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The pain in Leo's left thigh was getting more noticeable and for a moment he had to grit his teeth when the impact of his foot to the ball etched itself through his whole leg.
Now was not the time to give up and cry.
He dared to glance at the clock.
84 minutes played, they were still down 0-1 and in his mind he could hear his mum's voice reassuring him that his dad would make it until the final.
He would be lying if he said he hadn't noticed how it had switched from: he would make it to come to the final to he would make it to watch the final to he would be alive for the final.
Leo had made his dad a promise, and he wouldn't let some pain in his always-bothersome left hamstring stop him from fulfilling his promise.
He looked around over the positions of the other players. England has retreated deep into their own box after their goal. A tactical decision Leo couldn't understand, but was eternally grateful for, because it made his job slightly more easy.
In the middle he spotted Enzo, who had tried and tried again to score from right outside the box. But there were too many defenders blocking his shot. He briefly made eye contact with Enzo, silently telling him I'll make you some space. Rodri passed Leo the ball without him having to ask, and he let himself wait just enough to draw all of their attention to himself.
And this time the ball ended up where it belonged – in the back of the English net.
1-1. They were back in the game.
His legs almost gave out underneath him as he sprinted over to where Enzo was already celebrating with the rest of the boys, leaping into the young midfielders arms, trusting that he would catch Leo.
But the game wasn't over yet and Leo knew they had to win this in regular time, if he wanted to have any chance for his legs to survive the final.
Quietly he urged them on to return to their positions. "Please guys, it's not won yet…"
Like always the team listened to his every word, something Leo never got tired of.
The clock continued to tick down.
Leo's legs continued hurting.
But he still forced himself to run to reach the rebound from Alexis' shot against the post. Quickly he scanned the situation inside the box, there were Alexis and Gonzalo at the near post, about 5 very tall Englishmen and at the far post, Lautaro.
Leo narrowed his eyes for a second, calculating the distance, before making his decision of putting the cross straight onto Lautaro's head.
2-1.
The entire bench was running towards him, all of them yelling into his ears.
The last of them was Lautaro, who pressed a kiss to Leo's temple and whispered into his ear: "This one was for Jorge. We're gonna give you that cup to bring to him."
A soon as the final whistle sounded Leo let his legs give out beneath him, punching the air twice.
We're going to the final, dad. I wish you could be here to see this.
Eventually the team descended onto him and he pushed himself back to his aching feet.
"We weren’t leaving, Dad. We were going to do it!"
He let Enzo put him onto his shoulders – thankful that the pressure was finally off his legs. But he could feel Enzo breathe heavily beneath his thighs and immediately got a self-conscious. They were already doing so much for him, they shouldn't have to carry him around even more.
"Enzito, please, I'm too heavy. Don't hurt yourself, we need you in the final."
But Enzo didn't put him down, just gently squeezed each of Leo's ankles, fingertips massaging the tender flesh.
"Leo, don't think I didn't see you limping these last five minutes. You need to take care of yourself. This team needs you more than me."
"I am taking care. Let. Me. Down."
Enzo grumbled, but finally did what Leo told him to.
He let himself be dragged into the celebrations, but as soon as they left the pitch his fingers itched for his phone.
He was never sure if he wanted to have a message from his mother about his dad's condition, or just a message if he enjoyed the game.
For more it was already too late today, he would have to call tomorrow morning.
"Leo…" The team's physiotherapist shook his head as Leo groaned in pain for the third time of his regeneration massage session. "You know that you need to listen to what your body is telling you during the game. Otherwise it will give out on you."
He dug his hands in the back of Leo's thigh, the sharp pain keeping him from answering.
"I know, why you do it. Believe me, but you won't help anyone, least of all your dad, if you collapse on Sunday."
Leo nodded defeated. "I know, but I promised him."
In his daily phone call with his mother, she had told him, Jorge had been able to smile when she told him that they reached the final.
"I'm gonna order you to rest today and all day tomorrow, absolutely no running and if possible walking, maybe another massage, and we'll talk about giving you some pain meds for the game on Sunday."
"It doesn't hurt that bad?!"
"Maybe not now, but you do want to be able to walk up to the podium to lift the trophy, no? Also I'm sure Rodri will volunteer to take care of you."
Leo blushed. He knew if he asked Rodrigo, he would do everything for Leo.
Which was something Leo might need to take advantage off right now, because as the physio finished up his massage, his legs felt like jello. He almost collapsed to the floor, yelping as strong hand caught him.
"Careful, capi." Dibu looked at the physio. "Is he free to go?"
"He is, but he should walk as little as possible."
Leo groaned again, as Dibu's eyes lit up. He crouched down in front of Leo.
"Well then, hop on, mi capitan."
The next days were spent with being carried around by Dibu, watching the others train and long phone calls with his family.
He even managed to speak with his father for five minutes, telling him again how hard he was fighting, begging him to hold on a few more days until Leo could return with the cup.
That conversation left him completely drained, but even more determined to push beyond every limit to win.
But since bad news rarely comes alone, a grim-looking FIFA official showed up at the final team meeting on Saturday.
"I'm sure all of you have seen the controversies around this tournament."
Several people laughed. They all had seen it, Leo had to comfort a few of the young kids more than once, when they had started doom scrolling, spiraling down deeper and deeper into the hate. He had also told his brothers to make sure neither their parents nor Mari-Sol would notice how bad things were on the internet right now.
"And what does this have to do with us and our game?" Scaloni frowned.
"Well a large part of them are the allegations that it's fixed for Argentina and that's affecting the ratings. Mr. Infantino is not very happy about that. Especially your little stunt at the semi final."
"The only thing we have done the entire time was busting our asses to defend this title." Leandro glanced over at Leo, but he subtly shook his head. "It's not our fault Egypt fumbled a 2-0 lead or England decided to 'park the bus' after just one goal. So I don't know what the fuck you want from us right now."
"Isn't it clear?" Licha piped up. "He wants us to throw the game tomorrow, so the UEFA people keep jerking him off."
The official gasped offended and Leo reprimanded Licha silently, even if he internally agreed with his words.
"I reject such an accusation. I'm just here to tell you that there will be no more favouritism during the final."
They all looked at each other, absolutely speechless. It was just another word that the referee would be biased towards Spain.
Licha opened his mouth to complain, but the official cut him off: "I would be very quiet, Mr. Martinez. Keep in mind we're still contemplating sanctions against you for showing a political message after the game."
Licha pressed his lips together, but nodded.
"Alright, that's all I wanted to tell you, good luck tomorrow."
The moment the door closed behind him, half the room exploded. The loudest were of course Licha and Cuti.
"This fucking asshole, this is so unfair!"
"Do they think we're stupid? Or so weak that we'll just roll over and let them walk all over us?"
Scaloni stopped them from further rants: "Then we'll just have to make sure to win fair and square tomorrow."
Even with Scaloni's reassurance the tension within the team rose as they traveled over to the stadium. They were once again given a heavy police escort due to some still ongoing threats, but even when they entered their dressing room nobody could relax.
Somebody had taped a picture of them holding that Malvinas flag on the wall. A quiet warning on what they had to lose.
Suddenly Leo gasped and everyone looked over. Leo had gone as white as sheet, hands clenched tightly around another sheet of paper. Dibu gently pried it out of his hands, before Leo immediately hurried to the bathroom to throw up.
It was a small note, simply saying "Sending our best regards to your father."
"Fucking hell, they're really trying to get into his head. We really need to win this for him."
He balled up the note and threw it across the room, directly into the trash.
Once Leo returned from the bathroom, his face was devoid of all emotions. Grimly he laced up his shoes, and made his way to the exit.
– – – – –
His broken finger hurt, every time Dibu safely clutched the ball between his hands, but he ignored it.
They had to win this. For Leo, for Leo's dad.
Spain was stronger than they had expected or maybe… they had not just managed to get into Leo's head, because somehow they couldn't produce a single shot on goal in the first 80 minutes while Dibu did what he could.
He could only watch from afar how Leo had to abandon at least three runs into the box, one time even a 1v1 against their keeper, grimacing every time he stopped again to continue scanning the game.
Leo was hurting again.
And it certainly didn't help that the referee was convinced that no Spanish player had ever committed a foul in their entire life, and ripping Leo off his feet certainly didn't count either.
Quite frankly all of them were exhausted and ready for this game to be over with.
When they all gathered in his penalty area, for another Spanish free kick, Dibu used his probably only chance to speak to Julian and Simeone.
"We need to find some way to score fast… Leo won't survive another 30 minutes playing like this. He's already pushed way beyond his limits and the only reason he's not limping right now is that he doesn't want to show weakness in case his dad is somehow watching."
They both nodded solemnly.
Dibu caught the ball once again, quickly bringing it back into play.
The clock was once again ticking.
85 minutes… 90 minutes… four minutes of extra time… Pau Cubarsi went flying and Enzo was kicked off the pitch…
Leo once again went down somewhere in the middle of the pitch and when he got up he couldn't hide his slight limp anymore.
It was as if Dibu could hear him grit his teeth all the way across the pitch, as Leo himself stole the ball straight from Rodri's foot, sending it wide on the wing to Taglia, before bursting forward himself towards the edge of Spain's penalty box.
He didn't have to demand the ball back from Julian, who had taken over the run towards the middle from Taglia. The ball landed on their number 10s left foot, and from there flew in a perfect arch over Simon's outstretched fingers into the back of the net.
The whole Argentina bench exploded, everyone running towards Julian and Leo and the others, while Dibu had to watch from afar. But that was alright, Dibu could hug him, when they won.
It took almost five minutes until they released their captain, the Spanish players already flocking around the referee to complain about time wasting. Who promptly made his way to the pile of Argentina players separating them.
Only Leo remained sitting on the floor, grin on his face, but tears rolling down his cheeks. Slowly he tried to get up, but his left leg didn't seem to want to carry him at first.
Julian immediately turned around and pulled him up, not letting him go until Leo stabilised himself.
The game continued, Dibu tried to concentrate on the ball – three more minutes, come on! – but his attention lingered on their captain, who barely moved from his position in the middle circle. His eyes kept scanning the game, but they could all see the way his legs were trembling, in his effort to stay on his feet.
Dibu wanted to yell at the referee to finally end this game, but he knew if he did he would get booked immediately. And they were already one and a half players short.
Somehow they had managed to regain possession of the ball and Leo briefly ordered them to keep this ball whatever happens.
– – – – –
Leo knew he needed to move, the team would have no chance playing essentially 9v11, but his thighs trembled so hard that he could barely take one step without feeling like his legs would crumble underneath him.
Muted and shaking he could only watch as Spain made another run towards Dibu, Taglia sliding in with a precise tackle to clear the ball.
Ferran Torres fell over like a tree, the referee pointing to the spot.
Penalty.
Leo didn't need to see any replays to know that Taglia had definitely touched the ball first. In fact he was pretty sure he hadn't touched Torres at all. But he knew all protests in this game were pointless. The rest of his team thought differently, all of them crowding around him in various states of anger.
He was too far away to calm them down himself, but Aimar let out a quick and sharp whistle, a signal he normally used when they started roughhousing in training.
Reluctantly the team took their positions and Leo also slowly made their was closer, seeking eye contact with Dibu to send a silent plea to save them one more time.
Torres would shoot himself, and Leo quickly tried to remember which side he preferred. Slowly he inclined his head, until he saw the miniscule nod from Dibu. Message understood.
Leo clenched his fists and closed his eyes as the ref released the ball, until the stadium around them erupted.
Carefully he opened them again. Dibu was curled on the ground, before jumping up, ball tightly secured in his hands.
There was no time left on the clock and Leo felt like he couldn't breathe. The moments between Dibu's goal kick and the sound of the final whistle felt like years, like the entire weight of two decades of football pressed down on him.
He didn't even feel himself stumble, as his tired, overworked legs stopped to carry him.
Around him the crowd roared, his teammates yelled but he couldn't see or hear any of that, he could barely bring his arms underneath himself to avoid face planting into the grass.
The only thing on his mind was the thin voice of his father during their last conversation asking him, if he was eating enough – he definitely wasn't. Leo had begged his dad, hold for a little while longer and I'll bring you the cup, I promise. But Jorge also made him promise to enjoy playing with the team.
Once again he itched for his phone, he needed to call them, he needed to know if…
A hand gently touched his back, startling his brain back onto the pitch. He could feel the tears stinging in his eyes, the way his stomach rumbled – going back to throwing up before games was a very bad idea – and now that the adrenaline slowly left his body he could feel every ache he had ignored over the last month and a half.
"Leo?" The hand, still so unbearably gentle, moved from his back to his neck, before burying itself into his hair.
With a lot of effort he managed to look up, in the eyes of Emiliano. He wanted to get up, to get on his knees in front of their goalkeeper for saving them once again.
But he couldn't move, his limbs too tired to cooperate, until a pair of strong hands grabbed him from behind, pulling him up-up-up. He groaned when his muscles trembled, hoping Dibu would bear his weight, because his legs definitely wouldn't.
"Shhh, I've got you, capi. You did a great job."
More hands grabbed him, helping to keep his balance. With their help he somehow managed to wrap his arms around Emi's neck, clinging to the goalkeeper.
Dibu kept whispering words into his ear, while for the first time in one and a half months it felt like he was weightless.
It felt like an eternity, until he dared to look up from Emi's chest. The entire team had crowded around them, all of them helping to keep him up.
His eyes met Enzo's, who immediately looked away, seemingly ashamed.
"I'm so sorry, Leo… I don't know what– there is no excuse for getting send–"
But Leo interrupted him: "Enzito, there's literally nothing you could have done. The odds were already stacked against us from the beginning. If not for you, it would have been Leandro or someone else."
Dibu grunted a bit as Enzo almost threw himself at Leo and therefore also Dibu, who still held most of his weight.
But Dibu couldn't hold him up forever, so eventually Leo steeled himself for the sting in his thighs, he wiggled against Dibu's arms until he set him back down.
He almost collapsed again, but more hands shot out before he could fall on his ass.
"Are you sure you can stand? You really overexerted yourself this time."
Leo nodded mutely even if the first few steps sent molten lava through his nerve endings. But they needed to thank the fans, before long the FIFA officials would bother them for the prize giving ceremony.
With small, heavy steps he walked over to the Spanish players. He felt all the cameras of the stadium on him, and couldn't help but look up to the big screen, where the final score was displayed.
Argentina 1 – Spain 0
He knew as his team fell into step behind him, as he shook hands with Lamine, Pedri, Gavi and all the other Barcelona players.
Eventually a FIFA official stepped up to them – thankfully not the one from the day before, or Licha might have thrown their win right into his face.
"So… ummmm, first of all congratulations. We're going to award Pau Cubarsi, Lionel Messi and Unai Simon with the individual trophies."
Usually Leo couldn't care less if he had won this golden ball, but this time he had tried so hard to make his father smile, should he be able to watch.
Slowly, very slowly he followed the two Spaniards up the stairs, not looking Infantino in the eyes. The FIFA boss looked as if he had bitten into a lemon, when he handed over the trophy.
Walking – limping – past the world cup trophy a second time, knowing that it was only a matter of minutes until he would get his hands on it again was such an intense feeling that Leo almost started crying again.
He posed for his photo, and then pointed directly into the nearest camera, mouthing a "this is for you, dad."
The whole celebration was a blur afterwards, he could barely remember how many times his team had hugged him or pressed a kiss to his head.
The only thing he could remember clearly was when Anto – he hadn't even know she was in the stadium – had handed him his phone, video call with his older brother already open. Rodrigo had been visiting their dad, who was already too bad to watch all 90 minutes of the game, to keep him updated on the score.
"Lio… I know you're probably going to celebrate with the team and all, but--"
"Let me stop you right there. Of course I'll be on my way home as soon as the pilot can get my plane ready tonight. I want to see dad– I need to see him."
Anto hooked her chin over his shoulder: "I've already called him, mi amor. The plane is on standby, ready for take off as soon as we can get to the airfield."
"I– you– Anto, I love you." He turned to give her a long and heated kiss, not caring how many cameras were probably catching the moment. Only the exaggerated choking sound coming from the speakers of his phone interrupted them.
"Seriously? Stop it you two."
Anto laughed and couldn't help but wink at her brother-in-law. "Sorry, I'm gonna text you once we're in the air, see you soon." He hung up and gently pushed Leo to his feet.
"Go and talk to Scaloni."
As soon as the celebrations moved back to the dressing room, Leo pulled the coach aside.
"Lio… I– ummmm… I can't fly back with the team… I– my plane will go directly to Rosario, I can't miss–" Leo didn't even want to think about it.
Scaloni immediately nodded: "Of course, whatever you need. I'm sure the fans will understand. I'm guessing you won't even come back to the hotel?"
"I'm sorry… my brother called earlier and dad's… they don't know how long…"
"You don't need to explain Leo, we're all with you in this. Go and be with your father… actually…" he paused and grabbed the trophy from where it was perched on the table. "Take it with you, bring it to your dad like I know you promised."
"Lio, I can't just… you need this for the fans, it's bad enough that I won't be there… you can't just return without it."
"And we won't. You're going to be the one taking it back to Argentina. The fans will have enough opportunities to see it again, your dad may not…"
"I can never thank you enough. Truly."
– – – – –
Leo wasn't sure how they made it out of the stadium, to the airport and onto the plane without being stopped by paparazzi, but when they landed in Rosario, the only person waiting for them was Matías.
They hadn't seen each other in a while, Leo too busy with preparation for the world cup and the world cup, Matías busy taking care of everything around their dad's medical care and their families club in Rosario. They embraced each other tightly.
Quickly they loaded their luggage into Matías' car, until Leo's brother stopped in his tracks.
"You brought it? Like shouldn't this be with the team?"
Almost reverently he touched the trophy case Thiago had been carrying.
"It should, but the team said, they– they won this one for dad, so we should show it to him first. Rodri is going to come tomorrow, to take it back to the team."
With ease, Matías drove them through their hometown, always knowing how to avoid the crowds celebrating on the streets somehow.
The first person to really react to his presence was at the reception of the hospital.
Leo could feel his eyes on him as soon as they entered the lobby. With a gasp he jumped up, basically sinking to his knees in front of Leo.
"Oh my god, oh my, Messi– here, I– thank you thank you."
Leo awkwardly held out his hand for him to shake, before Matías stepped in.
"We'd like to sign in for Jorge Messi."
"Of course, of course I'm so sorry, it's just… wow, I'd never imagined I'd ever meet… it's an honour truly." He scurried back behind his desk, frantically typing into his computer.
Their father's room was in a private wing, away from any prying eyes. The nurse that greeted them was also visibly starstruck, but desperately trying to stay professional.
"Oh you're in luck, he's awake for the moment… and he's been asking for you."
Leo hadn't seen his father in person for a while, so it was shocking how small and fragile he looked, connected to all the tubes. Still he smiled tiredly as Leo entered the room.
"Dad… I– I brought you something…"
Gently he put both the world cup trophy and the golden ball onto the small table at the foot of the bed.
"We did it. We really did it for you. We won."
"Lio… let me look at you… you look tired…"
"He came directly from the game, dad… he barely showered." Matías sat down on the other side of the bed.
With shaky hands he reached out for the trophy. "Hijo, you won?"
"Yeah, we did it for you. The whole team fought for you."
"Tell them, thank you will you…"
"Of course, Papa."
They sat there quietly until Jorge drifted back to sleep.
"Lio, by the way I saw you limping earlier. Maybe you should let the doctors check you over too."
"Matí, I'll be fine, just exhausted."
He knew his brother was right, his leg definitely needed to be looked at, but every twinge and pain had been worth it just because his hard work had brought one last smile onto his father's lips.
Because this is what he had caught for these past eight games. To win if for his dad.
The whole team had known.
The first title was for Argentina.
This one was for his dad.