Sunday, October 3rd. 1:00 PM. Eastfield.
The drive from Ethan's modern apartment in Birmingham to Callum's flat in Eastfield took forty-five minutes. It felt like crossing into two different worlds.
Ethan parked his Audi, a perk from the new contract, on the narrow, wet street. He opened the trunk and grabbed three large brown paper bags, which smelled strongly of grease, salt, and fried chicken, along with his duffel bag.
He jogged up the concrete stairs to the second floor and knocked on door 2B.
Mia answered. She wore one of Callum's oversized hoodies, her hair tied up in a messy bun. She looked tired, the kind of deep exhaustion that comes from suddenly taking on full-time caregiving.
"Hey, Eth," she smiled, stepping aside. "You brought the good stuff."
"Enough calories to sink a ship," Ethan replied as he entered the small living room.
The flat was warm and had a faint smell of Deep Heat. Callum was lounging on the sofa. His left leg, wrapped in a rigid, hinged brace from thigh to ankle, rested on three pillows. He stared at the TV, where a Sunday afternoon Premier League build-up show played on mute.
Mason slumped in a single armchair across the room. His left ankle was raised on a plastic footstool, with a bag of crushed ice taped securely around it.
It looked like a military triage tent.
"The conquering hero arrives," Callum said flatly, not looking away from the TV.
"Shut up and eat," Ethan said, dumping the bags onto the small coffee table. He began unpacking boxes of fried chicken, large chips, and garlic bread.
Mason leaned forward, wincing a bit as he shifted his weight. He grabbed a handful of chips. "I haven't eaten anything but rice and boiled chicken in three days. This is gorgeous."
Ethan unzipped his duffel bag to grab the bottles of Coke he had bought, but a heavy green champagne bottle rolled out onto the floor with a dull thud.
The room went silent.
Mason stopped chewing. He stared at the gold foil wrapping the cork. "Is that what I think it is?"
Ethan felt his cheeks flush. He quickly picked it up. "Club media handed this to me after the game yesterday. I was going to leave it in the bag."
"Bring it here," Callum said, holding out his hand.
Ethan hesitated, then handed the heavy bottle to Callum. The label proudly declared it the Premier League Man of the Match award.
Callum traced the gold letters with his thumb. For a moment, Ethan braced for bitterness. Callum's dream was currently held together with titanium while Ethan was collecting awards on national TV.
But Callum just smiled. A real, genuine smile. He passed the bottle to Mia. "Put that in the fridge, babe. We'll need something to wash down this chicken."
"I'm not opening that," Ethan protested, sitting on the edge of the coffee table. "It's supposed to be a trophy or something."
"It's fermented grape juice, Eth," Mason said, tossing a chicken bone onto a paper plate. "And right now, we're miserable. We need bubbles."
Mia walked into the tiny kitchen with the bottle.
"How's the leg, Cal?" Ethan asked gently, nodding at the large brace.
"It itches," Callum sighed, leaning his head back against the sofa. "The surgeon says the tendon is holding, but the muscle atrophy has already started. I look at my thigh, and it's shrinking. It's driving me mad. I dropped the TV remote this morning and had to wait twenty minutes for Mia to wake up and hand it to me."
"He tried to pick it up with his crutch and knocked over a lamp," Mia called from the kitchen.
"Collateral damage," Callum muttered.
Ethan turned to Mason. "And you? You're missing Tuesday's game against Harrogate?"
"Terry threatened to lock me in the physio room if I try to put a boot on," Mason growled. "We're in the drop zone, Ethan. If we don't start picking up points by November, the Gaffer is getting sacked. The chairman came into the dressing room yesterday. It was ugly."
Mia returned with the champagne bottle, three mismatched mugs, and a wine glass. "I couldn't find any flutes," she apologized. "The mugs will have to do."
"Perfect," Mason said, looking at Ethan. "Pop it."
Ethan took the bottle, untwisted the wire cage, and popped the cork. The sound echoed loudly in the small flat. He poured the champagne into the mugs and the glass, handing them out.
"So," Callum said, holding up his chipped mug with a faded Batman logo. "What are we toasting? The knuckleball? Because I saw the replay. I didn't even know you could hit a ball like that."
"I didn't bring this to celebrate a goal," Ethan said, looking at his two oldest friends, both hurting from life in the lower leagues. He raised his mug. "To Harrogate on Tuesday. Mason, you're going to yell at them from the stands until they defend properly. Callum, you're going to stick with your physio until that leg is as strong as iron."
Ethan looked at both of them, his voice filled with certainty. "The string won't break. We will survive this year. All of us."
Mason smiled, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. He raised his mug. "We survive."
"To survival," Callum echoed, clinking his Batman mug against Ethan's.
Mia leaned down, kissed the top of Callum's head, and raised her glass. "To the boys."
They drank the expensive champagne out of cheap ceramic mugs in a cramped Eastfield flat. The chicken was greasy, their bodies were broken, and the fear of the future was very real.
But as they sat there watching Sunday afternoon football, arguing over referee calls and throwing chips at the television, the heavy weight of the leagues between them vanished.
They weren't a Premier League star and two struggling League Two players. They were just three kids from Eastfield, fighting the same battle on different fronts.