Monday, January 17th. 09:00 AM. West Bromwich Albion Training Ground.
The frost on the training pitch crunched under the players' boots. The air was biting, the kind of cold that made a misplaced pass sting the receiver's foot.
Outside the tall metal gates, paparazzi waited, their breath visible in the freezing air as they looked for a shot of the "Madrid Target." Inside, the mood was just as chilly. The 1-0 derby loss to Aston Villa still loomed over the team like a dark cloud. No one was joking during the warm-up laps. No one was talking.
Julian Vance stood in the center circle with a stopwatch around his neck. He looked at the divided squad. "Transition drill," Vance announced, his voice sharp. "Attack versus Defense. High intensity. When possession changes, you have six seconds to get a shot off or clear the lines. If you jog, you run laps. Go."
Ethan put on a neon green bib for the attacking team. Opposite him, organizing the defensive line, was Liam Thorne. The club captain hadn't hardly looked at Ethan since Friday's argument.
09:15 AM. The Drill.
The drill was chaotic by design. Balls were fired in rapidly from the sidelines by the coaching staff. Ethan received a pass on the half-turn and looked up. Thorne had already stepped out of the defensive line, closing the space instantly. Thorne wasn't giving him an inch, pressing with a physicality that felt almost hostile.
Ethan played a safe, backward pass to Bouba Diop. "Too slow, Matthews!" Thorne barked, backpedaling into position. "You're holding it again!"
Ethan gritted his teeth. He recalled the Villa game, where he had pulled out of a 50/50 tackle because a small part of his mind feared that an injury would ruin the Madrid transfer. He remembered Mason's text: You stop acting like the £65m Wonderkid... you tackle Thorne right back.
09:30 AM.
A loose ball was chipped into the center. It was a true 50/50 ball, bouncing unpredictably on the frozen turf. Thorne surged from the backline, his eyes locked on the ball. He intended to clear it and leave a mark on Ethan too.
Ethan didn't hesitate. He didn't think about his ankles, knees, the Spanish press, or the £150,000 a week. He thought about the mud in Grimsby. He thought about the Eastfield pact.
Ethan sprinted. As the ball dropped, both men went to the ground. It wasn't a malicious challenge, but it was definitely uncompromising. Ethan slid, locking his ankle, driving his instep through the center of the ball just a fraction of a second before Thorne arrived.
CRACK.
The sound of hard plastic shin pads colliding echoed across the training ground. The impact was massive. Thorne, outweighed but not out-leveraged, spun over Ethan's extended leg and crashed heavily onto the frosted grass.
Ethan won the ball cleanly. He scrambled to his feet, took one touch to steady himself, and drilled a low shot past the backup goalkeeper into the bottom corner.
"Goal," Vance said quietly, clicking his stopwatch.
The training pitch fell silent. The rest of the squad stopped and stared at the two men.
Thorne sat up slowly, wiping frost from his cheek. He looked down at his shin pad, then back up at Ethan. Ethan didn't walk away. He walked straight over to the veteran center-back and stood over him, his chest heaving.
"I told you on Friday," Ethan said, loud enough for Lucas Vega, Bouba Diop, and the rest of the squad to hear. "I'm not going anywhere. My head isn't in Madrid. It's here. I bleed for this badge just like you do. Don't ever question my commitment again."
Thorne stared at the 18-year-old. The captain's face showed pure aggression for a long, tense second. Then, slowly, the tension broke.
Thorne let out a short, rough laugh. He grabbed Ethan's extended hand, and Ethan helped the heavy defender to his feet.
"Good tackle," Thorne grunted, brushing the ice off his shorts. He locked eyes with Ethan. "That's the kid who dragged us through the Championship playoffs. Keep playing like that, and I don't care what the papers say."
Thorne turned to the rest of the defense, clapping his hands. "Right! Next ball! Stop watching, you lot! Wake up!"
Ethan jogged back to his starting position. He caught Julian Vance's eye on the sidelines. The manager didn't smile, but he gave a single, firm nod.
The tension had eased. The dressing room was back.
1:00 PM. The Hydro-Pool.
Ethan sat chest-deep in the freezing water of the recovery pool. His shin throbbed from where Thorne had made contact, but it was a good pain. It felt real.
Lucas Vega waded into the pool next to him, hissing as the cold water hit his skin. "You are crazy, you know that?" Vega said, shivering. "You tackled the captain like that. In Spain, they send you to the reserves for a month."
"In Eastfield," Ethan replied, leaning his head back against the tiles, "they send you to the reserves if you don't."
Vega chuckled. "The air is better today. You fixed it. But the media... they won't stop talking until February 1st when the window closes."
"Let them talk," Ethan closed his eyes. "I've made my choice."
He reached out for a towel, dried his hands, and picked up his phone from the edge of the pool.
Group Chat: The Eastfield Boys
Ethan: I took the advice. Put Thorne on the deck in training. Cleared the air.
Mason: About time. Did he punch you?
Ethan: No. Pulled me up and told me to get back in position.
Callum: That's football heritage right there. Good lad, Eth. Now go win some games, I've got a bet on West Brom for a top-half finish.
Ethan: I'll do my best. How's the leg today?
Callum: Boring. I've done three hundred straight leg raises. I miss the rain.
Ethan smiled. They were worlds apart, but the anchor held. He was exactly where he was supposed to be.