Saturday, Matchday 2.
11:00 AM. WBA U18 vs. LEEDS UNITED U18.
The game was a blur of efficiency. Ethan, fresh from his session with the U21s, played with a steady confidence. He didn't chase the game; he let it come to him.
In the 35th minute, he received the ball, held off the Leeds press with his strength, and slid a pass to Kofi. Kofi scored.
West Brom won 2-0. It was precise. It was professional. It was exactly what the coaches wanted.
After showering, Ethan grabbed his recovery shake and headed straight for the train station. He wasn't staying for the debrief. He had his own kind of analysis to do.
Sunday, 10:00 AM. Eastfield Park.
The park was empty, except for a few pigeons pecking at the dry ground near the goal.
Ethan sat on the bench, legs stretched out, watching the gate. He checked his watch. 10:05.
At 10:10, two figures appeared. Mason walked with his usual heavy, deliberate stride. Callum walked beside him, kicking a stone and looking like someone headed for trouble.
"Morning," Ethan said, still seated.
"Morning, pro," Mason replied, sitting next to him. "Good win yesterday. Saw the assist."
"Thanks," Ethan said. He turned to Callum. "Alright, Cal?"
Callum stopped a few feet away. He wore his Crestwood tracksuit and looked tired, with dark circles under his eyes, but he wasn't limping. "Alright," Callum mumbled. "You here for a session or an interrogation?"
"Both," Ethan said. He stood up. "How's the hamstring?"
"Yeah," Callum said quickly. "Bit tight, but the physio rubbed it out. Miraculous recovery."
"Good," Ethan replied. He picked up a ball. "I want to see you sprint. Box-to-box speed. I need someone to chase my long balls."
Callum's eyes flickered to Mason. Mason stared at the sky, refusing to help.
"Eth, I played yesterday," Callum protested. "Came off the bench against Solihull. My legs are dead."
"If you played yesterday, your hamstring must be fine," Ethan said smoothly. "Let's go. Just ten minutes. High intensity."
Ethan walked to the center circle of the worn pitch. He placed the ball. "Run the channel, Cal. I'll put it on your toe."
Callum sighed and jogged to the wing.
Ethan sent a ball flying. It was perfect.
Callum sprinted, exploding from the start. He chased the ball down, controlled it, and crossed it.
He jogged back, breathing hard.
"Again," Ethan said.
Ethan hit another one. Callum sprinted again. Fast. Fluid. No limp. No wince.
Ethan did it three more times. Each time, Callum ran freely.
On the fifth return, Ethan put his foot on the ball and waited for Callum to jog back.
"You're fast," Ethan noted.
"Told you," Callum panted, hands on his hips. "I'm rapid."
"Yeah," Ethan nodded. "Which means your hamstring is fine. In fact, looking at your mechanics, it was never injured. You don't recover from a strain in three days to sprint like that."
The silence in the park felt heavy. Mason sighed loudly and cracked his knuckles.
Ethan looked Callum in the eye. "So, why were you subbed at halftime on Tuesday? And why did you lie to me?"
Callum stared at the ground, kicking the grass. He glanced at Mason, hoping for a way out.
"Tell him," Mason grunted. "Or I will."
Callum looked back at Ethan. His bravado faded away, revealing a 17-year-old kid who had messed up.
"I wasn't injured," Callum whispered. "I got hooked."
"Hooked?"
"Tactical," Callum said, trying to save face. Then he slumped. "No. Not tactical. Disciplinary."
Ethan frowned. "What did you do?"
"I went out," Callum admitted, his voice barely audible. "After the Saturday game. With Sully and the lads. I got… drunk. Really drunk."
Ethan stared at him. "And you played on Tuesday?"
"I tried," Callum said miserably. "But I had nothing. My legs were gone. Glover destroyed me. The Gaffer tore strips off me at halftime and made me sit in the showers. Sully fined me fifty quid."
Ethan didn't shout. He just stared at his friend, thinking about the ice baths, protein shakes, and the Saturday nights spent in his room watching tactical videos while Callum was celebrating on a sticky floor.
"You're playing men's football, Cal," Ethan said, his voice quiet but firm. "You're not in the school team anymore. You let Mason down. You let the team down."
"I know!" Callum snapped, feeling defensive now. "I know, okay? I ran sprints on Thursday until I puked. I played twenty minutes yesterday like a dog. I'm fixing it."
"Why did you lie to me?" Ethan asked.
Callum looked away, watching a dog chase a frisbee in the distance. "Because you're… you," Callum said. "You're 'The Professional'. You're Mr. Adidas. If I told you I got subbed because I was hungover, you'd look at me like… like you're looking at me right now."
"Like what?"
"Like I'm a joke," Callum said. "Like I'm just a pub player pretending to be a pro."
Ethan softened and stepped closer. "I don't think you're a joke, Cal. You're the most talented striker I know. That's why it bothers me. You have the talent to play in the League. But talent doesn't keep you there. Discipline does."
He gently kicked the ball to Callum. "You want to be a pro? Start acting like one. Even if you aren't getting paid like one."
Callum trapped the ball and looked at Ethan. "I paid Sully the fifty quid," Callum offered. "And I haven't had a drink since."
"Good," Ethan said. "Keep it that way."
Mason stood from the bench, clapping his hands. "Right. Intervention over. Oprah moment done. Can we actually play football now? I'm freezing."
Ethan cracked a smile. "Yeah. 1 v 1. Me vs Cal. Mason in goal."
"Why am I always in goal?" Mason complained, walking toward the rusty posts.
"Because you're the only one big enough to fill it," Callum shot back, a hint of his old self returning. He looked at Ethan. "First goal wins?"
"First to five," Ethan corrected. "I didn't come all this way for a two-minute game."
"You're on," Callum said.
They played. It was aggressive, technical, and breathless. Ethan used his strength to shield the ball; Callum relied on his raw speed to snap at ankles. Mason saved shots with his shins, chest, and once with his face.
For an hour, there were no contracts, no hangovers, and no league tables. Just three boys in a park, reminding each other why they started playing in the first place.
When they finished, sweating and exhausted, they lay on the grass.
"You're getting strong," Callum admitted, rubbing his shoulder where Ethan had bumped him. "It's annoying."
"You're getting fast," Ethan shot back. "If you stop drinking pints, you might actually be dangerous."
Callum laughed. "Lesson learned, Dad. Lesson learned."
Ethan looked at the sky. He had to catch the train back in two hours. Back to the academy. Back to the bubble.
But for now, he was just Ethan from Eastfield. And his team was back together.