Routine was dangerous in an academy. Just as Ethan began to feel comfortable, mastering the schedule and handling the physical demands of the U18s, everything changed.
It happened on a Tuesday morning in the canteen. Ethan was halfway through his second bowl of porridge, part of the endless calorie surplus, when Gareth walked in. The manager scanned the room, and his gaze landed on Ethan, who sat with Harvey and Tyrell.
"Matthews," Gareth called. "Leave the porridge. Grab your boots. You're with the Under-23s this morning."
Ethan's spoon froze halfway to his mouth. The table went silent.
The U23s were the Premier League 2 squad, the last step before the first team. They trained on the pristine pitches near the senior squad. They were men, not boys.
"Me?" Ethan stammered.
"Don't look so terrified," Gareth said, checking his watch. "They're short a midfielder because of a flu bug. Beale needs someone. Don't let us down. Go."
Ethan jumped up, dumping his tray. As he rushed past, Tyrell caught his arm. "Listen," Tyrell said, his voice low and serious. "Don't try to go toe-to-toe with them. You think I'm big? Their center backs are grown men with kids and mortgages. They will hurt you if you don't watch out. Move the ball."
Ethan nodded, swallowed hard, and jogged out of the canteen.
The walk to the U23 pitch felt like crossing over into another world. The grass looked greener, and the equipment seemed newer. A group was already rondoing in the center circle. They were bigger, faster, and louder than the U18s. He recognized a few faces, players who had sat on the bench for the first team in the FA Cup, including a striker who was signed from Portugal for two million pounds.
And there, jogging lightly on the edge of the field, was Jonas Olsson. The club's vice-captain and a 32-year-old Swedish center-back with 50 international caps was back from a knee injury.
Ethan's mouth went dry.
"You the 18?" Beale, the U23 manager, walked over with a whistle around his neck.
"Yes, Coach. Ethan."
"Right, Ethan. You're the floater in the possession drill. Yellow bib. Two touches maximum. If you lose the ball, you run a lap. Don't slow us down."
Ethan pulled on the bib. It had the scent of expensive detergent. He stepped into the grid.
The session started, and the intensity increased.
If the U18s were fast, this was telepathic. The ball zipped around with precision that felt intimidating. The communication was constant and specific. "Left shoulder!" "Turn!" "Man on!"
For the first ten minutes, Ethan felt lost. When he got the ball, he panicked, making safe backward passes just to get rid of it.
"Forward, kid!" Olsson shouted from the backline. "Be brave!"
Ethan took a breath. Be brave.
The ball came to him again. He was closed down by a 21-year-old midfielder who looked like he was carved from stone. Ethan tried to use his newfound strength. He planted his foot and leaned back.
It felt like pushing against a moving train.
The midfielder brushed him aside, taking the ball and leaving Ethan stumbling on the ground. No whistle followed, just laughter from the winger. "The weight room's back that way, lad," someone mocked.
Ethan scrambled up, his face burning. Tyrell was right. He couldn't fight them; he had to outsmart them.
The drill shifted to an 8v8 game. Ethan was placed in midfield, directly against Olsson.
The ball came to Ethan's feet. He felt Olsson's presence behind him, a looming shadow. He knew he couldn't turn on the veteran; Olsson would take it away instantly.
Ethan checked his shoulder. He saw the Portuguese striker making a run across the defensive line. It was a narrow window, a passing lane that existed for just a moment.
Instead of trapping the ball, he let it run across his body, opened his hips, and played a first-time, curved pass around Olsson's outstretched leg.
The ball spun perfectly into the striker's path. He took a touch and smashed it into the goal.
"Goal!" Beale shouted.
Ethan stood there, waiting to be crushed. He looked back at Olsson.
The veteran defender met his gaze with raised eyebrows. He didn't look angry, he looked impressed. "Good vision," Olsson grunted, his voice deep. "You saw that early."
It was just two words, but they felt like a big deal.
For the rest of the session, Ethan didn't dominate, but he didn't sink either. He moved fast, played smart, and kept the ball in motion. He was the smallest and weakest player on the pitch, but for sixty minutes, he felt like he belonged.
When Beale blew the final whistle, Ethan trembled with exhaustion. The mental effort of processing the game at that speed was heavier than any squat session.
"Good shift, Matthews," Beale said, marking his clipboard. "You didn't look out of place. Get a recovery shake and head back to the 18s."
Ethan walked back to the U18 changing room, his boots clattering on the concrete. He entered the room just as his teammates returned from their session.
Tyrell looked up from the bench. "Well? Are you still in one piece?"
"Just about," Ethan said, slumping onto the bench.
"Did Olsson eat you?" Harvey asked, eyes wide. "He told me I had good vision," Ethan said with a grin.
Tyrell stopped unlacing his boots. He looked at Ethan, then gave a slow nod of respect. "Olsson doesn't talk to academy kids. You must have done something right."
Ethan leaned back against his locker and closed his eyes. He thought about the speed, power, and intelligence of the senior pros. He was far from being a regular at that level. He needed more muscle, more speed, and more experience.
But he had dipped his toe in the ocean, and he hadn't frozen.
He pulled out his phone.
To: Callum, Mason Trained with the U23s. Played against Jonas Olsson. Didn't die.
A moment later, Callum replied. Did you nutmeg him? Please tell me you nutmegged a Swedish international.
Ethan laughed. No. But I set up a £2 million striker for a goal.
Mason responded: Decent. Now get back to the U18s and actually score one yourself.
Ethan set his phone down. The view from the mountaintop had been both terrifying and thrilling. Now, he had to climb back down and get back to work so he could stay there next time.