Wednesday Morning, 9:45 AM, WBA U21 Building.
The U21 changing room felt different from the U18s. It was quieter, but the silence was thick with tension, not focus.
In the U18s, the atmosphere buzzed with teenage chatter. Here, it carried the weight of reality. Players were fighting for their careers, not just for scholarships.
Ethan walked in, gripping his kit bag tighter than usual. He felt out of place.
"Relax, man," a familiar voice whispered. "You look like you're walking to your execution."
Ethan let out a breath. Tyrell was in the corner, lacing up his boots. He had been called up too, thanks to his strong performances in the opening games. Seeing his U18 midfield partner there felt like finding a life raft in the ocean.
Ethan sat next to him. "Different vibe in here, right?"
"Tell me about it," Tyrell replied, nodding discreetly to his left. "That's Marcus. Striker. 20 years old. Played three times for the First Team last year. He hasn't looked at me once."
Ethan glanced over. Marcus was scrolling through his phone, wearing big headphones, giving off a 'don't talk to me' vibe.
To his right sat a 19-year-old goalkeeper who had just returned from a loan in League Two. He looked miserable.
"You two," a voice barked.
Ethan and Tyrell looked up. It wasn't Gareth. It was Shaun Beale, the U21 manager—a former Premier League midfielder known for his tough tackling.
"You're here because the U18s is too easy for you right now," Beale said, crossing his arms. "But don't think you've made it. In this room, you're at the bottom. You carry the water. You collect the bibs. If you slow down my session, you'll go back to the kids. Clear?"
"Clear," Ethan and Tyrell replied in unison.
10:15 AM, Pitch 2.
The session started with a possession drill. 5 vs 5 plus 2 "magic men" (floaters).
Ethan and Tyrell were separated. Ethan became a floater, tasked with always being an option for the team with the ball. This role required constant scanning and movement.
The whistle blew.
The pace was intense.
In the U18s, you had a moment to control the ball, look up, and pass. Here, the ball was zipped into Ethan's feet at lightning speed.
Ethan controlled it. Before he could turn, Marcus yelled at him. "Set it! Set it!"
Ethan played the pass back with one touch. Marcus spun and launched a diagonal ball to the winger.
"Quicker, Matthews!" Beale shouted from the sideline. "The ball is moving slower than your brain!"
Ethan gritted his teeth. He had to go quicker.
Minutes later, the ball came to him again. A 19-year-old defender, built like a rugby player, charged out of the pack to pressure him.
Ethan attempted his signature move—the shoulder drop. The defender didn't buy it. He didn't even slow down. He barreled through Ethan, taking the ball and sending him sprawling onto the grass.
"Play on!" Beale yelled. "No fouls!"
Ethan scrambled up, gasping. In the U18s, that would have been a free kick. Here, it was just a tackle.
"Get up, Eth," Tyrell said, jogging past and giving him a firm slap on the back. "Don't let them bully you."
Ethan adjusted his shin pad. He realized then that the difference between U18 and U21 wasn't technical skill. Everyone here could trap a ball perfectly. The difference was desperation. These players were fighting for their livelihoods. If they didn't perform today, they could be released tomorrow.
He needed to adapt.
The next time the ball came to him, Ethan didn't try to turn. He anticipated the hit. He played a first-time, blind flick around the corner, relying on the scan he had done moments earlier.
The ball found Marcus perfectly. Marcus scored.
"Better," Beale nodded. "Much better."
By the end of the session, Ethan was more exhausted than he had been since the Yoyo test. His mind was worn out from the concentration.
As they walked off, Tyrell threw an arm around Ethan's shoulder. "We survived," Tyrell grinned, though he was drenched in sweat. "Just about," Ethan panted.
Marcus slowed down as he walked past them. He looked at Ethan. "Nice flick," the striker muttered. "You've got good vision, kid."
Marcus walked on. Ethan looked at Tyrell. "Did he just talk to me?" "I think he did," Tyrell laughed. "You're practically best mates now."
Thursday Evening, 6:45 PM, Crestwood Training Ground.
The rain had stopped, but the mud remained.
Callum arrived fifteen minutes early. He wasn't wearing sunglasses. He didn't have a blue Powerade. He wore his oldest training kit, his boots taped tight.
He stepped onto the pitch.
Sully was already there, jogging lightly. He saw Callum but didn't smile.
"Evening, Skip," Callum said softly.
Sully stopped and looked Callum up and down. "You owe me fifty quid," Sully reminded him.
"I know," Callum replied. "I'll pay it."
"I don't want your money," Sully scoffed. "I want your effort."
Sully pointed to the far goal line. "The Gaffer isn't here yet. He's stuck in traffic. But I'm here."
Sully picked up four cones and set them down in a large rectangle. "Box-to-box," Sully said. "Sprint the length. Jog the width. Keep going until I say stop."
"Now?" Callum asked.
"Yesterday would have been better," Sully replied. "Go."
Callum took off.
He sprinted the length of the pitch. The mud clung to his boots. He turned and jogged the width, gasping for breath. Then he sprinted again.
Lap 1. Lap 2. Lap 3.
Other players began to arrive. They watched Callum running alone in the fading light. Mason dropped his bag and stood next to Sully.
"He's been going for ten minutes," Sully said, checking his watch.
"He needs it," Mason said, staying silent.
"He lied about the hamstring, didn't he?" Sully glanced at Mason.
Mason paused. He wouldn't betray his friend, but he wouldn't lie to his captain either. "He's running fine now," Mason replied.
Sully grunted. "Good answer."
Callum kept running. His chest burned. His legs felt heavy. But each time he hit the line, he recalled the Gaffer's words. Party boy.
He hated that label. He hated that he had earned it.
Sprint. Turn. Jog.
By the time the Gaffer arrived at 7:00 PM, Callum was doubled over near the corner flag, dry-heaving.
The Gaffer approached. He looked at Callum, then at the churned-up mud from the sprints.
"Warm up with the squad," The Gaffer said plainly. "If you vomit on my pitch, you'll clean it up."
"Yes, Gaffer," Callum wheezed.
He jogged over to join the circle. Mason handed him a water bottle. "Are you alive?" Mason whispered.
"Just about," Callum gasped.
"Sully was watching the whole time," Mason said. "He nodded at lap six. You're clawing it back."
Callum took a sip of water. It tasted like metal, but it was the best thing he'd ever had.
Later that night.
Ethan lay on his bed, reading a text from Tyrell about the session report Beale had sent.
Tyrell: Beale said my positioning was 'adequate.' High praise from him.
Ethan: He said my pass completion was 92%. I'll take it.
His phone buzzed again. A message from Callum.
Callum: Training was brutal. Sully pushed me hard. The hamstring held up though.
Ethan frowned. Hamstring held up?
If Callum had a tight hamstring on Tuesday—tight enough to be subbed off—he shouldn't be surviving a "brutal" session on Thursday. He should be with the physio or doing lighter work.
Ethan typed: You trained fully on a tight hammy?" Be careful, mate.
Callum: Yeah, just strapped it up. Felt fine.
Ethan stared at the screen. He understood physiology. He knew recovery times. You didn't sprint two days after a muscle strain without feeling it.
Something didn't add up.
He recalled the text from Mason on Tuesday night. Tactical change.
Ethan felt a strange prickle of suspicion. He looked at the schedule on his wall. Sunday: Rest Day.
He made a decision.
I'm coming back Sunday morning. Let's do the park session. I want to see this hamstring.
He hit send.
At the other end, Callum stared at his phone, his stomach sinking.
"Oh no," Callum whispered to his empty room. "The robot is coming to investigate."