Chapter 238: This Time, the Lafite's on Me!
Leon might be falling in love!
That piece of gossip began circulating quietly around Cobham Training Centre.
The reason for the "might be" was that Leon had only been asking teammates vague questions lately—things like how to approach girls, where to meet them, what kind of setting would be best.
None of Chelsea's players had actually caught him in any one-on-one interaction with a woman recently.
On the night of the charity gala, the other guys like Hazard were too distracted by the wave of beautiful models who arrived later.
So they hadn't seen the moment that had caused such a misunderstanding about Leon.
Moreover, most of those Eastern European models had come through Russian agencies, looking to build connections.
On Abramovich's turf, those Russian agencies weren't about to spread rumors carelessly.
And as for Anastasiya—the girl in question—she had only just turned 18. This trip to London was more like a vacation, tagging along with her aunt, who was her modeling agent.
Though she had a signed contract, she hadn't formally entered the industry yet. She was still, by all accounts, a pretty high school girl.
No agent was foolish enough to risk backlash from either Abramovich or Mendes by spinning that into scandal.
Not even The Sun, known as the MI6 of British tabloids, dared touch this one.
Unless Leon said something himself, neither Chelsea's players nor coaching staff could connect any dots.
Still, Ibrahimović and Mourinho were pleased to hear Leon talking—however indirectly—about relationships.
After all, the two of them had watched Leon grow from 19 to 22, and in all that time, he'd barely had a whisper of gossip tied to him.
In the West, there was no concept of "dating too early."
From age 19 to now, Leon had barely been romantically linked with anyone. Mourinho and Zlatan had often joked privately, encouraging him to at least engage in some healthy social contact with women.
It wasn't just Mendes, acting like a surrogate parent, who worried about Leon's private life.
Mourinho and Ibra had always been quietly concerned too.
He was turning 23 soon.
With his looks, fame, and wealth…
They weren't saying he needed to be like Cristiano Ronaldo or Neymar—players with long, flashy dating histories.
But surely, at least one or two normal, stable relationships wouldn't hurt?
What they really feared was the exact opposite scenario: if Leon stayed isolated from women for too long, what would happen the day he finally met someone shrewd and manipulative?
They'd seen far too many talented young players get ruined—emotionally and financially—by a single devastating relationship.
Ironically, if Leon had been more like young CR7—both brilliant on the pitch and a carefree Casanova off it—they might have felt more at ease.
It was the fact that he was so passive, so disinterested in romance, that worried them.
Which was why, when Mendes heard from Leon's assistant that he'd taken an interest in a certain girl, he flew straight to Russia and used his connections to quietly get her number.
But what Mendes didn't know was that Leon hadn't immediately called the girl.
Instead, he'd started by chatting over text.
They talked about school in Eastern Europe, university entrance systems, daily life. Then they talked about how each had ended up on their career paths.
For Leon, this was the natural, comfortable way to approach someone.
And truthfully, Leon had always been fascinated by Eastern European history and culture.
After two or three days of chatting, he learned that Anastasiya had even looked into traditional Chinese fashion.
At that point, Leon nearly forgot why he'd messaged her in the first place.
He ended up excitedly discussing Hanfu—traditional Chinese garments—and the cultural revival movement happening back home.
He couldn't help it.
In all his years in Europe, he'd never met a Westerner genuinely curious about Chinese traditional clothing.
Anastasiya was young—just turned 18 last August—but she already knew more about Chinese heritage than most Europeans he'd met.
Even if her understanding was still superficial, the fact that she cared enough to learn was rare and precious.
Leon saw it as fate.
Not romantic fate, necessarily, but a deeper kind of serendipity.
A homesick traveler dedicating his youth to football, and a curious European girl fascinated by his faraway culture—what a strange and beautiful bond.
At first, his feelings had been intense and impulsive.
But once he returned to his regular rhythm of intense training, his rational side kicked in again.
Yes, he still wanted to know her better.
But now, his intentions felt purer.
He no longer pretended he hadn't been attracted to her looks.
But he also thought, even if this doesn't turn into romance, maybe we could at least be good friends who share common interests.
So after two days of excitedly asking teammates for dating advice, he quickly returned to his usual calm self.
Mendes, if he'd known, would have exploded.
If the super-agent realized Leon had gone from "maybe interested in a girl" to "let's just see where it goes," he'd be on the first flight from China to London to personally coach Leon on how to chase a woman.
But Leon didn't mind.
Chatting with Anastasiya in his free time, discovering they both found joy in cultural exchange—that was enough for now.
Because with the Champions League drawing near, Leon had redirected his full focus toward their upcoming opponent: Paris Saint-Germain.
Romance could wait.
Right now, he was more interested in figuring out how to make life miserable for a certain number 27.
Recently, life hadn't been easy for PSG's players.
Since January, they'd been under intense scheduling pressure—just like many Premier League teams.
France had two domestic cup tournaments: the Coupe de France and the Coupe de la Ligue.
Since the start of January, PSG had been competing on all three fronts: league, cup, and league cup.
Though they were eliminated from the Coupe de France by Montpellier in late January, they were still alive in the Coupe de la Ligue.
Between February 1st and 14th alone, they had played four matches.
The pressure was immense.
Compared to Paris Saint-Germain, Chelsea's schedule looked refreshingly clear.
With no FA Cup obligations, they had only played three Premier League matches since the start of February. After wrapping up the Everton game on February 11th, they had a full six days to prepare for the first leg of their Champions League Round of 16 clash with PSG.
PSG? They had just three full days of rest and preparation.
That disparity alone said a lot.
What's more, PSG's lead in Ligue 1 wasn't exactly secure. Sure, they were in first place—but only by a single point ahead of second-placed Monaco.
At this point last season, they were already two wins clear of Lyon.
Now, compressed scheduling and mounting domestic pressure were wearing down both PSG's players and their coaching staff.
Laurent Blanc, who had taken over from Carlo Ancelotti the previous summer, was already feeling burnt out.
PSG's owners might be rich and free-spending, but they didn't have the kind of patience Manchester City's board offered Pellegrini.
Last season, PSG's run to the Champions League semifinals was a perfect storm—everything had clicked. But that didn't mean they truly had the strength to reach the final four again.
Unfortunately, PSG's higher-ups weren't so rational.
They didn't demand a Champions League title from Blanc this season—but winning the domestic league and reaching the final four in Europe was the baseline.
And to Blanc, even that felt like reaching for the stars.
On top of that, their star playmaker—number 272—was creating tension in the locker room again. His father, also his agent, was pressuring the club to raise his salary to match Higuaín's.
Blanc's squad atmosphere, already under strain, was starting to crack.
He'd thought of quitting more than once.
But professionalism kept him hanging on, keeping the locker room barely in check.
With both 272 and Higuaín protected by club executives, there was little Blanc could do.
He could only talk to them in private, pleading with them to keep their personal animosities off the pitch.
Now, with a fractured team, he had to face Chelsea—the Premier League's top dog.
Blanc knew he was outmatched. He could only do his best.
But from the outside, PSG still looked like a European powerhouse. Most neutral fans didn't believe Chelsea would win comfortably at the Parc des Princes.
Even if they did win, most expected a narrow result at best.
That included Chelsea's own fans. Confident, sure—but cautious.
After all, PSG's famous comeback win over Barcelona last season was still fresh in everyone's minds.
Most Chelsea supporters were hoping to grab a couple of away goals. Even a draw would be acceptable, as long as the tie stayed alive heading into the second leg.
But Leon had a much higher bar—higher than any of his teammates.
He and Mourinho both believed this match could—and should—be decided in the first leg.
Mourinho's confidence came from meticulous tactical planning and hours of video analysis.
Leon's? From memory.
Sure, PSG were a strong side.
But their strength wasn't the same as Real Madrid, Bayern, or even this Chelsea side.
Their domestic competition in Ligue 1 simply wasn't up to par.
Yes, they played in the Champions League each season, but spending most of their calendar beating up on weak Ligue 1 teams had dulled their edge.
They also lost their most reliable attacking focal point—Ibrahimović—in the summer.
Now, the ones leading their attack were Higuaín and 272—players Leon and Mourinho knew intimately.
They knew their strengths, their flaws, their mentality under pressure.
Mourinho had the tactical advantage built-in.
True, Chelsea's defense had been dented by injuries to Terry and David Luiz.
But with Leon shifting back into his familiar role at defensive mid, paired with Matić, Mourinho was calm.
Before kickoff, pundits across Europe speculated on Mourinho's lineup.
None of them guessed he'd start Tomas Kalas, the young center-back, alongside Gary Cahill in such a crucial match.
He could've played it safe and paired Cahill with Ivanović.
But no. This was Mourinho being Mourinho.
And Leon?
To the shock of many, he was back at his old post in midfield.
As both teams stepped out onto the pitch, fans couldn't help but notice something strange:
272 looked… off.
Meanwhile, his old nemesis Leon was smiling like the cat who got the cream.
Fans couldn't help but laugh.
Leon, playing as a defensive mid, was positioned to shadow 272 all game.
Was Mourinho doing this on purpose? No one could be sure.
But one thing was certain—this matchup would be electric.
Everyone knew about the bad blood between Leon and 272.
PSG fans booed Leon relentlessly at kickoff, siding with their star.
But Leon didn't flinch. He just smiled even wider.
Higuaín, seeing that familiar smile, felt a chill.
He knew Leon well. The more innocent he looked before a match, the more brutal his play would be.
Under the lens of a thousand cameras, Leon shook hands with 272 before kickoff—and said something quickly.
272 caught it. But it left him completely confused.
"What did Leon say to you?" Higuaín asked as they walked back toward their half.
272 looked baffled. "He said… 'This time, the Lafite's on me.'"
"Lafite?"
Higuaín froze.
There was no way Leon was being friendly.
That wasn't his style.
If Leon didn't break 272 into pieces on the pitch, it meant he was in a very generous mood.
272 thought about it again, then frowned and shot Leon another glare.
But Leon just smiled and mouthed it again:
"I'll treat you to Lafite."
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