Sunday, September 19th. 2:00 PM. Eastfield General Hospital.
The sliding doors of the NHS hospital opened with a sluggish rattle, quite different from the silent glass of the West Bromwich Albion high-performance center.
Ethan Matthews walked into the sterile-smelling lobby. He wore a plain black hoodie and joggers, trying to keep a low profile, but the way he dressed and his clean trainers gave him away. He moved a bit stiffly. Ollie Deeming had clipped his ankle the day before in a tough 1-1 draw at Stamford Bridge, but he was walking.
He navigated the maze of linoleum corridors until he found Ward 4, Orthopedics.
Room 412.
Ethan gently pushed the door open. The room was small, painted a faded pastel blue. Callum Reid lay propped up in the hospital bed, his left leg elevated and wrapped in a thick compression sleeve. He looked very pale, staring blankly at the daytime television mounted on the wall.
Sitting in the plastic chair next to the bed was Mia. She had both hands wrapped around Callum's right hand, her eyes red-rimmed. Standing by the window, looking out at the gray car park, was Mason. He leaned heavily on his right leg to keep the weight off his own swollen left ankle.
"Hey," Ethan said softly.
Mia looked up and offered a tight, grateful smile. "You made it."
"Of course I did," Ethan replied, walking over to bump fists with Mason before standing at the foot of Callum's bed. "How are we doing, Cal?"
Callum didn't turn away from the TV right away. When he finally looked at Ethan, the usual spark in his eyes was gone. "I heard it pop, Eth," Callum whispered. "It sounded like a guitar string snapping."
"We're waiting on the consultant," Mason said, his voice flat. "They did the MRI this morning."
Just then, the door clicked open. A consultant in dark blue scrubs walked in, holding a tablet. He looked tired but professional. "Callum Reid?" the doctor asked, pulling up a chair. He looked at the others and asked, "Do you want them to stay?"
"They're family," Callum said, his voice trembling slightly. "Just tell me."
The doctor sighed and tapped the screen to show the MRI scans. "It's not good news, Callum. You've suffered a Grade 3 tear of the biceps femoris, which is the main hamstring muscle."
The doctor turned the tablet to show them the grayscale cross-section.
"To understand what happened, we need to look at how you were injured," the doctor explained, pointing to the scan. "When your studs caught in the mud and your upper body twisted, the muscle faced sudden extreme loading. You were stretching the muscle while trying to contract it with full force to spin away from the defender."
Ethan listened closely. The mechanical violence of it made him wince.
"The force from that movement exceeded what the tissue could handle," the doctor continued, pointing to a dark area on the scan where healthy tissue should be. "The tissue reached its breaking point and failed. Specifically, the muscle-tendon junction tore away under the pressure. It's a near-total avulsion—the tendon has almost completely ripped away from the bone."
Mia let out a small, sharp breath and pressed her face against Callum's shoulder. Mason closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the windowpane.
"Surgery?" Ethan asked, his voice steady.
"Yes," the doctor said with a nod. "It needs surgical reattachment. We will use anchor sutures to reattach the tendon to the ischial tuberosity. After that, it's a long road. You'll need six weeks of total immobilization, followed by intensive rehab to rebuild the strength and flexibility of the muscle."
"How long?" Callum croaked.
The doctor looked him in the eye. "Best case, if your body responds perfectly to rehab? Six to eight months. Realistically? Your season is over, Callum."
The silence in the room was complete. The television murmured mindlessly in the background.
"Okay," Callum whispered. "Thank you, doctor."
The consultant nodded sympathetically and said a few words about scheduling the surgery for Tuesday before leaving the room.
For a long minute, nobody spoke.
Then Callum broke down. A ragged sob escaped his throat. He threw his free arm over his eyes, his shoulders shaking. Mia leaned over him, burying her face in his neck and murmuring softly, though she cried too.
Mason turned back to the window. Ethan noticed his captain's jaw clenching tightly. In League Two, a season-ending injury was not just a physical blow; it was a financial and existential crisis. Callum only had a one-year contract. If he couldn't play, he couldn't earn a new one.
Ethan walked around the bed and put a hand on Callum's shoulder. He let him cry. He understood the feeling. He remembered lying on the grass at The Hawthorns, thinking the same thing: It's over.
"Listen to me," Ethan said, his voice breaking through the quiet sobbing.
Callum didn't move his arm.
"Callum, look at me."
Callum lowered his arm. His face was blotchy, his eyes full of vulnerability. "I'm done, Eth. I'm going back to the cinema. The club won't keep me. They can't afford to pay a broken player."
"Shut up," Ethan replied, not unkindly but with firmness. "You are not going back to the cinema."
Ethan glanced at Mason. "I'm calling Ben Garner as soon as I leave this room. West Brom has the best orthopedic surgeons in the country. I'm moving your surgery to Birmingham. Private."
"Eth, I can't afford that," Callum said, panic rising in his voice. "And Crestwood's insurance only covers standard NHS care—"
"I'm paying for it," Ethan cut in.
Mia looked up, shocked. "Ethan, that's tens of thousands of pounds."
"I just signed a five-year Premier League contract," Ethan said, holding Callum's gaze. "What good is it if I can't fix my brother's leg? You're getting the surgery privately. You're doing your rehab at a specialized clinic. You will have the same rebuilding program I got for my knee."
"I can't take your money," Callum choked out, his pride flaring even amid the devastation.
"You're not taking it. It's an investment," Ethan shot back. "I expect a return when you're back on the pitch next year. The string doesn't break, Cal. Remember?"
Mason finally turned away from the window and limped to the other side of the bed. He placed his large, calloused hand over Callum's.
"He's right," Mason said, his voice thick with emotion. "You let him pay for the surgery. I'll handle the manager and the board. They won't release you. I won't let them."
Callum looked between the two of them. His captain fighting a relegation battle on one leg and the Premier League star offering help.
"You guys..." Callum began, but his voice broke again.
"We're Eastfield," Mason said softly. "We go up together, we go down together."
Mia wiped her eyes and offered a watery smile. "You two are going to make me cry again. Stop it."
Ethan smiled, stepping back to let Mia have space next to the bed. "I'll make the calls right now. Tuesday, you'll be in a private suite with better food and a surgeon who works with Champions League players."
He walked toward the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. He looked at Mason.
"Mase, you're next. Let the physios check that ankle. If you tear a ligament because you're compensating, Crestwood is really doomed."
"I'll rest it," Mason lied.
"I'll hold you to that," Ethan said. He gave one last nod to Callum. "See you tomorrow, Wonderkid."
Ethan walked out into the corridor. The heavy hospital doors slid shut behind him. He pulled out his phone and dialed Ben Garner's number. It was time to make things happen.