The 4-0 win over Harrington felt great, but the excitement faded quickly as the week's demands piled up. On Tuesday evening, Ethan sat at his desk, a bright lamp lighting up a history textbook and a daunting stack of revision notes. Next to it lay a half-finished essay on the Cold War and a maths worksheet he couldn't make sense of.
He was in Year 11, and the reality of his mock exams weighed heavily on him. While people might have whispered his name in the halls as the local football hero, in Mr. Davies's classroom he was just a student whose grades were dangerously low.
He rubbed his eyes as the words on the page blurred together. He felt both physically and mentally drained. The pre-season fitness training, the intensity of the U16 matches, and the constant pressure to perform were taking a toll on his schoolwork.
His mum knocked gently and walked in with a cup of tea, placing it on his desk. She glanced at the massive pile of papers. "You've been at this for two hours, Ethan," she said, her voice filled with concern. "You were up until midnight on Monday with homework, and you have that long training session tomorrow night." "I have to get it done, Mum," he replied without looking up. "Mr. Davies is already on my case about my last test." "I know," she said, resting a hand on his shoulder. "I'm just... worried. You can't keep burning the candle at both ends, love. You look exhausted."
He wanted to tell her he was fine, but the truth was he wasn't. He was more tired than ever. The joy of playing was being squeezed out by the heavy load of responsibilities.
Just then, his phone buzzed on the desk. It was a message from Mason in the team group chat.
Mason: Westford on Saturday. They just beat Riverton. They're going to be tough. Be ready.
Ethan's stomach tightened. Westford. They were always challenging, organized, and decisive. They had been the only team to defeat them in the league two years ago. A match against them needed complete focus.
He looked from the text message to his history essay. One needed his full physical and mental effort; the other, his full academic attention. Both felt like finals. He took a sip of tea, the hot liquid doing little to calm the knot of anxiety in his stomach.
"I'm fine, Mum," he said, forcing a smile. "Just a lot going on."
She squeezed his shoulder and left him to his work. Ethan turned back to his textbook, but his mind was already on Saturday, on the Westford midfield, and the moves he needed to make. He picked up his pen and tried to focus on the Berlin Airlift, but his thoughts were already on the pitch, figuring out how to win a different type of battle.