Chapter 33: The Calm
The weeks after the derby settled into something Leo hadn't experienced since waking up in 2001: quiet.
No matches. No training. No physio sessions. Just December in Milan, the city draped in Christmas lights, the air cold and clean. The Duomo sparkled against the night sky. The Navigli canals reflected fairy lights. It was beautiful, and for the first time in months, Leo had time to notice.
Ancelotti had given the squad ten days off. "Go home. Rest. Eat. Be with family. Come back hungry." The players scattered across Europe and South America. Leo stayed. Milan was home now.
---
Christmas Eve. Leo's Apartment.
His mum had transformed the small kitchen into something that smelled like Southampton. Mince pies. Roast chicken. Bread sauce. She'd found a British shop near Porta Venezia that stocked everything she needed. "It's not proper Christmas without it," she'd said, shooing him out of the kitchen when he tried to help.
Leo sat on the sofa, his ankle propped on a cushion—habit more than necessity now—and watched the snow fall past the window. The system was quiet. It had been quiet for days, as if it understood that some moments didn't need numbers.
His phone buzzed. Chloe.
"Merry Christmas Eve. What are you doing?"
"Watching my mum cook. You?"
"Same. Mum's making jollof. Whole flat smells like peppers. Wish you were here."
He smiled. "Wish you were here too. Come to Milan. After New Year. Before the season starts again."
A pause. Then: "Okay. I'll book a flight."
Leo stared at the message. She was coming. Actually coming.
His mum appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a tea towel. "Who's that?"
"Chloe."
"The journalist girl?"
"Yeah."
His mum smiled, a knowing smile. "She's nice. I like her."
"You've never met her."
"I've seen her on the television. And you talk about her differently." She sat beside him. "When is she coming?"
"After New Year."
"Good. I'll make a proper dinner. Show her what English cooking is supposed to be."
Leo laughed. "Mum, she's Nigerian. Her mum makes jollof."
His mum waved a hand. "Then I'll make shepherd's pie. Everyone likes shepherd's pie."
---
Christmas Day.
They ate too much. His mum told stories about his father—how they'd met at a church social, how he'd proposed after three months, how he'd cried when Leo was born. Leo listened, really listened, in a way he hadn't in his first life. Back then, he'd been too busy being a teenager, too wrapped up in his own world. Now he understood what he'd missed.
"Tell me about his football," Leo said.
His mum smiled, her eyes distant. "He wasn't very good. But he loved it. Every Saturday, he'd take you to the park and kick a ball around. You were tiny. Could barely walk. But you'd chase that ball like your life depended on it." She reached over and squeezed his hand. "He'd be so proud of you, Leo. So proud."
Leo felt his throat tighten. "I wish I remembered him."
"You have his heart. That's enough."
They sat in silence for a long moment, the Christmas tree lights flickering, the snow falling outside. Then his mum stood and clapped her hands. "Right. Trifle. I made trifle. You're eating it whether you want to or not."
Leo laughed. "Okay, Mum."
---
Between Christmas and New Year.
The days blurred into a pleasant haze. Leo slept in. He walked through Milan's streets, anonymous in a winter coat and scarf, watching families, couples, tourists. The city was alive with holiday spirit. Street performers played violins in the Piazza del Duomo. Children chased pigeons. Old men sat in cafés, arguing about football.
He found a small bookshop near the Brera district and bought an Italian phrasebook. His Italian was improving—he could understand most of what Ancelotti said now—but he wanted to be fluent. To really belong.
The shopkeeper, an elderly woman with kind eyes, asked him something in rapid Italian. He caught "regalo" and "Natale." Gift. Christmas.
"Per mia madre," he said. For my mother. "Un libro sulla storia di Milano." A book about Milan's history.
She smiled and led him to a shelf. He left with a heavy, illustrated volume and a sense of accomplishment.
---
New Year's Eve.
Mendes called. "Happy New Year, Leo. Almost."
"Happy New Year, Jorge."
"The Champions League draw is in two weeks. The club wants you there. Good publicity."
"I'll be there."
"And Leo? Enjoy tonight. Next year will be even bigger."
Leo hung up and stared at his phone. Next year. 2003. His second full year as a professional. The year he'd turn nineteen. The year everything could change.
His mum had gone to bed early—"I'm too old for midnight"—leaving Leo alone with the television and a glass of prosecco he'd bought from the corner shop. The countdown show was on, live from Rome, a stage full of Italian pop stars he didn't recognise.
At five minutes to midnight, his phone buzzed. Chloe.
"Happy New Year, Leo. Almost."
He called her instead of texting. She answered on the first ring.
"Hey."
"Hey."
"I'm watching Italian pop stars. It's terrible."
She laughed. "I'm watching the London fireworks on delay. They're not much better."
They talked about nothing—her family, his mum's shepherd's pie obsession, the book he'd bought—until the countdown started on his television.
"Ten seconds," he said.
"Nine," she replied.
They counted down together, three hundred miles apart. When the clock struck midnight, fireworks exploded over Rome on the screen, and Chloe's voice was soft in his ear.
"Happy New Year, Leo."
"Happy New Year, Chloe."
A pause. Then: "I'm glad I met you. In that car park at Sunderland. I'm glad I chased you."
Leo smiled. "I'm glad you chased me too."
"I'll see you soon. Three days."
"Three days."
He hung up and sat in the quiet, the fireworks still playing on the television, the prosecco warm in his hand. 2003. A new year. A new chapter.
---
January 3rd, 2003. Milan Malpensa Airport.
Leo stood at the arrivals gate, a bouquet of flowers in his hand—his mum's idea. "You can't meet a girl at the airport without flowers," she'd said. "It's not proper."
The doors slid open and passengers streamed out. Businessmen. Families. Tourists. And then Chloe.
She wore a thick coat and a red scarf, her dark hair escaping from a messy bun. She looked tired from the flight, but when she saw him, her face lit up.
"You brought flowers."
"My mum made me."
She laughed and kissed his cheek. "Tell your mum thank you."
They took a taxi into the city, Chloe pressing her face to the window like a child. "It's beautiful. The buildings. The lights. Everything."
"Wait until you see the Duomo at night."
She turned to look at him. "You're different here. More relaxed."
"I'm home."
She smiled. "Yeah. I can see that."
---
The Days With Chloe.
They walked the city together. The Duomo, inside and out, Chloe craning her neck at the Gothic spires. The Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, where she dragged him into a café for "the best hot chocolate in the world, apparently." The Castello Sforzesco, where they sat on a bench and watched the world go by.
His mum made shepherd's pie. Chloe brought flowers for her—"A trade," she said. They got along immediately, talking about cooking, about London, about Leo as a child. His mum brought out photo albums. Leo groaned. Chloe laughed.
At night, they sat on his sofa, the television on low, talking about everything and nothing. Her family in Manchester. Her Nigerian father who still hoped she'd become a doctor. Her English mother who sent her newspaper clippings every week. "She cuts out my articles," Chloe said. "Even the small ones. Keeps them in a folder."
"That's sweet."
"It's embarrassing." But she smiled.
One evening, she asked about his father. Leo told her what he knew—the park, the football, the heart that never stopped loving the game.
"He sounds wonderful," she said.
"I don't remember him. Not really. Just... feelings. The smell of grass. A laugh I can't quite hear."
Chloe took his hand. "That's enough. Feelings are enough."
They sat like that for a long time, the snow falling outside, the city quiet around them.
---
January 8th, 2003. Milanello.
The break was over. The players returned, refreshed and hungry. Ancelotti gathered them in the lecture room.
"The Champions League draw is next week. We will know our opponents for the round of sixteen. Before that, we have Coppa Italia quarter-finals. And Serie A matches to keep us sharp." He looked around the room. "The Scudetto is difficult. Juventus are eleven points clear. But we do not give up. We fight for every point. And we focus on the cups. The Champions League. The Coppa Italia. Trophies are still possible."
Leo nodded. The Clutch Gene pulsed. Trophies. That was what mattered.
The system flickered.
[Winter Break: Complete.]
[Fitness Level: 100%. Match Sharpness: 95%.]
[Next Match: Coppa Italia Quarter-Final, First Leg - AC Milan vs. Roma. 15th January 2003.]
Leo read the screen and smiled. Roma. Totti. Capello. A proper test.
He was ready.
---
The Night Before Chloe Left.
They stood at the airport again, this time at departures. Chloe's flight to London was in an hour.
"I don't want to go," she said.
"I don't want you to go."
"But I have to. Work. Life." She smiled sadly. "I'll be back. For the big matches. The Champions League. I'll be in the stands."
"You better be."
She kissed him. Not on the cheek. Properly. When she pulled back, her eyes were wet.
"Win everything, Leo. I want to write about you lifting trophies."
"I will."
She walked through security, turning once to wave. Leo stood there until she disappeared from view.
The system was quiet. It didn't need to say anything.
---
January 14th, 2003. San Siro.
The night before the Roma match, Leo sat in his apartment, the city lights glittering beyond the window. His mum was in the kitchen, making tea. The book he'd bought her sat on the coffee table, a bookmark already a third of the way through.
He felt... settled. Ready. The winter break had given him something he hadn't known he needed. Time. Time with his mum. Time with Chloe. Time to remember why he played this game.
Not for ratings. Not for talents. Not for charm points.
For moments. For people. For the feeling of a ball at his feet and a stadium roaring his name.
Leo closed his eyes. Tomorrow, the hunt resumed.