Chapter 245: Pep, Every Encounter in This World Is...
Leon's tabloid storm reached its peak on the afternoon of February 27th, during his personal press conference following training.
Or rather, when Leon publicly confirmed that he was indeed dating someone, the topic exploded across the European football world like wildfire.
Many fans were shocked. Countless female fans were left heartbroken.
But overall, the response was surprisingly forgiving. After all, Leon was about to turn twenty-three—being in a relationship was completely normal.
It didn't contradict the image Mendes had helped cultivate for him over the years either. He wasn't out chasing flings; he was in a legitimate relationship.
There were plenty of footballers who lived similarly clean private lives, but none at Leon's level of fame had kept their image so spotless.
Still, Leon never revealed Anastasiya's identity.
Not because he didn't want to, but because she preferred not to be under that much attention.
After all, Anastasiya had only just finished high school not long ago, and the overwhelming attention she received at the mall yesterday had already made her feel out of place.
After quickly catching up on Leon's matches and learning about his popularity in the football world, she understood something clearly—if she wanted to be with him, she had two choices:
Either go fully public and live under constant scrutiny…
Or stay semi-private, protecting as much of her personal world as she could.
Just imagining herself going to class or out with friends and being followed by reporters, or her family being constantly disturbed, made her anxious.
So she asked Leon not to reveal her identity for the time being.
Maybe after university, when she was ready, she could step into the spotlight without fear.
Leon respected that.
So no matter how cleverly or directly the reporters asked, he said nothing about her.
All the fans knew was that Leon's girlfriend was young and beautiful—based on what bystanders had told The Sun.
But exactly how beautiful? What nationality? No media outlet had a definitive answer.
And with no football matches going on, fans had nothing else to focus on. Naturally, the gossip became a full-blown frenzy.
Every media outlet in England—from tabloids to sports networks—jumped on the story, mixing fact and fiction in increasingly creative ways.
For a moment, Leon's romance seemed to be grabbing more attention than the upcoming League Cup final between Chelsea and Manchester City.
But Mourinho and Guardiola didn't mind at all.
If anything, the off-field distraction took a lot of pressure off their teams.
For Mourinho, Leon finally addressing his personal life was a relief. It was something the manager had quietly worried about for years.
Still, in the days that followed, the teasing on the training ground was relentless.
Leon couldn't walk five steps without being swarmed by joking teammates.
Every time, Mourinho watched with amusement… and then stepped in at the last minute to rescue him.
The banter brought extra energy to Cobham Training Centre. Amid the tight preparations, laughter returned.
Chelsea calmly completed their final pre-match routines.
March 2nd, afternoon. Wembley Stadium, London.
As Leon sat on the team bus with his teammates, driving into Wembley's underground lot, his mind drifted to memories of last summer.
He remembered the grand stage of the Champions League final.
He remembered the glory.
Two assists, a comeback against Bayern, and sealing the win for Real Madrid.
Beating Bayern in the final. Winning the "European Derby." Making history as part of the first team to defend a Champions League title since the format changed…
All of it replayed in his head like a dream.
As he stepped onto the pitch to warm up with his teammates, Leon looked out across the vast Wembley stands.
To him, this stadium wasn't just a venue—it was sacred ground.
Last year, it was Mourinho's Real Madrid's lucky charm.
Today, Leon believed it would be his again.
Mourinho, returning to familiar ground, was flooded with emotion.
He'd lifted trophies here before—many times.
But last summer's victory had been the most unforgettable.
Still, for Mourinho, this final wasn't just about the venue—it was about the man standing across from him.
His oldest rival. His oldest friend.
"Back in the Premier League, and we're still fighting over domestic cup finals..."
Mourinho chuckled inwardly.
He couldn't help but smile.
In the Manchester City dressing room, Pep Guardiola stood silently in front of the tactical board.
But he wasn't going over match plans again.
Instead, he stared at Mourinho's recent tactical tweaks from Chelsea's last three games.
After a long pause, he chuckled softly and ran a hand over his now bald head.
"Shouldn't we go over the tactics again? Pep, maybe we should remind the players about Leon's movement…"
His assistant was visibly nervous.
After all, they hadn't beaten Mourinho much in the past three years.
And Mourinho's record in finals—especially cup finals—was terrifying.
He didn't want to be nervous, but the trophy was right there. And their opponent was just so hard to deal with.
Guardiola shook his head gently.
Instead of looking back at the board, he turned and began to calm his assistant down.
And once both teams had finished warming up, every coach in both dugouts—whether confident or nervous—put on their game face.
In the final ten minutes before kickoff, it was no longer possible to walk through every tactic again.
All the prep had already been done over the past few days.
At this stage, it was up to the players.
The managers had done all they could.
Now, the outcome would be decided on the pitch.
As the clock neared 3 PM, players from both Chelsea and Manchester City stepped onto the pitch to thunderous cheers from the 90,000 fans in attendance.
Wembley Stadium was filled to capacity early, and that was no easy feat—not for a venue that holds nearly 90,000 spectators.
But today's League Cup final featured the Premier League's top two teams. Naturally, the occasion was massive.
In previous seasons, many fans had mocked the League Cup final for lacking quality and excitement. Compared to the FA Cup, too many Premier League giants tended to abandon it.
There were even years when the finalists were two mid-table Premier League clubs—or worse, included a Championship side.
Interest among supporters would plummet.
But not this year.
No one dared joke about the level of this final.
As the live broadcast cut to close-ups of Terry, Kompany, Agüero, Ibrahimović, David Silva, Leon...
One by one, the faces of global football stars appeared onscreen, and neutral fans at home couldn't help but envy those lucky enough to be in the stands.
The atmosphere inside the stadium was electric. It stirred the players on both sides.
This was the kind of game professionals lived for—not just for the trophies or the money, but for the chance to shine in front of millions.
Few players can truly stay calm under that kind of spotlight.
But today's match featured more than its fair share of battle-hardened veterans.
The older players didn't need to be mentioned—they'd been here before.
Even among the younger core, names like Fabregas and David Silva had been part of Spain's legendary run from 2008 to 2012: two European Championships and one World Cup.
Their national team resumes were unmatched.
Leon, on the other hand, had won three top-flight league titles in three years, two Champions Leagues—and played starring roles in both finals.
In cups like the Coppa Italia, Copa del Rey, the Club World Cup, and the UEFA Super Cup, Leon had also delivered world-class performances.
Players like these—used to playing high-pressure finals, familiar with facing top opponents—wouldn't be fazed by a domestic cup final.
Fabregas and Silva looked visibly more relaxed than most of their teammates.
And Leon?
He casually smiled and nodded at the camera, right before the opening whistle.
Chelsea fans saw that smile and immediately felt at ease.
They couldn't explain why—but to them, Leon's grin meant everything was going to be okay.
Sure, it sounded like superstition. But then again, Leon had already given Chelsea fans so many "supernatural" moments that superstition seemed reasonable.
Even his teammates drew confidence from it.
They didn't realize it, but Leon's smile gave the whole team a morale buff.
After exchanging pleasantries with old friends like Fabregas, Leon's expression grew serious.
He took a deep breath, rallied the players (minus Captain Terry), and led them to their half.
His eyes grew steely.
Kompany and Manchester City had the kickoff.
Leon, using the last seconds before the whistle, cupped his mouth to whisper last-minute strategy with Lampard.
At exactly 3 PM on March 2nd, the referee's whistle signaled the kickoff of the 2013–2014 English League Cup final at Wembley.
City didn't charge forward immediately.
Under Fabregas's command, they spread out smoothly, maintaining composure and passing through their own half.
Leon raised an eyebrow.
At home, fans recognized the familiar sight.
Just like in their previous match against Chelsea, City weren't pressing, nor were they launching full attacks.
Guardiola was repeating his strategy: defend with possession, deny Chelsea counter-attacking chances, slow the game to a crawl.
That last game had ended in a draw.
"Is Pep trying the same trick again? Hoping to drag Chelsea into extra time?"
Fans had that thought—but dismissed it quickly.
Guardiola might play the long game during the league season, but in a one-off final?
There was no way Mourinho would play along.
Would Pep really sacrifice City's attacking edge like that?
Could he trust his players to hold off Chelsea's pressure?
Veteran fans could see the dynamics clearly.
Leon also stayed calm.
Mourinho hadn't instructed them to contest midfield dominance immediately.
Chelsea's opening plan was to stay compact. If an opening came, they'd strike.
Mourinho had provided detailed tactical options.
In that system, Leon had significant decision-making power.
Unless he hesitated or made a major mistake, Mourinho wouldn't step in to override him early.
Leon signaled his teammates to hold the line.
So when some neutral fans began complaining that Mourinho was playing conservative football again…
They didn't realize—it was Leon who made the call to stay patient.
City's midfield passed with ease, but to viewers, it quickly started to feel stale.
Leon didn't cross the halfway line, and with him setting the tone, Chelsea's front line didn't press either.
"I told you—Leon won't fall for it.
He's not just a young lion ready to strike—he has patience.
If we don't show him a weakness, he won't bite. He'll wait."
Guardiola sat on the bench, eyes focused on Leon, who was shouting instructions and adjusting Chelsea's shape.
With a hint of pride in his voice, Guardiola explained to his assistants what was happening on the pitch.
As if to say:
"See? Didn't I tell you? I know Leon better than you think.
In some ways, I might even understand him just as well as Mourinho does."
Watching as their pre-game plan—ceding early possession to Chelsea—fell apart, Guardiola didn't show a hint of frustration.
At least now his entire coaching staff understood: Chelsea's tactical execution today had been cautious, yet flawless.
And Guardiola?
He would never willingly surrender the initiative.
His City side could counterattack, sure. Even play reactive football from time to time.
But at his core, Guardiola demanded that his teams dictate the match.
That was who he was.
He didn't just want to win—he wanted to win his way.
Maybe he'd never again build a team as perfect as his 2011 Barcelona.
But he would never stop refining his philosophy. Never stop evolving.
So he made his move.
A few short steps to the touchline. A simple tactical gesture with his hand.
But in that moment, Manchester City's players burst into life with renewed intensity.
Today, City were lining up in their increasingly polished 4-3-3.
Fernandinho, Yaya Touré, and Fabregas took control of possession and began pushing forward with surgical precision.
Silva, Agüero, and Nasri? They blurred the lines between forwards and midfielders—dropping deep, receiving passes, swapping positions constantly, pulling Chelsea's defense every which way.
Different players. Different combinations.
But to Leon, it felt like he was facing that same opponent from two years ago.
The one he and his Real Madrid teammates had battled so many times.
From deep within, a surge of genuine excitement rushed through him.
Guardiola had succeeded—not in recreating Barcelona, but in executing the next evolution of his passing machine.
City weren't perfect yet, but they were far down the path of transformation.
The tactical foundation was in place.
Only now did it feel like Guardiola's team had truly arrived in the Premier League.
Mourinho clenched his hands behind his back, popping the joints in his fingers.
Leon finally moved.
Once upon a time, fans believed the only way to beat a Guardiola-style possession team was to sit deep, hit the flanks and half-spaces, foul when needed, and counterattack like your life depended on it.
It was Mourinho's original blueprint for stopping Barcelona.
But in Madrid, Mourinho had tried something new.
He took huge risks. Designed the most aggressive defensive schemes he'd ever used.
And it worked.
That risk birthed Mourinho's Real Madrid—kings of back-to-back Champions Leagues, masters of the "crazy press and ruthless break" style.
Now, Leon was leading Chelsea in that same fearless approach—pressing forward instead of sitting back.
This wasn't an impulsive decision.
It was one of Mourinho's pre-match tactical contingencies.
True, today's Chelsea weren't as dominant as that Real Madrid side.
But this City wasn't peak Barcelona either.
And this kind of high-press, front-foot defending?
Mourinho believed it could work. And Leon trusted his teammates 100%.
They had endured brutal training sessions for this.
And now, they would unleash that preparation with everything they had.
Leon led the charge, with Lampard covering behind him. Hazard and De Bruyne tucked inside. Ibrahimović dropped back to help swarm the ball-carrier.
Every attacker on Chelsea's frontline contributed to the press.
When Fabregas sensed the pressure and quickly shifted the ball wide...
Silva and Nasri turned—and found Azpilicueta and Bertrand already closing them down.
Chelsea weren't just pressing.
They were throwing seven players into the front press!
Add in Kalas—glued to Agüero with dogged aggression—and only Terry and Matić remained behind to anchor the defense.
They were all in.
If City were the brewing storm, Chelsea had become a hurricane—shredding the calm with relentless force.
Even the 10,000+ neutral fans at Wembley suddenly roared in support of Chelsea.
Their noise joined that of the Chelsea supporters, completely drowning out City's fans.
It proved something.
Fans didn't hate defensive football.
They hated watching teams sit in their own half, waiting to get battered.
But proactive pressing? Relentless pressing? Pressing with the courage to risk everything?
That thrilled them.
City's organization began to fray.
Fabregas was good. In the right system, he could offer just as much control as Iniesta ever did.
But an aging Yaya Touré was no Xavi. Fernandinho wasn't Busquets.
And City had no Messi.
No one to receive the ball in a hopeless position and break through a press with raw genius.
Without that world-class safety valve, Guardiola's possession game was far more fragile.
He needed a midfield that didn't just edge out the opponent—it had to dominate them completely.
Technically. Physically. Intellectually.
Only then could his system rule the field.
Maybe someday he would build that midfield again.
He had the mind. City had the money. If the board gave him time, he could assemble the right pieces.
But today?
Today, City's midfield was losing the battle.
Especially with Leon entering full-throttle mode from the start.
Soon, every City defender understood what Guardiola meant when he said:
"Leon runs like he's two players at once."
With Lampard providing the backup, Leon no longer needed to focus on calculated defensive anticipation.
His task now was simple—disrupt. Utterly shatter Manchester City's rhythm.
He and his teammates, including Ibrahimović, didn't care about stamina anymore.
This was a final—a one-match decider.
Leon was long used to Mourinho's "all-in" approach when chasing trophies.
"Sacrifice everything for victory."
It wasn't just a slogan—it was the core belief that helped Mourinho's Real Madrid achieve miracles, win six trophies in a year, and defend their Champions League title.
Now, starting today, Mourinho and Leon were going to show Chelsea's young squad exactly what those words meant.
The referee's whistle started going off more and more frequently. Chelsea's pressing was intense, their defensive aggression undeniable. In such tightly contested duels, it was inevitable that fouls would be called.
Fortunately, the referee was sharp but lenient. He saw no malice in Chelsea's challenges—only physicality—so most calls came with just verbal warnings.
City still managed to retain some control of the ball, but Guardiola started expressing visible dissatisfaction, complaining to the fourth official.
He wasn't truly angry. It was more about applying pressure to the referee's team.
After all, he'd seen this exact kind of messy, stop-start game whenever he faced Mourinho.
City looked passive now, but Guardiola didn't believe Chelsea had completely taken over the match.
Because, in truth, Chelsea's back line was very exposed.
All it would take was one moment—one pass that pierced Chelsea's suffocating press—and Agüero would have his chance to shake off Kalas and strike.
Guardiola believed in his Argentine striker.
If Mourinho dared take this kind of defensive risk, then Pep was absolutely willing to bet it all on a single attacking breakthrough.
Amid the furious back-and-forth, both sides had their moments.
Chelsea had already generated two dangerous counterattacks off interceptions.
But City nearly struck back, when Fabregas whipped a sudden, wide-angle diagonal pass that almost found Nasri sprinting into the box.
If not for Terry's sharp awareness and perfectly timed step forward, the linesman might never have flagged Nasri offside.
Both teams were now dancing on a knife's edge.
This was the kind of high-level chess match that made Premier League fans shout with glee.
This—this was what a true top-tier English clash should look like.
Few expected the two teams, who had played a dull draw in their last league meeting, to come out this fiery.
But while the neutrals cheered, fans of both clubs were on edge.
One moment they were cheering a chance—next moment, they were panicking as the ball flew back toward their own box.
With the match so wildly tense, even breathing became cautious.
But in the center of the storm, the midfield cores of both teams had to remain composed.
Leon was doing everything he could to hound Fabregas—pressuring, intercepting, chasing.
His offensive output had dipped, yes, but his defensive efforts created space for his teammates to charge forward.
With their weapons—Hazard, Ibra, Lampard—Chelsea still looked more likely to break through.
Leon wasn't sure how many minutes had passed. He guessed the match had passed the 20-minute mark.
Hazard had just failed to get past Zabaleta, unable to penetrate deep into City's box.
Ibra was tightly marked by Kompany, so Hazard wisely didn't force a pass.
He played it back to Lampard instead.
Leon, seeing the move, dropped back a couple steps to give himself some room—and Lampard's pass came as expected.
On the right side, De Bruyne and Azpilicueta were charging up. City's left looked light on numbers.
Leon moved toward them with the ball, scanning for options.
At this moment, he had two safe passes.
Option one: quickly send it to De Bruyne, who could combine with Azpi on the right wing.
Option two: recycle to Matić and reset the play, drawing City out before reorganizing.
Leon chose neither.
He nudged the ball to his right, shaping to pass—but then, suddenly, he cut the ball back, slipping past Silva's blindside pressure like he had eyes in the back of his head.
Yaya Touré, standing just two meters ahead, had assumed Silva's press had done enough.
Leon appeared to be turning his back to shield and reset the ball.
Touré's eyes lit up.
He surged forward to double the press.
Together with Silva, they were about to trap Leon between them, forcing a back pass.
But that was exactly what Leon wanted.
Just as both of them overcommitted and left their positions—
Leon swiveled.
A feint to the left, then a drag back to the right. He slipped between them.
And then—he was gone.
With a smooth burst of acceleration, he escaped through the narrowest of seams, ball glued to his feet.
Two full turns, lightning-fast footwork.
From the stands and screens, it didn't look real.
This wasn't the movement of a 1.85-meter-tall player.
Players of his build don't move like this.
No. Leon spun like he was made of liquid.
He twirled, and Touré and Silva—two of the most experienced midfielders in the Premier League—were left chasing air.
On the bench, Guardiola sat stunned.
For a second, he swore it wasn't Leon in the number 10 shirt.
It was... Xavi.
"There it is! That classic Xavi-style spin! Leon has broken through Touré and Silva—he's charging into City's heart!!"
Commentator Jun Jian screamed with glee.
And just like the millions of Chinese fans watching, he couldn't believe his eyes.
Leon was carving through midfield like a knife through silk.
The storm had broken.
And Leon?
He was the eye of it.
At this moment, it wasn't just City's defenders—even most of Chelsea's players hadn't expected it.
Leon, facing a double-team, still managed to break through with such agility?
On the opposite side of the pitch, Fabregas, who had been tracking Hazard's movement, instantly abandoned his mark and rushed to intercept Leon.
Fernandinho didn't dare commit. If he did, and Leon made it past or played a killer pass, City's center-backs would be left totally exposed.
So tactically, Fabregas made the correct decision.
He knew the odds of stopping Leon alone were slim. But even just slowing him down would give Fernandinho time to position himself.
Unfortunately, Fabregas had overestimated his own speed.
He didn't even graze Leon's jersey—Leon had already accelerated past him.
With that burst, Leon hit his top gear.
If he were just a little faster, maybe he could've pulled off a Di María or Robben-style move—explode down the flank, cut inside, and charge into the box.
But Leon wasn't quite at that level of explosiveness… yet.
Still, against Fernandinho, he had the advantage.
Leon's stamina was elite, so even after repeated sprints, his pace never dropped.
And just then, words from Kaka echoed in his mind—words from their past training sessions together.
"Once your speed and dribbling are solid, the key to long-distance surges isn't just technique—it's confidence.
Believe in yourself, Little Lion.
And more importantly, believe in your teammates.
Trust that they'll make the runs, open the lanes, and see your movement."
In a flash, Leon and Fernandinho brushed past each other.
Fernandinho, desperate to halt the charge, moved in—but the ball was already gone.
Leon, without slowing down, poked the ball to Fernandinho's right and shot around him on the left—burning him with pure pace.
Fernandinho spun in surprise, but no matter how fast he turned, he couldn't catch a fully sprinting Leon.
And Leon?
He only had one target in mind—the Swedish tower.
Sure enough, as Fernandinho turned, he spotted Ibrahimović—who had pulled out of the box to meet the pass.
For Zlatan, laying the ball off was child's play.
Even before the ball reached him, he had already adjusted his body.
Leon charged into the box. Kompany, having tracked Zlatan, screamed at Nastasić to step up.
But Nastasić was a step too late.
At the moment Zlatan flicked the ball forward, Nastasić was still behind Leon—just half a foot, but enough to play him onside.
The timing, the movement—it was flawless.
Leon slowed slightly inside the box, took Zlatan's pass with a perfect first touch, and was met immediately by Joe Hart.
The England keeper came out aggressively—arms wide, legs planted, trying to block every angle.
He'd studied Leon in detail before the match.
He knew Leon's favorite finishing methods inside the box—headers and powerful strikes to the corners.
This wasn't a header situation. And the angle was tight. Hart was confident.
He wouldn't give Leon even a glimpse of the far post.
In the stands, Chelsea fans held their breath.
"At least win a corner…"
Some fans already started bracing for disappointment.
But Leon wasn't panicked.
He didn't need a wonder strike.
Just a calm, composed finish.
He shaped his body and placed a clean, firm shot—low and direct.
The ball skidded across the grass and slipped straight through Hart's legs, nestling into the near post.
Hart, realizing too late, clamped his legs and dropped—but it was already over.
As he turned and saw the ball in the net, his brain had room for only one thought:
"Leon, you liar! You can finish like that?!"
Across the world, fans shared Hart's disbelief.
Had Leon mastered conventional finishing too?
There was no time for answers.
Commentators were already losing their minds.
Mourinho threw off his mask of calm and exploded from the bench, arms raised, roaring.
Not even Lukaku could keep up with the 50-year-old sprinting toward the sideline.
Wembley shook with a sea of blue thunder.
Leon pointed to the broadcast camera near City's goal line, then threw his head back and screamed.
The celebration swept across Chelsea's half like a tidal wave.
Leon's wild roar, Mourinho's raw emotion, and Guardiola's bitter silence—it was a scene fans had seen before.
Too many times, in too many stadiums, over the last three years of European football.
Leon turned, laughing as he looked toward Guardiola on the sidelines.
"Pep, every encounter in this world… is just a reunion after a long parting."
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