The week following his impulsive "yes" to Liverpool was the most stressful, guilt-ridden, and utterly silent week of Leon's life.

He felt like a ghost haunting his own victory.

His phone, usually a source of joy and connection, became an instrument of torture.

It was constantly buzzing with the "Inter Champions" group chat, a place that had been his happy haven and was now a minefield of his own guilty conscience.

[Julián Álvarez]: Okay, serious question for the off-season. If a footballer goes on holiday, but he dreams about football, is he still technically working?

[Lautaro Martínez]: Julián, I am on a beach. My wife is handing me a refreshing beverage. Do not make me think about the legal ramifications of dream-based employment.

[Cole Palmer]: Pretty sure dream overtime is only paid out in sheep.

Leon would see the messages, a small, sad smile touching his lips, and he just couldn't bring himself to reply with his usual banter.

He'd just type a single, pathetic "Haha" and close the app, the guilt twisting in his gut.

His teammates noticed.

[Nicolò Barella]: Leo, you okay? You're very quiet.

[Alessandro Bastoni]: He's probably still in shock that Julián hasn't asked if a starfish can be used as a defensive midfielder.

[Leon]: All good. Just tired.

He was avoiding their calls. He was dodging their invitations to hang out. He was a champion in hiding, a king who was secretly plotting to abdicate his own kingdom before he'd even been crowned.

The breaking point came on a Thursday afternoon.

He was lying on his sofa, staring at the ceiling and contemplating the existential dread of having to tell his mother he was moving to a country famous for its rain, when the doorbell rang with an insistent, angry buzz.

He opened the door to find Sofia standing there, her arms crossed, an expression on her face that was a terrifying, beautiful mixture of concern and "you are in so much trouble."

"Okay," she said, walking past him into the apartment without waiting for an invitation. "You have been acting like a ghost with a bad Wi-Fi connection for three days. You give one-word answers, you ignore my calls, and I'm pretty sure you're trying to communicate exclusively through sad-face emojis. What's going on?"

He just stood there, the full weight of his secret crashing down on him. He looked at her, at her bright, intelligent eyes, at the genuine worry on her face, and he knew he couldn't lie.

He took a deep breath.

"I'm leaving," he blurted out, the words clumsy and blunt.

"I'm leaving Inter. I'm going to Liverpool."

Sofia just stared at him, her expression unreadable.

She didn't get angry. She didn't cry. She just processed the information, her brilliant mind working behind her eyes.

"Okay," she said finally, her voice calm and even. "Why?"

And so he told her. He told her everything.

He told her about Arne Slot's visit, about the intoxicating vision of him, Salah, and Isak. He told her about the pressure of being the "prince" at Inter, about the uncertainty with the new president, about the impulsive, late-night phone call that had sealed his fate.

When he was finished, he just stood there, bracing himself for the inevitable storm of anger and disappointment.

Sofia was quiet for a long moment. Then she asked a simple, powerful question. "Is this what you really want?"

"I... I think so," he stammered. "The football... it would be incredible. A new challenge."

"Okay," she said, a small, decisive nod. She took a deep breath. "When do we leave?"

Leon's brain short-circuited. "What?" he asked, sure he had misheard her.

"When do we leave?" she repeated, a slow, brilliant, adventurous smile spreading across her face. "I'm an art history student, Leon. You know where the best art is? London. Paris. Madrid. All over Europe. I can study anywhere. Besides," she said, a mischievous twinkle in her eye, "I've always wanted to see the Tate Modern. I hear it's the Premier League of angry-looking paintings."

He just stared at her, a wave of relief and disbelief so powerful it almost made him dizzy. He had been expecting a fight, a heartbreak, an impossible choice. Instead, she had just... chosen him.

"You... you would do that?" he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

"You would move to England? With me?"

"Of course, you idiot," she said softly, stepping forward and taking his hand. "We're a team, aren't we?"

Telling his mother was the next hurdle. He sat her down at the kitchen table that evening, his heart pounding. Sofia sat beside him, a quiet, reassuring presence.

"Mom," he began, his voice a little shaky. "I... I have something to tell you. I've received an offer from a club in England. Liverpool. And... I've accepted it. I'm moving."

Elena was silent for a long moment, her face a mixture of shock and a mother's deep, profound sadness.

"England?" she said, the word sounding like a distant, alien planet. "It is so far away. And it is so... grey."

"I know, Mom," he said softly.

"But..." Elena's eyes shifted to Sofia, who gave her a small, confident smile. "You are going with him?"

"I am," Sofia confirmed.

A slow, brilliant, relieved smile spread across Elena's face.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands together. "Well, that is different! My son, the international heartbreaker, and my future daughter-in-law, the adventurer! You will have to send me many pictures! And find a good Italian deli! This is very important!"

The final confession was the hardest. He had to tell one of his teammates. He chose the calmest, most logical man he knew. He invited Cole Palmer out for dinner at a quiet, understated restaurant.

They sat opposite each other, a comfortable silence between them.

"You've been weird all week," Palmer said, not as an accusation, but as a simple statement of fact.

"I know," Leon said. "I'm sorry." He took a deep breath. "I'm leaving, Cole. I'm going to Liverpool."

Palmer didn't react. He just took a sip of his water, his expression unreadable. "The machine," he said finally. "You've chosen the machine."

"The football... it's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity," Leon tried to explain.

"I get it," Palmer said with a nod. "From a purely footballing perspective, it makes sense. You, Salah, Isak... that's terrifying." He paused, a wry smile on his face. "But have you thought about the other part?"

"What other part?"

"The part where you have to tell the gaffer," Palmer said, his eyes twinkling with a mixture of amusement and genuine fear. "The man who threatened to break your legs via a 'training ground accident' if you so much as made his daughter sad. How do you think he's going to react when you tell him you're taking her to another country?"

The color drained from Leon's face. In his relief that Sofia was coming with him, he had completely, utterly forgotten about that tiny, terrifying detail.

Just as the full, horrifying weight of his impending doom was crashing down on him, Palmer's phone buzzed with a news alert. He glanced at it, and a strange, confused expression came over his face.

"Well," he said slowly, turning the phone around for Leon to see. "Looks like you might not be the only one leaving."

Leon looked at the screen.

The headline was a bombshell that made his own transfer drama seem like a minor footnote.

[BREAKING: In a shock move, Inter manager Cristian Chivu has been granted permission to speak with Real Madrid regarding their vacant managerial position.]

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