Monday, September 6th. 10:00 AM. St. George's Park.
The grass at the National Football Centre didn't look like grass. It looked like a perfectly manicured green carpet. It was cut to exactly 23 millimeters.
Ethan stood on the edge of Pitch 1, adjusting his training top. The Three Lions crest felt heavy on his chest.
Around him were some of the brightest prospects in English football. Boys who had been in the system since they were six. Boys with personal chefs, brand deals, and millions of Instagram followers.
To his left was Declan Hayes. To his right was Kieran Booth. Directly across from him stood Archie Sterling, a £40 million winger from the Manchester City academy who played with his socks rolled down and an ever-present smirk.
The U21 Manager, Gareth Nevin, blew his whistle. "Right, gentlemen. Welcome to camp. Spain on Thursday. Italy on Sunday. We won't lower our standards. We're preparing you for the senior squad. Everything is elite. Everything is fast."
Nevin pointed to the cones. "Rondos. Two in the middle. Let's see those touches."
10:15 AM. The Rondo.
Ethan found himself in a circle with Sterling, Hayes, and a few other top academy players. He and a young center-back from Everton were in the middle.
"Keep it moving, boys," Sterling grinned as he received the ball.
The ball zipped around. Ping. Ping. Ping. It was breathtakingly fast. One touch, flick, backheel. The academy boys played the rondo like a dance. It was beautiful, clean, and completely non-contact. When someone got close, they just flicked it away.
For the first minute, Ethan felt like he was chasing shadows. Frustration bubbled up inside him. They were treating it like an exhibition.
Sterling received the ball. He looked away and attempted a no-look pass through Ethan's legs to humiliate him.
Mistake.
Ethan didn't attempt to intercept the ball with his foot. He read Sterling's body language, stepped into the space he was trying to pass through, and dropped his shoulder to use his frame.
The ball hit Ethan's thigh. He controlled it immediately, trapping it under his boot. The rapid-fire ticking of the rondo stopped.
Sterling blinked, his smirk disappearing. "Foul," he instinctively called out.
"I didn't touch you," Ethan replied, kicking the ball back to Sterling. "Your turn in the middle, Archie."
Several other players exchanged surprised looks. It was rare to body the star player in warmup.
11:30 AM. 8v8 Small-Sided Game.
Nevin split the squad. "High intensity. Match conditions. Go!"
The game was shockingly quick. The skill level was far above the Championship. If you took two touches, three players would swarm you. Ethan adjusted his play. He focused on finding empty spaces. He played one-touch.
15th Minute of the Drill.
The ball popped loose in the center of the pitch. It was a true 50/50 ball. Archie Sterling lunged for it, expecting the usual academy-style polite challenge where the ball pops out cleanly.
Ethan went for it. He didn't think about St. George's Park. He didn't think about the Three Lions. He thought about the frozen pitch at Solihull Moors. He thought about Millwall.
The String Don't Break.
Ethan slid in. It was an aggressive, grass-cutting tackle. He took the ball cleanly, but the momentum carried him through. CRUNCH.
Sterling went flying, tumbling over Ethan's legs and hitting the pristine turf hard.
The whistle blew instantly. "Hey!" one of the Chelsea midfielders shouted, rushing over. "Take it easy! It's training!"
Ethan jumped to his feet right away. He looked down at Sterling, who was sitting on the grass, looking more shocked than hurt. "Ball," Ethan said simply.
Nevin walked over. The manager didn't look angry. He looked intrigued. "Clean tackle," Nevin announced to the group. "He took the ball. Sterling, get up. If a Spanish midfielder does that on Thursday, are you going to sit there and complain?"
Sterling scowled, getting to his feet and brushing himself off. "No, boss."
"Good," Nevin said. "Matthews is showing you what match intensity looks like. Match his level. Play on!"
1:00 PM. The Dining Hall.
The food at St. George's Park was carefully prepared. Salmon, quinoa, beetroot shots. Ethan sat down at an empty table with his tray.
A moment later, a tray slammed down opposite him. It was Declan Hayes. Kieran Booth sat down next to him. Then, unexpectedly, Archie Sterling took the seat beside Ethan.
"You've got a screw loose, Matthews," Sterling said, rubbing his shin. But his smirk was gone, replaced by a hint of respect.
"I spent last year in the National League," Ethan said, taking a bite of salmon. "If you don't tackle like that, they eat you."
"Riverton, right?" Booth asked. "I saw the clip of you against Peterborough in the Cup. You sent that center-back packing."
"He was slow," Ethan shrugged.
"You don't play like an academy kid," Declan noted. "You play like... an old man. An angry old man."
"I'll take that as a compliment," Ethan smiled.
"Just don't do it to me," Sterling murmured. "I need my ankles for the weekend."
Ethan looked around the table. He was sitting with the golden boys of English football. They weren't looking down on him. They were looking at him like he was the missing piece of the puzzle. They had flair; he had fire.
9:00 PM. Hotel Room.
Ethan lay on the king-sized bed. His legs were wrapped in compression boots, humming softly as they helped flush the lactic acid from his muscles.
He picked up his phone.
Group Chat: The Eastfield Boys
Ethan: Surviving. Just put a £40m winger on his backside in training.
Mason: Good. Let them know you're there. Don't let them play tippy-tappy football around you.
Callum: Did you get a picture with Declan Hayes? Ask him what hair products he uses.
Ethan: I'm trying to be a professional, Cal. Not a fanboy.
Mason: We play Salford tomorrow night. Away. Gary Neville might be there. I'm going to try to hit a long ball into the owner's box.
Ethan: Keep it on the ground, Mase. Get the three points. You need them.
Callum: We'll get them. Represent us on Thursday, Eth. Make them play the national anthem for Eastfield.
Ethan locked his phone. Thursday. Spain U21s. He closed his eyes and visualized the midfield. He pictured the red shirts of Spain. He was ready to hunt.