"HE CAN'T DO THAT! CAN HE?!" Andy Robertson had roared, looking genuinely ready to fly to Milan and have a very serious, very Scottish conversation with Flavio Briatore.

Then, the small print had appeared on the screen.

[UEFA Champions League Rule Amendment 42.B...]

A stunned silence had fallen over the room, followed by an even louder, more jubilant explosion of noise. Leon had just sat there, a slow, disbelieving, and utterly joyous grin spreading across his face. He was free.

The training ground the next day was buzzing. The upcoming clash with Inter, his old club, his old family, was now the only thing anyone could talk about. But the mood wasn't tense; it was electric with anticipation.

"Okay, so," Julián Álvarez began, his voice filled with the tone of a man grappling with a profound ethical dilemma. He was addressing Leon, Trent Alexander-Arnold, and a slightly bewildered Ibrahima Konaté. "UEFA says the 'Briatore Clause' is illegal. It is 'unsporting'. But," he leaned in conspiratorially, "is it really unsporting if it is also very, very funny? And if something is very funny, can it truly be bad? The philosophy is complex."

"It was bad for Leo," Trent countered, grinning. "He looked like he was about to cry into his very expensive pasta when he thought he couldn't play."

"Hey!" Leon protested, laughing. "I was calm. Mostly."

"The point is," Konaté rumbled, his voice a deep, authoritative presence, "he can play. And now," he said, a predatory glint in his eye, "we get to see the student teach the master a lesson. Or maybe," he added, looking at Leon with a respectful nod, "the new master."

The banter continued, a beautiful, chaotic mix of tactical speculation and terrible jokes. They talked about Lautaro's fiery leadership, about Barella's relentless engine, about the young superstar Yamal who had ended up at Inter after the world's most confusing transfer saga. It was a reunion, a homecoming, and a declaration of war, all rolled into one beautiful, terrifying fixture.

Arne Slot, in his team meeting, was the picture of calm, analytical focus. "Inter," he said, the name hanging in the air. "A team we know. A team with heart. A team with a new superstar." He looked at Leon. "This will be an emotional game for you. Do not let the emotion cloud your judgment. Play with your head, not just your heart. We go there to win. End of story."

But before the battle in Milan, there was another, far more terrifying challenge for Leon to face: The Liverpool Charity Gala.

The night arrived, a glittering affair held in one of Liverpool's grandest historic buildings. Leon stood in front of the mirror in his hotel room (his mother had insisted he get a room for the night, convinced his own apartment wasn't "gala-ready"), staring at his reflection. The tuxedo felt like a straitjacket. The bow tie felt like it was actively trying to strangle him. And the speech, the terrifying, mandatory speech he had to give as a member of the leadership group, felt like an impending execution.

There was a soft knock on the door. He opened it to find Sofia standing there, and for a moment, he completely forgot about his own impending doom. She looked... breathtaking. A simple, elegant black dress that shimmered under the hotel lights, her hair styled in a way that was both glamorous and effortlessly cool.

"Wow," he breathed, echoing his reaction from their first 'fancy' outing. "Supernova doesn't even cover it."

She laughed, a bright, happy sound. "You don't look so bad yourself, footballer," she said, adjusting his slightly crooked bow tie. "Very James Bond. Just try not to accidentally activate any ejector seats tonight." She gave him a reassuring smile. "Ready to face the lions?"

"As I'll ever be," he said, taking a deep breath. He patted the inside pocket of his jacket, where the speech they had written together, a blend of footballing passion and Renaissance art metaphors, was safely tucked away.

The gala was a whirlwind of flashing cameras, polite handshakes, and tiny, confusing canapés. Leon navigated the room, Sofia a calm, graceful presence by his side. He saw his teammates, looking equally awkward and dapper in their formal wear.

"I feel like a penguin," Andy Robertson grumbled to Trent, tugging at his collar. "A very sweaty, very uncomfortable penguin."

"Speak for yourself, Robbo," Trent shot back, striking a ridiculous pose. "I was born for the tuxedo life."

Julián Álvarez was, predictably, engaged in a deep, philosophical conversation with a bewildered-looking local politician. "...so the question is," Julián was saying earnestly, gesturing with a tiny sausage roll, "if charity is giving without expecting anything in return, but you get a tax deduction, is it really charity? Or is it just 'philanthropic accounting'?"

Leon just shook his head, a fond, amused smile on his face. He felt a profound sense of belonging, a quiet pride in being part of this crazy, brilliant family.

Then came the moment he had been dreading. The speeches. He watched as the club chairman spoke, as a local charity representative spoke, as Virgil van Dijk, still recovering but looking regal in his suit, gave a short, powerful message. And then, it was his turn.

He walked up to the stage, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The room was a sea of expectant faces, a blur of diamonds and polite smiles. He gripped the lectern, the wood cool beneath his trembling fingers. He took a deep breath, the 'Unshakeable Heart' bracelet a steadying presence. He looked out into the crowd and found Sofia's eyes. She gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod. You've got this.

He began to speak.

He spoke not just about football, but about family. He spoke about the passion of the fans, the spirit of the city. He spoke about the work the LFC Foundation did, about giving back, about creating opportunities. He used the metaphor Sofia had suggested, comparing the team to a Renaissance workshop, each player an apprentice learning their craft, working together under the guidance of a master (he made sure to give Arne Slot a respectful nod), all contributing to create something beautiful, something bigger than themselves.

His voice didn't tremble. His hands didn't shake. He spoke from the heart, the words flowing easily, naturally. He wasn't Leon, the nervous teenager. He was Leon, the leader.

When he finished, a warm, genuine wave of applause filled the room. He walked off the stage, his legs feeling slightly like jelly, a huge, giddy wave of relief washing over him. He had done it.

He was immediately surrounded by his teammates, a chorus of back-slaps and "Well done, kid!"

"See?" Robertson grinned. "Not so bad, eh? Almost as good as one of my pre-match motivational screams."

Arne Slot just gave him a quiet, proud nod.

"Good speech, Leon. Very... artistic."

He found Sofia by the edge of the room.

"You were amazing," she whispered, her eyes shining.

"We were amazing," he corrected her, taking her hand.

They stood there for a moment, just smiling, a quiet island of happiness in the middle of the glittering crowd. He felt on top of the world. He had faced his fear. He had found his voice. He had his team. He had his girl. Life was perfect.

And it was in that perfect, quiet moment that he saw him.

Standing alone in a shadowed corner near the exit, almost hidden from view, was a man in a sharp, impeccably tailored suit.

A man he recognized instantly from countless news reports and transfer speculations.

It was Giovanni Russo. The super-agent. The man Leon had seen meeting secretly with Mo Salah months ago. And he wasn't looking at the stage, or the crowd, or the glittering chandeliers. He was looking directly, intently, and with a cold, unreadable calculation... at him.

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