The away supporters fell silent, but on the pitch, Romero stood there for a second before rubbing the back of his neck in frustration.

There was no point arguing.

If he had let Leo go, the midfielder would have been one-on-one with Vicario as well as with a passing option to the striker.

He accepted his fate, giving a brief nod before walking toward the tunnel.

"You can’t really have any complaints," the co-commentator said.

"Leo had him beaten. Romero took the professional foul, but he’d already been booked. It’s the correct decision."

Around the edge of the area, Wigan’s players surrounded Leo as he climbed back to his feet.

Jake reached him first, laughing as he ruffled his hair.

"You had him spinning."

Leo smiled faintly, but sitting with a goal down, he couldn’t really celebrate.

His eyes were already fixed on the ball.

A moment later, the referee paced out the distance, making sure Tottenham’s wall retreated the full ten yards.

He then pointed toward the spot of the foul.

It was almost level with the left corner of the penalty area.

Close enough to cross.

Close enough to shoot.

Close enough to change everything.

The noise inside the DW Stadium swelled once more.

Only minutes earlier, Wigan had been hanging on with ten men.

Now the numbers were level again, though a goal behind, but now, with a dangerous ball at hand.

"This," the commentator said, his voice almost drowned out by the crowd, "is exactly the kind of moment players dream about."

The referee took one final look at the wall.

Then back at Leo, whose arm remained raised towards his mates.

The stadium fell into a tense, expectant hush, and there, just outside Tottenham’s penalty area, with the captain’s armband wrapped around his sleeve and the match hanging in the balance...

Leo moved.

His body opened as though he were about to whip the ball into the penalty area.

Jake and Whatmough’s replacement, Curtis Tilt, immediately attacked the six-yard box, dragging blue shirts with them.

The Tottenham wall held its ground, expecting a cross.

Instead, Leo barely touched the ball.

Their jump was all for nought as Leo touched it short.

The ball rolled diagonally toward the edge of the box, and immediately, Ezra, who’d run out from the far post, burst onto it exactly as rehearsed.

The crowd reacted instantly, as their breath hitched.

"It’s worked to Ezra!" the commentator shouted.

The winger shaped his body as if he were about to curl one toward the far corner, and two Tottenham defenders threw themselves in his direction.

Vicario shifted across his line ready to lunge, and for a split second, every eye in the stadium followed Ezra.

That was all the space Wigan needed.

Without even looking up, Ezra nudged the ball straight back into the path it had come from and, stepping right into it, Leo met the ball in full stride.

Despite the Tottenham shirt hitting him from his side, Leo did enough as his right foot crashed through the ball first time.

In a second, the strike flew through a crowd of bodies before bending away from Vicario, climbing higher and higher as it screamed toward the top-right corner.

The goalkeeper did not move.

He couldn’t and simply watched as the ball crashed into the top corner with a thud that echoed around the stadium.

Pandemonium!

"WHAT A GOAL!" the commentator bellowed over the deafening roar.

"YOU CAN NEVER WRITE THEM OFF!! WIGAN AND LEO CALDERON HAVE DONE IT AGAIN!"

"FROM TWO GOALS DOWN... WIGAN ARE LEVEL!"

Like a freight train, Leo tore off, his fists clenched.

His face twisted into a roar that matched the noise pouring down from the stands.

Behind him, Jake sprinted after him with both arms raised over his head, but it wasn’t only him.

Reyes had almost lost his footing trying to catch him, taking out Ezra.

Even Ben Amos was halfway out of his own penalty area, punching the air.

The home end had become a cauldron of emotions as supporters embraced one another without caring who they were.

Some had their hands on their heads, others simply screamed until their voices gave out.

The noise refused to fade, and Leo kept running, past the corner flag and past the advertising boards, then straight toward one of the broadcast cameras.

He dropped to a stop in front of it, and for a heartbeat, the lens caught nothing but his face.

His chest heaved as sweat clung to his hair.

The captain’s armband sat proudly around his arm.

Then once more, he let out something guttural, like a scream from the depths of an abyss.

A raw, wordless roar that seemed to carry everything with it.

Behind him, his teammates piled in, almost knocking him into the camera as they celebrated together.

The commentator could barely be heard above the chaos.

"Listen to this place!"

"This is what the Premier League is all about!"

"Down by two. Reduced to ten men. Their captain forced off injured. An eighteen-year-old handed the armband... and he’s responded with a goal worthy of the occasion!"

The co-commentator laughed in disbelief.

"Every single time this young man has a big moment in front of him, he somehow finds another gear. Calderon is on course to have one of the greatest Premier League seasons we’ve seen from a midfielder in years."

The camera pulled back, and once it did, it found the entire stadium was on its feet.

And high above it all, the scoreboard glowed against the night sky.

WIGAN ATHLETIC 2-2 TOTTENHAM HOTSPUR.

.....

"This kid," Spalletti said with a chuckle as he watched the scenes and the bodies that were running amok on the screen.

"Hey Marco," he muttered when his door opened to reveal Piatelli before he turned the screen around.

"The kid has scored again," he added as Marco walked forward and leaned towards the screen.

Marco nodded, then picked up his head.

He looked at Spalletti, who was acting like it was his son who had scored, before shaking his head and tossing a set of documents onto the table!

"The fixtures for the upcoming international break!"