Lucky Break
Chapter One - GOLDEN BALLS
Leo Fletcher had always been lucky.
Not just “found-a-fiver-in-the-street” lucky. Not even “free-upgrade-on-every-flight” lucky. No—Leo existed on a higher plane of fortune altogether. Schoolmates called him “Golden Balls” after he scored a blindfolded goal during a charity match. That name stuck, mostly because nothing ever really went wrong for Leo. Job interviews turned into job offers. Strangers smiled at him in the street. He once spilled red wine on a white carpet and somehow made it cleaner.
By the time he turned thirty, Leo had accumulated a life most people would’ve said was charmed. A solid podcast with a loyal audience, health stats that baffled his GP, a flat he technically couldn’t afford but somehow never defaulted on. He had never broken a bone. Never lost a wallet. He’d been pickpocketed once on holiday and the thief returned the wallet, apologised, and subscribed to his podcast. That was just how things went for Leo Fletcher.
And, perhaps most crucially, a pair of ridiculous neon pineapple socks he swore brought him luck. They’d been a Secret Santa joke at a job he stayed in for three weeks. He wore them once on a whim, landed a surprise BBC interview, and the legend was born.
He didn’t wear them often—only when the stakes felt important, or the day felt just slightly off. They were never washed carefully, just crumpled at the back of a drawer, holding onto whatever cosmic charge they’d originally come with.
It was April 3rd. Leo’s birthday. He woke up slowly, smiling to himself. His mouth tasted of champagne and cake frosting, and there was a half-deflated balloon floating mournfully in the corner of the room. He had vague memories of people singing. There might have been karaoke. Possibly a conga line. He rolled onto his back with the kind of post-party glow that comes from knowing everything in life always tilts your way.
Then he saw the man sitting at the end of his bed.
Not a burglar. Not exactly a presence, either. Just... a man. Mid-thirties, maybe. Unremarkable clothes. A neutral face. Like someone had told an AI to generate “default human.”
“Who the hell are you?” Leo croaked, propping himself up on one elbow.
“Your guardian angel,” the man replied, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
Leo stared at him, then blinked twice. “Sorry. What?”
“Your guardian angel,” he repeated, brushing a speck of lint from his trousers. “You know. Celestial protector, quiet architect of your improbable luck, unseen companion in moments of crisis. That sort of thing.”
Leo rubbed his face. “Right. Okay. Definitely still dreaming. This is some leftover cheese hallucination.”
“No, not cheese,” the man said thoughtfully. “The prawns, maybe. They were borderline.”
Leo squinted. “So you’re telling me you’re real? And you’ve just... what, been hanging around my entire life?”
“Not constantly,” the man replied. “I do have other clients. But yes, broadly speaking. I’ve been managing your trajectory. Not interfering too much—just the nudges. The red light you didn’t run. The umbrella you found just before the downpour. The BBC interview.”
Leo frowned. “That was you?”
“Technically, no. That was the socks. But I made sure the email didn’t go to spam.”
Leo blinked. “This is insane.”
The man nodded. “Yes. That’s a normal reaction.”
Leo sat up a little straighter. “Alright then, Mister...?”
“I’ve had many names,” the man said, folding his hands in his lap. “Solon. Raguel. Some call me Uriel. Depends on the century.” He shrugged. “But if it helps, you can call me Kevin.”
“Kevin.”
“I like toast,” Kevin said, by way of explanation.
Leo opened his mouth to respond, then thought better of it.
“Why are you here, Kevin?”
“I’m here to tell you,” Kevin said, rising from the bed, “that I’m taking April off.”
Leo frowned. “You’re taking... what, like annual leave?”
“Exactly. It’s my month. Has been for years. I thought you’d have noticed by now.”
“Noticed what?”
Kevin raised an eyebrow. “April’s always been a little... unlucky, hasn’t it?”
Leo paused. “Well, there was that time I lost my job.”
“April.”
“And the breakup in uni.”
“April.”
“And when I was born—wait, I was in an incubator for six weeks.”
Kevin nodded. “April.”
Leo narrowed his eyes. “So every April, you just... bugger off?”
“Precisely. Even celestial beings need a break. I’ve got a little place in the Alps. Wood-burning stove. No emails. No winged drama.”
Leo sat back against the pillows. “This is unbelievable.”
“Yet here we are.”
There was a long pause. Leo exhaled slowly.
“Fine. So what do I do for April?”
Kevin smiled, already beginning to fade. “Try not to die.”
And then, quite without ceremony, he was gone.
Leo stared at the space where Kevin had been. The air still carried the faint smell of burnt toast.
He pulled the covers up around his shoulders and lay back down.
“Right,” he muttered. “Dream. Weird dream.”
But the feeling lingered, even as the birds outside resumed their chirping, even as his phone buzzed with birthday messages.
Eventually, Leo got up and opened his sock drawer. For a moment, he stared at them—neon green, covered in smug little pineapples wearing sunglasses.
Leo had never planned to own pineapple socks. They’d been a gag gift in a Secret Santa swap at a job he only stayed in for three weeks. The box had said “Sour on the outside, sweet on the feet!” which he remembered thinking was both nonsensical and oddly reassuring.
The first time he wore them, he’d spilled coffee on his shirt five minutes before a last-minute podcast guest walked in—a celebrity chef with more charisma than skill. Leo had winged the interview in a slightly sweaty, mildly panicked daze, and it went viral. His subscriber count doubled overnight. The chef sent him a handwritten thank-you note. Someone from the BBC called. It was that kind of day.
The socks got washed and tossed in the drawer, forgotten, until the day he couldn’t find a clean pair and wore them again. That afternoon, he found a crumpled lottery ticket in the street—it wasn’t a jackpot winner, but it was enough to pay for a weekend away. The pattern had been established.
From then on, the pineapple socks became a totem. A charm. Not worn daily, no—that would be greedy. He saved them for moments when he needed the universe to give him a gentle push.
Or, as was now the case, when the universe appeared to be actively pushing back.
He tugged them on and headed for the kitchen.
It would be the longest day of his very charmed life.
This is an ongoing series about a man who never knew how lucky he was. Or why. If you like it, please subscribe and share this with others!