The Wigan team coach pulled in just after half past three.
Leo, craning his neck, watched from his window seat as the hotel came into view — tall glass, modern stone, tucked into a quiet street off the main road in West London.
It wasn't glamorous, but it was neat and what a team like Wigan could facilitate.
Outside, a couple of locals in QPR jackets loitered with phones raised, trying to act casual.
The bus doors hissed open, and the staff moved with purpose, lifting kit bags and distributing room keys.
Leo stepped off and adjusted his bag over his shoulder, following the others into the lobby's soft, polished light.
The inside was quieter than he expected — maybe soundproofed, or maybe just that serene.
The front desk had already been cleared for the club.
A table waited near the elevators where room assignments were laid out by number.
"Calderon, Leo — 414," someone called.
A laminated key card was handed his way.
