Sunday in Eastfield was usually quiet, but for Ethan, it felt like a celebration he hadn't asked for.
After the excitement of the Crestwood match, Sunday morning started calmly. He was in the back garden with Sarah. The last time they played, just before he left, he had taken it easy on her, letting her get past him.
Today, he stood still, ready for her to come at him. She tried to shove him to get the ball. It felt like running into a lamppost. Ethan didn't move.
"You're tough," she said, rubbing her shoulder and scowling at his legs. "It's like kicking a wall."
Ethan laughed, juggling the ball with ease. "Sorry. It's the protein shakes. I'm basically made of chicken and whey powder now."
"Well, stop that," she replied, stealing the ball while he was distracted. "I liked you better when you were softer."
"I was never soft!"
"You were a bit soft."
Later that morning, his mum sent him into town for the Sunday roast essentials. What should have been a ten minute walk lasted forty five.
First, he ran into Mr. Patel at the newsagent. "Ethan! The prodigal son!" Mr. Patel grinned, leaning over the counter. He pointed to a stack of papers. "Checking the Championship scores? West Brom drew, right? Are you in the squad yet?"
"Not the first team, Mr. Patel. Just the U18s," Ethan said as he paid for the milk.
"Give it time," the shopkeeper winked. "I've got a tenner on you playing for England seniors by 21. Don't let me down."
Then, outside the bakery, he bumped into Mr. Davies, his old history teacher. Mr. Davies wore a weekend sweater, looking much less intimidating than in the classroom, but his eyes were still sharp.
"Matthews," Mr. Davies said, stopping to look him over. "Good grief. What are they feeding you up there? You've grown two inches across the shoulders."
"They keep me busy, sir," Ethan replied with a smile. "And your grades?" Mr. Davies raised an eyebrow. "I received your first term report from the academy education officer. B-grades, Ethan. B-grades."
Ethan winced. "The schedule is tough, sir. By the time I get to studying, I'm exhausted."
"Exhaustion is a reason, not an excuse," Mr. Davies said kindly. "You were the smartest player on my school team because you thought faster than everyone else. Don't let your physical development dull your mind. A sharp mind is what keeps you in the game when the legs tire."
"I know, sir. I'm working on it."
"Good lad," Mr. Davies patted his arm. "We miss you around here. The school team is... well, let's just say we're in a rebuilding phase without you."
As he walked through the park on his way back, he spotted a familiar red hat on a bench. Mia sat there with a notebook, tapping a pen against her chin. She looked up as he approached.
"The famous player," she smiled, shielding her eyes from the sun.
"Hey, Mia," Ethan said as he stopped. "Where's Callum? I thought you two were inseparable."
"He's at home. His mum is making him clean his room before he can go out," she laughed. "Glamorous life of a football star."
She closed her notebook. "He misses you, you know. He puts on a brave face, acting like the big man leading the team now, but he talks about you all the time. 'Ethan would have seen that run.' 'Ethan would have made that pass.'"
Ethan felt a twinge of guilt. "He's playing great, though. I saw him yesterday. He's a proper captain."
"He is," Mia agreed. "He's stepped up. But I think he feels alone on that pitch sometimes. Mason is good, but he's... well, Mason. He doesn't really offer emotional support. He just yells at people to run faster."
Ethan chuckled. "That sounds about right."
"Just keep texting him," Mia said as she stood up. "It means a lot to him, even if he just replies with silly messages."
Walking the last stretch home with groceries in hand, Ethan looked around the town. He saw kids in the park playing football, wearing shirts with his name on the back—homemade iron-ons. He noticed the "Good Luck Ethan" banner still hanging in the window of the pub.
He realized that while he was struggling in the gym, fighting for his place, and feeling like a small fish in a big pond, to these people, he had already succeeded. He was their success story.
It was a heavy weight to carry, even heavier than the squat bar in the West Brom gym. But as he walked up his driveway, smelling the roasting chicken from the kitchen, he understood it was also a safety net. No matter how hard Tyrell tackled him, how much Gareth yelled, or how many duels he lost, he would always have Eastfield.
He opened the front door. "I'm back!" he called out.
"About time!" his mum shouted from the kitchen. "Did you get lost?"
"No," Ethan smiled to himself, closing the door on the outside world. "Just catching up."