The train ride back to the West Midlands was a quiet shift between two worlds. As the green fields of Eastfield turned into the grey industrial sprawl of Birmingham, Ethan felt the familiar pressure of the academy closing in on him. The warmth of his mum's lasagne and the memories of the Crestwood touchline were packed away. It was time to return to work.
Monday morning started with the usual weigh-in.
Ethan stood on the digital scales in the medical room, wearing only his compression shorts. Mike, the Strength and Conditioning coach, stood nearby with a clipboard, looking like a judge at an auction.
"65.2 kilos," Mike announced. He glanced at his previous notes and nodded slowly. "That's 2.5 kilos up since September. Not bad, Matthews. You're starting to look less like a pipe cleaner."
It was a backhanded compliment, but to Ethan, it felt like a trophy. The early mornings, the protein shakes that tasted like chalk, the aching limbs, it was actually paying off.
"Don't celebrate yet," Mike cautioned, writing on his sheet. "Now you have to carry it. Saturday is Stoke. They're big, they're tough, and it's going to be raining. Let's see if that muscle actually works."
Saturday came, and true to the forecast, the sky was a heavy purple, pouring freezing rain onto the training ground pitches.
WBA U18 vs. STOKE CITY U18
Ethan was starting. Tyrell was suspended after getting five yellow cards, a fact that surprised no one. This meant Ethan was the senior player in central midfield, paired with a nervous first year named Sam.
"Stoke will target the middle," Gareth warned in the changing room. "They know Tyrell is out. They see Matthews and Sam, and they see an easy target. Stand your ground."
The game began, and it felt like a war. Stoke's midfield was made up of giants who seemed to thrive in the wet conditions. For the first fifteen minutes, the ball spent more time going out of play than on the field.
In the 18th minute, the challenge came.
Ethan received a bouncing pass from his center-back. He controlled it with his chest as it dropped to his feet. Immediately, he heard the thundering footsteps of Stoke's number 8, a player who had already left Sam on the ground twice.
The old Ethan, who had followed the "Red Plan" just three weeks earlier, would have tried to flick it quickly and dodge the tackle. He would have focused on survival.
The new Ethan planted his feet.
He lowered his center of gravity, engaged his core, and braced for impact. When the Stoke player slammed into his back, expecting to send the smaller boy flying, Ethan stood firm. He absorbed the hit, using his new leg strength to keep himself grounded.
The Stoke player bounced off him, stumbling back.
Ethan spun and took the ball. He was balanced, and importantly, he earned respect.
He pushed forward. The Stoke defense, surprised that their enforcer had failed, hesitated. Ethan carried the ball twenty yards, shrugging off a second challenge from a winger with a stiff arm that felt solid.
He spotted Harvey making a run across the front of the goal. Ethan didn't need to rush. He had given himself time with his strength. He delivered a beautiful, curled cross to the back post.
Harvey met it with a diving header.
GOAL.
1-0 West Brom.
Instead of running to Harvey, Ethan turned to look at the Stoke number 8, who was picking himself up out of the mud, looking confused. Ethan adjusted his captain's armband, which he was wearing because Tyrell was absent, and jogged back to the center circle.
The rest of the game was a battle, but Ethan didn't fade. The "Red Plan" had drained him for weeks, but now that he had turned a corner, he discovered an extra reserve of energy. He was winning headers. He shielded the ball in the corner to waste time. He was both a hammer and a violin.
The match ended 1-0.
In the changing room, the mood was high. A clean sheet, a win, and a performance full of grit.
Gareth walked in. Instead of heading to the goalscorer, he went straight to Ethan. "I saw that challenge in the first half," the manager said quietly. "The old you would have ended up in the medical room. Today, you put him on his backside." He clapped Ethan on the shoulder with a firm pat. "The armor fits. Keep it."
Ethan sat down, peeling off his soaking wet socks. His legs were tired but not trembling. He checked his phone. A text from Mason:
"Saw the score. 1-0? Clean sheet? Did you finally learn how to tackle?"
Ethan smiled and typed back.
"I didn't just tackle him. I bounced him."
He put the phone away and looked at his legs. Thicker, stronger, and scarred from the battles of the U18 league. He wasn't just surviving anymore. He was evolving.