The Senior Building at the West Brom training ground felt different. The air didn't smell like laundry detergent and cheap floor wax; instead, it had the scent of expensive coffee, high-end cologne, and the quiet, heavy pressure of a multi-million-pound business.
Ethan stood at the entrance with Tyrell. They both felt like they had walked into a VIP lounge uninvited.
"Don't touch anything," Tyrell whispered. "I think the carpet costs more than my car."
"You don't have a car," Ethan reminded him.
"Exactly."
A door opened at the end of the hall. Julian Vance walked out. He wasn't in a suit; he wore a sleek, black club tracksuit with his initials, 'JV,' in silver. He focused on an iPad, his brow furrowed in concentration. When he looked up, his piercing blue eyes landed on the two teenagers.
"Matthews. Tyrell," Vance said. No "hello," no "good morning." Just an acknowledgment of who they were. "Beale says you didn't look like tourists on Monday. Today, we find out if he was lying."
He gestured for them to follow him toward the First Team locker room.
"In my sessions, the ball moves at 30 miles per hour," Vance said, still walking. "If you take three touches, the ball is gone. If you stand still, you're invisible. I don't have time for invisible players."
09:30 AM. Pitch 1.
The First Team players were already out. These weren't just "older boys." They were men. Men with international caps, tattoos, and a physical presence that made the U21s look like a middle school team.
The session started with a 5v2 Rondo.
Ethan was placed in a circle with the club captain, a Croatian international defender, and the star playmaker.
"In the middle, kid," the captain said, pointing to the center of the square.
Ethan and Tyrell stepped into the middle. The ball started moving. It wasn't just fast; it was intense. The passes were "zip" passes, hitting the grass sharply.
Ethan lunged for the ball. It was gone before his foot hit the ground. He turned. It was gone again. He felt like he was chasing a ghost.
"Focus, Ethan!" Vance shouted from the sideline. "Read the hips! Don't watch the ball, watch the intentions!"
Ethan stopped lunging. He took a breath and watched the playmaker's eyes. He noticed a slight shift in the captain's shoulder.
He anticipated. He dived. His toe touched the ball, sending it spinning out of the square.
The circle went quiet. The captain looked at Ethan, then back at the playmaker.
"Better," the captain grunted. "Get out. Playmaker's in."
Ethan stepped out of the middle, his heart racing. He had just outplayed a senior pro. He glanced at Vance. The manager didn't clap. He swiped something on his iPad and blew his whistle for the next drill.
11:00 AM. Tactical Shape.
For the last part of the session, Vance set up an 11v11 shadow play. He assigned Ethan to the "B team" (the reserves) but kept him in the same Single Pivot (6) role.
"Matthews!" Vance shouted. "You are the heartbeat. If you stop, the body dies. I want to see that vertical pass you hit against Spurs. Do it against a Premier League-level defense."
Ethan took his position. Across from him was the First Team's starting attacking midfielder, a 28-year-old veteran who had played in the World Cup.
The ball was played to Ethan.
The veteran stepped up to press. He didn't just run; he used his body, his elbows, and his experience to close Ethan's space.
Ethan felt the pressure. Last year, he would have panicked. But he remembered the mud in Eastfield. He recalled Mason's advice: "If they're bigger than you, use their weight against them."
Ethan leaned back into the veteran, feeling the weight of the man. Then, he spun. He executed a sharp "Cruyff turn" and quickly looked up.
He saw the gap. It was small—the width of a suitcase—between the two starting center-backs.
He hit it.
The ball sliced through the grass. The reserve striker collected it, rounded the keeper, and scored.
Vance blew his whistle three times.
"Session over!" the manager yelled. "Warm down. Into the ice baths. Matthews, a word."
The senior players walked off, laughing and shouting, while Ethan stood alone in the center circle. Vance approached, his face unreadable.
"You have a good eye," Vance said quietly. "And you aren't scared of a tackle. That's a start."
"Thank you, sir," Ethan replied, trying to keep his voice steady.
"But," Vance continued, "your defensive positioning is three steps behind the pace of the Championship. If you play like that on a Saturday, a proper number ten will exploit you."
Vance handed Ethan a small USB stick.
"There are six hours of footage on here. My defensive rotations. Study them. If I call you up for the bench next week, I expect you to know every part of the field you're responsible for."
Ethan froze. "The... the bench, sir?"
"Don't get excited," Vance said, already turning to walk away. "I said if. It depends on how you perform in Monday's session. Go get your recovery done."
Ethan remained there, clutching the USB stick like it was a piece of the moon.