the complex.
"There you are," Ben said, eyes flicking at Ezra and Jake.
"I’ve been looking for you two everywhere. Coach Thompson wants us to have an abrupt session. Right now."
Ezra’s head snapped back. "What? Now? It’s barely—"
"Don’t care," Ben cut in. "He’s already down at the pitch. Didn’t look happy either."
Jake groaned, dragging his hands down his face.
"Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. He wakes up one day and decides to ruin ours."
Ezra stuffed his phone into his pocket with a muttered curse.
"Always him, bro. Always him."
Ben gave them both a look that said Hurry up, before turning and stepping back out into the corridor.
Ezra and Jake didn’t bother arguing further.
They exchanged one last glance at the laptop, at Leo, then shuffled toward the door.
"Don’t get too lost in that rabbit hole," Jake said, jerking his chin at the screen.
"Yeah," Ezra added with a half-laugh, "leave the scandals for later, Sherlock."
And with that, they followed Ben out, their voices trailing into the hall.
Silence returned.
Leo sat still for a while, the glow of the laptop lingering against his face.
Then, with a quiet sigh, he reached forward and shut the lid.
The room dimmed again, only the muffled noises of the training complex outside seeping in.
He checked the clock on the wall.
Three more hours until the scheduled afternoon recovery session.
Plenty of time.
He let himself collapse back onto the bed, arms spread, the card still resting in his hand.
His thoughts buzzed, circling around Noah Sarin, the names, the photos, the stories.
But the tiredness from the night, from the game, from everything, finally pulled heavier than the curiosity.
Before long, his eyes closed again.
The card slipped gently from his fingers onto the sheets.
And Leo drifted back into sleep.
......
The housing block felt like it was still clinging to the late morning chill when Leo finally dragged himself into the main team’s recovery complex.
His bag, boots rattling inside, hung off his shoulder like a dead weight.
He sighed, rolling his neck, then ran his hand down his shoulder and ribcage as if he could rub the ache out of his bones.
Every muscle complained.
As soon as he stepped inside, a few of the lads lounging on mats spotted him.
"Oi, gaffer!" one of them called, laughing.
"Your protégé’s limping already!"
Another chimed in, grinning: "Might need a stretcher for him!"
Leo tossed his bag into a corner and lowered himself onto an empty mat, stretching out on his back.
Even the floor felt heavy.
Across the room, Dawson stood deep in conversation with Nolan, arms folded, his attention fixed.
Whatever they were talking about seemed to matter, at least until Dawson gave a final nod and turned his head toward the commotion.
His eyes landed on Leo.
"Smart boy when he’s got the ball at his feet," Dawson said loud enough for the group to hear.
"Without it? Turns into a dunce."
A ripple of chuckles went around the room.
Leo grimaced, propping himself up on his elbows as Dawson stepped closer, shaking his head.
"What’s on your mind, kid?" Dawson asked, his voice flat but not unkind.
"To the point you skipped the ice bath last night?"
Leo blinked.
"I—"
Then it clicked.
His body wasn’t just tired; it was sore in ways it hadn’t been before.
Like every sprint, every tackle had doubled its toll.
The ache wasn’t a mystery; it was punishment.
He’d skipped the one routine that made it bearable.
His expression shifted as realisation set in.
"That’s why I feel like this..." he muttered.
Dawson let out a low chuckle, the kind that sounded equal parts amused and annoyed.
"Now he figures it out."
He jabbed a finger toward the back rooms.
"Go see the masseuse before you end up walking like a pensioner, even before you turn 18. And don’t make me chase you into an ice bath next time."
More laughter followed from the lads, but it wasn’t cruel; it was the usual ribbing, the kind you had to endure when you were the youngest in the room.
Leo shook his head, a faint smile breaking through despite the soreness, and pushed himself up.
"You will get it in training why you should have left me to be sore," Leo warned shakily with Fletcher, who was now closer, shaking his body in sarcasm.
A/n: Eh, promise fulfilled right. I even had to use the time for writing the other novel for this one because of my dear readers. Have fun reading, and I’ll see you in a bit.