Wednesday, December 15th. 10:00 AM. Penthouse Apartment, Birmingham.
The December rain pounded against the floor-to-ceiling windows of Ethan's apartment, making the Birmingham skyline look like a grey, blurred painting. The heating was set to a comfortable 21 degrees, but the room felt suddenly stifling.
Ethan sat at his marble kitchen island, holding a cup of black coffee that had gone cold.
Across from him was David Richards, his agent. Richards wore a tailored suit, a Bluetooth earpiece, and a smile that seemed to be carved from ivory.
Richards slid a glossy printed dossier across the marble. On top was a color copy of the front page of the Spanish sports daily, Marca.
The headline, printed in huge, bold letters, read: EL NUEVO MOTOR. (The New Engine).
Below it was a picture of Ethan, taken during the Spain U21 game, tackling Mateo Silva.
"They aren't just looking into you, Ethan," Richards said, leaning forward and lowering his voice as if the walls were listening. "This is an official inquiry to the club. Real Madrid wants you in the January transfer window."
Ethan stared at the newspaper. Real Madrid. The white kit. The Santiago Bernabéu. The peak of the sport.
"I just signed a five-year contract in July, David. We're halfway through the season. Vance built the midfield around me."
"And Vance is a smart man. He knows West Brom is a stepping stone," Richards replied smoothly. "Madrid is ready to pay £65 million. They want a dynamic Number 8. Their midfield is aging. They see you as their future star. It's a five-and-a-half-year deal. £150,000 a week. Net."
Ethan closed his eyes. The numbers didn't even sound like money anymore; they sounded like a phone number.
"What does Vance say?"
"Vance says you aren't for sale," Richards chuckled. "But £65 million can change a club's mind quickly. Especially a club like West Brom. The decision will be yours, Ethan. If you want this, I can make it happen."
Ethan looked out the window at the cold English rain.
If he went to Madrid, he wouldn't be a short drive from his friends. He would be two thousand miles away. He wouldn't be able to drive down with fried chicken on a Sunday.
"Tell them I'm flattered," Ethan said quietly. "But tell them not to make a bid. Not in January."
Richards' smile faded. "Ethan, this is Real Madrid. If you say no, they might find another option and never call back."
"Then let them find someone else," Ethan said, standing up and taking his coffee to the sink. "I have a job to do here."
Saturday, December 18th. 4:45 PM. Brunton Park, Carlisle.
League Two. Matchday 21.
Carlisle United vs. Crestwood United.
While Ethan debated millions in a high-rise apartment, Mason Turner was freezing in Cumbria.
The temperature was minus two degrees. The pitch was hard, with patches of green painted over the frost.
Mason was back in the starting eleven, heavily strapped, running on sheer willpower and painkillers. Crestwood was holding on for a 0-0 draw.
89th Minute.
Carlisle earned a corner. The wind howled off the hills, blowing sleet sideways across the pitch.
Mason stood in the center of the penalty area. His breath formed clouds in the cold air. He couldn't feel his toes. His ribs hurt with each breath.
"Get tight!" Mason yelled, pushing Deano into position. "One minute! Give me one minute of focus!"
The ball was swung in. It was a fierce, in-swinging cross that bypassed the first man.
The Carlisle center-forward, a massive man in short sleeves despite the cold, leaped at the ball.
Mason jumped. His ankle wouldn't allow the same leap he used to have, but he had the timing.
He threw his head directly into the path of the striker's forehead and the ball.
Crack.
The sound of skulls colliding echoed throughout the stadium.
Mason felt a flash of light, then tasted blood. He hit the frozen ground hard, but the ball was cleared.
The referee blew the whistle immediately.
Terry sprinted onto the pitch, slipping on the frost.
Mason was on his hands and knees, blood pouring from a cut above his left eyebrow, dripping onto the white frost.
"Don't touch it," Mason growled, waving Terry away. "Wrap it. Quick."
Terry wrapped a thick white bandage around Mason's head, pulling it tight to stop the bleeding. Mason looked like a casualty from a 19th-century war.
He stood up, swaying slightly.
The referee blew for full time moments later.
Carlisle 0 - 0 Crestwood.
A huge point away from home.
Mason stumbled toward the tunnel, the adrenaline fading, replaced by a deep, bone-chilling cold. He looked at the small group of traveling Crestwood fans—about eighty who had made the four-hour journey. He clapped them.
He was broken, bleeding, and cold. And he wouldn't trade it for anything.
Sunday, December 19th. 2:00 PM. The Red Lion Pub, Eastfield.
The pub smelled of roasting beef, spilled ale, and wet coats. The fire in the corner blazed.
Ethan sat in a booth at the back. He had arrived early, ordering three large roast dinners with extra Yorkshire puddings.
The pub door opened. Mason walked in first, wearing a beanie pulled down to cover the stitches above his eye. Callum followed, moving slowly on crutches. His bulky hinged brace had been replaced by a sleeker, though still heavy, medical boot.
"Look at you two," Ethan laughed as they slid into the booth. "You look like you just survived a shipwreck."
"Carlisle in December is worse than a shipwreck," Mason grunted, taking off his coat and immediately reaching for a roast potato. "It's a penal colony. But we got a point."
"And you bled for it," Callum pointed out, nodding toward Mason's head. "Terry said you refused to come off."
"Terry talks too much," Mason replied.
Ethan poured them pints of water and pushed the plates forward.
For a few minutes, they ate in silence, the pub's warmth thawing them out.
"So," Callum said, wiping gravy from his chin. "Are you going to tell us, or do we have to pretend we didn't read the papers?"
Ethan froze, his fork halfway to his mouth. "You saw it."
"Everyone saw it, Eth," Mason said, chewing slowly. "El Nuevo Motor. Catchy. Real Madrid. £65 million."
Ethan put his fork down. "My agent brought it to me on Wednesday. They made an official inquiry."
Callum's eyes widened. "And? What did you say?"
"I told him to kill it," Ethan said flatly. "I told him no."
Mason stopped eating. He placed his knife and fork down carefully on the edge of the plate. He looked at Ethan, and the exhaustion in the captain's eyes was suddenly replaced by sharp intensity.
"You told Real Madrid no?" Mason asked, his voice quietly intense.
"Yes," Ethan defended himself, feeling unexpectedly cornered. "I'm halfway through a season. I owe Julian Vance. And... and I don't want to leave. I'm settled. You guys are here."
"Ethan," Callum said, his tone softer but serious. "You can't turn down Madrid for us. We're eating pub roasts in Eastfield. They play in the Champions League."
"I didn't say no just for you," Ethan said, frustration creeping into his voice. "I want to finish what I started at West Brom. We're aiming for Europe. If I leave in January, I disrupt everything."
Mason leaned across the table. The stitches above his eye looked angry and red.
"Look at me, Eth," Mason urged.
Ethan looked.
"I am wrapping my head in bandages to draw 0-0 in freezing mud," Mason said, each word heavy with truth. "Callum's hamstring is held together with titanium screws, and he might never get his speed back. We are pushing ourselves just to survive in League Two."
Mason pointed a scarred finger at Ethan.
"You have the talent. You have the body, the endurance, and the intelligence. You do not owe West Brom your life. If Real Madrid calls, you pack your bags. The distance across the ocean is not a barrier. But if you hold yourself back out of guilt... I'll never forgive you."
Callum nodded in agreement. "He's right, Eth. If you have the chance to wear that white shirt, you take it. You play for all of us."
Ethan looked at his two best friends. He saw the genuine support behind the tough words. They weren't jealous. They wanted him to reach for greatness, even if they were left behind.
"It's just an inquiry," Ethan said quietly, his throat tight. "They haven't made a bid yet."
"When they do," Mason said, picking up his fork again, "you tell your agent to book the flight."
Ethan looked at his half-eaten roast. The grey Birmingham rain pounded against the window.