The next three weeks were a blur of iron, chicken breasts, and football.
The "Red" plan wasn't optional; it was a way of life. Ethan's alarm rang at 6:00 AM for a pre-breakfast protein shake that tasted like chalk. He lifted weights before training. He trained. He lifted weights after training. He ate until his jaw ached.
His body was constantly protesting. His legs felt heavy on the pitch, and his usually sharp touch was dulled by fatigue. In the U18 matches against Wolves and Everton, he was sluggish and substituted early in both. He felt like he was moving through treacle.
"Trust the process," Gareth told him after the Everton game, sensing Ethan's frustration. "You're breaking your muscles down to build them back up. You'll be slow before you're strong."
West Brom had played four games in the last three weeks. The U18 Baggies got a win against Leeds and a draw against Everton. However, they also picked up two losses against rivals Wolves and Man City.
Finally, he got a break. The international break created a gap in the U18 fixture list. For the first time since July, Ethan had a free weekend.
He took the train back to Eastfield on Friday evening.
Walking out of the station felt like entering a different time. The air smelled different, less industrial and more familiar. His mum picked him up and immediately fussed over him. "You look tired, love," she said, glancing at the dark circles under his eyes.
"I'm fine," Ethan said, tossing his bag in the boot. "Just hungry. Is there food?"
"I made lasagna," she smiled. "Enough for an army."
"Good," Ethan said seriously. "Because I have to eat for one."
On Saturday morning, he didn't wake up to an alarm or a protein shake. He woke up to the sound of rain tapping against his window.
Crestwood was playing at home against Westford. It was 1st vs 3rd, a rematch of last season's tactical battles.
Ethan threw on a hoodie and walked to the ground. He skipped the changing room; he didn't want to disrupt the routine. He paid his £3 entry fee like any other fan and stood on the far touchline, hood up, watching the warm-up.
He spotted them right away. Mason looked broader and was shouting instructions with a fierce intensity. Callum, wearing the captain's armband (a surprise), looked focused, practicing headers instead of volleys.
The game started, and Ethan understood what Mason meant by "heavy metal football."
It was a far cry from the team he had left.
There were no intricate triangles in midfield. No decoy runs to the corner flag. It was direct, brutal, and relentless.
Westford tried to play out from the back. Mason didn't hold back; he pressed. He charged into their center-back, winning the ball high up the pitch.
"Go on!" the crowd roared.
Mason didn't look for a through ball. He drove to the byline, powering past a fullback, and whipped in a cross that had more violence than technique.
Callum didn't wait for space. He attacked the ball at the near post, throwing his body into the Westford keeper. The ball spilled loose. Ryan, the winger, poked it in.
1-0, twelve minutes in.
Ethan watched, both fascinated and slightly horrified. It wasn't pretty. In the academy, Gareth would have stopped the session to shout about "control." But here, in the mud and rain of the regional league, it worked. It was like a machine.
Westford couldn't handle it. They were technical, organized, and soft. Crestwood dominated them. Every time a Westford player got the ball, a red shirt was snapping at his ankles.
The game ended 2-0. A dominant, physical dismantling of a title rival.
Ethan waited by the tunnel as the players walked off. Mason was covered in mud from head to toe. Callum had a bloody nose.
"You looked like a rugby team out there," Ethan called, stepping away from the barrier.
Mason paused, wiping mud from his eyes. He squinted, then grinned. "Eastfield! You're back!"
Callum ran over, ignoring the blood on his face. "Did you see it? The press? We suffocated them!"
"I saw it," Ethan smiled, hugging them both. "You guys are... different." "We're horrible to play against."
Callum said proudly. "Westford hated it. They were complaining to the ref after twenty minutes."
Mason stepped back, checking Ethan out. He poked Ethan in the chest. "Hello," he said, raising an eyebrow. "What's this?"
"What?"
"You're solid," Mason said. "You've filled out."
"The 'Red' plan," Ethan grimaced. "I'm eating 3,500 calories a day and lifting weights until I pass out."
Callum squeezed Ethan's bicep. "Okay, Schwarzenegger. Easy there. Don't get too big, or you'll lose your touch."
"That's the fear," Ethan admitted.
"Come on," Callum said, putting an arm around him. "Mia's waiting. We're going to get burgers. You can have three."
As they walked toward the clubhouse, Ethan glanced back at the pitch. Crestwood had changed. They had survived his departure by becoming something tougher.
Looking at his own reflection in the clubhouse window. Broader shoulders, thicker legs, he realized he was doing the same thing.