The little café was tucked away on a quiet London side street, the kind of place you'd never find unless you were looking for it.
It was perfect. The air slled of coffee beans and warm pastries, a comforting aroma that helped settle the nervous flutter in Leon's stomach.
Across the small wooden table, Nicolò Barella took a sip of his espresso, his expression calm and unreadable.
"So," Barella began, placing the tiny cup back on its saucer.
"You looked like you had the weight of the world on your shoulders when you called. What's going on?"
Leon hesitated, stirring his own untouched hot chocolate. How did he even start?
"The Madrid match," he mumbled. "It… it got to . We lost. I felt like I was just a kid playing against n."
Barella let out a short, sharp laugh. It wasn't mocking, but knowing.
"Leon, listen to . It's Real Madrid. In the Champions League. They aren't just a team; they're a monster. They are the kings of Europe for a reason. Losing to them isn't a failure, it's a lesson. The best lesson you can get. Did you score?"
"Yeah, one goal," Leon admitted.
"There you go," Barella said, leaning forward, his eyes intense
. "You scored against the kings. At their ho. You think anyone is looking at that result and blaming you? No. They're looking at the new kid from Villa who had the guts to take a shot and put it in the back of their net. Be proud of that. The win will co later."
Leon felt a wave of relief wash over him. Hearing it from a player like Barella, a man whose own stats were a formidable [Potential: 90, Current: 89], made all the difference. He was a master of his craft.
"It's more than that, though," Leon said, deciding to take a small risk.
"Sotis… on the pitch, I see things. Ways the play can unfold. Against Madrid, it was too fast, too overwhelming. I felt like I was trying to read a book in a language I barely know."
Barella nodded slowly, a thoughtful look on his face. He didn't question it. He didn't ask for specifics. He just accepted it. "Every great player has that, Leon. An instinct. A vision. You just feel it. Your job isn't to understand it all at once. Your job is to trust it. The more you play, the more you trust it, the clearer the language will beco. Don't force it."
They talked for another hour, about football, about life in London, about the pressures of the ga. Barella spoke with a simple wisdom that cut through all of Leon's anxieties. By the ti they left, Leon felt lighter than he had in days. He had a friend, a ntor. He wasn't alone in this.
"..."
Six days later.
The pre-match energy in the Inter dressing room was electric. It was the third match of the Serie A season, and both Inter and Napoli were sitting at the top of the table with two wins each.
Leon sat lacing up his boots, the familiar ritual calming his nerves.
Across from him, Cole Palr and Julián Álvarez were huddled over a tablet, watching clips of Napoli's star wingers.
"Kvaratskhelia is going to be a handful," Palr said, tracing the player's run on the screen with his finger.
"His dribbling is unpredictable."
"And Osimhen's pace is terrifying," Álvarez added, shaking his head.
"We can't give him a single inch of space behind the defense."
Leon looked at his two teammates, his friends. The Vision surfaced effortlessly.
Cole Palr (Potential: 91 Current Ability: 85)
Julián Álvarez (Potential: 90 Current Ability: 87)
"Forget about them," Leon said, his voice cutting through their quiet analysis.
Palr and Álvarez looked up, surprised.
"They should be worried about us," Leon continued, his gaze steady and intense.
"We're at ho. The fans are with us. They're the ones who should be scared. We're going to crush them."
A slow grin spread across Álvarez's face, followed by a determined nod from Palr.
The quiet, analytical mood in the room shifted instantly. The doubt was gone, replaced by a raw, unified hunger. They weren't here to react to Napoli; they were here to impose their will.
The whistle blew, and the match began at a blistering pace.
Napoli, confident and skilled, ca out strong, their passing sharp and their movent fluid. Leon could feel their quality. He glanced at their star winger, the player Palr had been studying.
Khvicha Kvaratskhelia (Potential: 90 Current Ability: 88)
Barella was right. The noise was still there, but it wasn't overwhelming anymore.
He could filter it, focus. He could see the threat, but he could also see the opportunities.
Twenty minutes in, the ga was a tense deadlock.
Then, Leon saw it. Not a full sentence, but a clear, simple word.
As Álvarez made a diagonal run towards the box, a faint, golden arrow appeared in the space just ahead of him, a perfect pathway through two Napoli defenders.
Last week, he might have hesitated. Tonight, he didn't. He struck the ball with the outside of his boot, a curling, precise pass that sliced through the defense and t Álvarez perfectly in stride.
The Argentine took one touch and blasted the ball into the top corner.
1-0. The San Siro erupted.
Álvarez pointed right at Leon, a look of awe on his face. Leon just nodded, his heart pounding with the thrill of it. It wasn't a lucky guess. It was mastery.
The goal galvanized Inter. They played with a swagger, a confidence that bordered on arrogance. Just before halfti, Palr intercepted a lazy pass and drove towards the box.
He drew two defenders before laying the ball off to Leon, who was waiting at the edge of the area. As the Napoli keeper scrambled to set himself, Leon's Vision flared again. A small, shimring weakness appeared in the bottom-left corner of the goal. It was a tiny target, an almost impossible shot.
He didn't think. He just acted. He wrapped his foot around the ball, a low, driven strike that skimd across the grass, past the keeper's desperate dive, and nestled perfectly into the corner he had seen.
2-0. Pandemonium.
The second half was a masterclass in control. Inter dominated possession, their confidence unshakable. Napoli, rattled and frustrated, couldn't find a way through.
The final whistle blew on a comfortable 3-0 victory.
They had been crushed.
As the team celebrated on the pitch, soaking in the adulation of the fans, Leon felt a profound sense of satisfaction.
This was the feeling he had been chasing. This was the player he wanted to be. He high-fived his teammates, his face beaming.
His eyes drifted towards the sideline, to the Napoli dugout.
He saw their manager, Luciano Spalletti, a respected tactician, staring at the pitch with a look of deep frustration.
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