Tuesday Night. 7:00 PM.
The venue was a converted warehouse in Birmingham's creative quarter, just ten miles from the Hawthorns. Inside, it didn't feel like Birmingham; it felt like a spaceship.
White infinity walls, bright LED lights, and a craft services table filled with sushi and green juice.
Ethan stood in the middle of the set, wearing the new Adidas 'Heat.Rdy' training kit. A makeup artist dabbed powder on his forehead.
"Chin down, eyes up," the photographer ordered. "Look hungry. Look like you own the future."
Ethan tilted his chin. He tried to look hungry. Mostly, he felt ridiculous.
"Good!" Rick Sterling called from the shadows, sipping an espresso. "That's the money shot. The 'Predator Stare.' Love it."
This was the "Next Gen" regional activation. Ethan, along with two players from Villa and one from Wolves, had been chosen to model the new autumn collection.
To his right, Jax—the City winger Ethan faced the week before—was checking his reflection in a monitor. Jax was down for the main shoot.
"You look stiff, mate," Jax whispered, not breaking his pose. "Loosen your shoulders. You look like a center-back."
"I'm trying not to laugh," Ethan muttered through gritted teeth. "This is weird."
"It's not weird," Jax corrected, flashing a practiced smile at the camera. "It's the job. This pays better than a win bonus."
Ethan looked at the camera. Click. Flash. Click.
He felt like a fraud. He was being celebrated as a "Future Icon," but he hadn't played a minute of senior football. He was modeling gear he hadn't sweated in.
He glanced at the digital clock on the wall. 7:45.
Kickoff.
7:45 PM. Aggborough Stadium. Kidderminster.
Kidderminster Harriers were a giant of non-league football. Their stadium held 6,000 people. The pitch was pristine. The floodlights were blinding.
In the away dressing room, the atmosphere was grim.
Crestwood was 19th in the table. They had lost two in a row. The "honeymoon period" of promotion was officially over.
The Gaffer stood in the center of the room. He didn't shout; he spoke in a low, dangerous whisper.
"People are saying we're out of our depth," he said. "They're saying we're a pub team that got lucky. Tonight, we play a team that was in the Football League not long ago. If you want to prove you belong here, you do it tonight."
He turned to the starting XI.
Mason was at center-back, his black eye fading to a sickly yellow. Callum was starting.
It was a gamble. The Gaffer had benched the reserve winger to give Callum one last shot at redemption.
"Callum," the Gaffer said. "Yes, Gaffer."
"You don't just run tonight," the Gaffer said. "You work. You track back. You tackle. If I see you walking, I'll drag you off by your ear. Understood?"
"Understood."
They walked out of the tunnel. The Kidderminster fans were loud, banging drums behind the goal. The Harriers' left-back was a guy named Yates—6 ft 2 in, shaved head, tattoos on his neck. He looked at Callum and laughed.
"Fresh meat," Yates sneered.
Callum didn't look down. He focused on Yates's feet. Heavy, Callum noted. Slow.
8:15 PM. The Photo Studio.
"Break!" the director yelled. "Wardrobe change. Casual wear."
Ethan walked to the rail. He checked his phone immediately.
Kidderminster 0 - 0 Crestwood (25 mins)
"Checking the scores?" Jax asked, grabbing a bottle of water.
"Checking my mates," Ethan said. "They're playing Kiddy away."
"Kidderminster?" Jax laughed. "Rough. My mate went on loan there. Said the showers were cold and the fans threw coins."
"My mates aren't on loan," Ethan said, pulling on an Adidas hoodie.
"Sounds miserable," Jax said, checking his Instagram. "Hey, did Rick tell you? I'm getting a boot drop next month. My own colorway. 'The Jax Gold.'"
Ethan looked at Jax. He saw the diamond stud earring, the perfect hair, and complete confidence. Jax was a brand.
"Nice," Ethan said.
"You should ask Rick for more," Jax advised, leaning in. "You're at West Brom. It's not City, but you're doing well. Leverage it. Get the bag."
"I just want to get into the U21s permanently," Ethan said.
Jax looked at him like he was speaking a foreign language. "Bro, the U21s is just a stepping stone to the contract. The contract is the way to sponsorships. Think bigger."
Ethan zipped up his hoodie. He didn't want to think bigger. He wanted to be in a cold shower in Kidderminster, fighting for a point.
8:30 PM. Aggborough Stadium.
It was 0-0 at halftime, and it was a miracle.
Mason was playing the game of his life. Kidderminster had launched wave after wave of attacks. Crosses, corners, long throws. Mason had headed them all.
His forehead was red and swollen. His shirt was ripped at the collar.
"Hold the line!" Mason screamed as a Kidderminster midfielder lined up a shot.
The shot came in. Mason threw his body in the way. The ball slammed into his ribs with a sickening thud. He collapsed, winded, but the ball deflected wide.
"Get up!" Sully roared, hauling Mason to his feet. "You're a wall, son! You're a brick wall!"
Mason gasped for air, nodding. He couldn't speak.
On the wing, Callum was in a dogfight.
Yates, the giant fullback, had tried to bully him early on. He'd stepped on Callum's toes, pulled his shirt, and whispered threats.
But Callum hadn't vanished.
In the 40th minute, Yates had the ball. He tried to shield it out for a goal kick.
Callum didn't stop. He threw his shoulder into Yates, unbalancing the big man. He nicked the ball, kept it in play, and won a corner.
Yates turned around, furious. "Watch it, little man."
"Keep up," Callum shot back, jogging away.
In the dressing room at halftime, nobody talked about money. Nobody discussed boot deals.
"We have them frustrated," the Gaffer said, wiping rain from his glasses. "They expect us to fold. We haven't folded. Now, we hit them."
He looked at Callum. "You've got twenty minutes left in your legs. Empty the tank."
9:15 PM. The Studio.
The shoot was wrapping up. Ethan was back in his own clothes.
"Great work, Ethan," Rick said, clapping him on the back. "The client is happy. You've got 'the look.' Wholesome but intense. Very marketable."
"Thanks, Rick."
"We'll get the social cuts to you by Friday," Rick said, checking his phone. "Post them before the U18 game. Build the hype."
Ethan walked out of the studio into the Birmingham night. It was raining.
He pulled out his phone.
88th Minute. Kidderminster 0 - 0 Crestwood.
He refreshed the page.
90th Minute. GOAL - Crestwood (C. Reid)
Ethan stopped walking. He stared at the screen.
C. Reid. Callum.
9:30 PM. Aggborough Stadium.
The away end—about 150 traveling Crestwood fans—was in absolute chaos. A red flare had been lit.
Callum was at the bottom of a pile of bodies. Mason was on top of him. Sully was on top of Mason.
The goal wasn't pretty. A long clearance from Mason. A mistake by Yates, who slipped on the wet grass.
Callum hadn't hesitated. He hadn't frozen like he did against Oldham.
He had chased the lost cause. He got to the ball before the keeper. He toe-poked it under the diving body, took the hit, and watched the ball roll slowly, agonizingly, into the empty net.
0-1.
The final whistle blew two minutes later.
Callum lay on the grass. He was covered in mud. His legs cramped so badly that his toes curled.
Sully walked over. He didn't offer a hand. He just looked down.
"You earned your money tonight," Sully grunted.
It was the highest praise Callum had ever received.
10:00 PM. The Train Home.
Ethan sat on the train, scrolling through Twitter.
The Crestwood official account posted a photo. It was grainy, taken from the stands. It showed Callum sliding on his knees, screaming, while Mason roared behind him.
The caption read: GIANT KILLERS. 1-0.
Ethan looked at the photo. Then he looked at the preview shots Rick had sent him—Ethan in a clean kit, looking "hungry" in a white room.
He zoomed in on Mason's face in the grainy photo. The passion was raw. It was real.
Ethan saved the photo of his friends.
He replied to Rick's email: Photos look good. Thanks.
Then he opened the group chat.
Ethan: C. Reid. 90th-minute winner away at Kiddy. Talk to me.
Callum: I can't feel my legs. Yates stood on my hand. I think I love football again.
Mason: Ugly win. The best kind. You missed a war, Eth.
Ethan looked at his reflection in the dark train window. "I know," he whispered. "I know I did."