Dr Stevens checked his notes one last time. "Concussion's cleared up nicely. You're good to go home, Mr Carter." He passed Ethan the discharge papers. "Take it easy for a few days. No stress."
Ethan let out a dry breath. No stress. If only the doctor knew.
Dr Stevens moved toward the door. "Any dizziness or confusion, come straight back."
Ethan nodded and reached for his clothes as the room settled into quiet. The system had been completely silent since he pressed YES; there was no sign of the interface, no flicker of light, nothing at all.
He stared at the floor for a moment, trying to steady his thoughts. Had he imagined it? The memories of Emma came as broken pieces now, her laugh drifting from the kitchen and his son's face when they signed the contract. Were they ever real, or were they only the debris of a mind trying to make sense of pain?
He touched the bandage on his head and winced; the pain proved itself real.
He stepped out of the hospital as the evening air stung his cheeks. His old jacket hung loose on a frame that felt leaner than he remembered, and shop windows threw back a younger version of his face. He looked back to twenty-five with dark hair free of grey and no lines at the corners of his eyes.
He swallowed and stood still for a beat. This was Ethan Carter, the version who had never risen above assistant, the one the game had left behind.
He slowed by an electronics shop and glanced at the television in the window as the screen flickered.
The presenter smiled for the camera. "Billionaire Alexander West has completed his purchase of Millwall FC." A young man in an expensive suit waved from the steps of The Den. "The twenty-six-year-old entrepreneur promises a complete transformation of the struggling South London club."
Ethan narrowed his eyes at the name as a faint recognition stirred, then slipped away before he could catch it.
He shook his head and moved on because rich owners came and went, and most learned too late that money could not buy tactics or spirit.
He unlocked his flat and stepped inside without turning on the lights. The space was exactly as he had left it, small and cramped with bills scattered across the table, and the air carried the stale scent of days spent going nowhere.
He stood by the table and folded a letter in half without reading it. Tomorrow he would have to face Aston Villa again and walk past players who saw him as Henderson's lapdog, a head coach who treated him like a glorified kit man, and a board who probably could not pick him out of a line-up.
He sat down and pressed his thumb against the edge of a bill. The memories of Jake Wilson's success felt like a life that belonged to someone else. Maybe they always had.
---
The 1996 Ford Escort coughed to life after three attempts and settled into a rough idle. Ethan joined Birmingham's morning traffic and let the sports radio fill the silence.
The pundit spoke in a clipped tone. "Villa's form has been disappointing. Three losses in their last five matches. Questions are being asked about Terry Henderson's tactical setup."
Ethan gripped the wheel as the analysis formed itself in his head. Henderson's 4-4-2 was too rigid, the wingers did not recover to help the fullbacks, and Craig Morrison in central midfield was a liability, too slow to cover ground and too predictable in possession. Henderson would not listen. He never did.
He turned through the gates as the Villa Park training ground rose ahead with red brick buildings, pristine pitches, and the crest mounted proudly above the main entrance. It was everything Ethan had never been good enough for.
He stepped into reception as Sarah looked up from her desk with a start. "Ethan, I didn't expect to see you so soon after… you know."
He kept walking and gave a small nod. "I'm fine."
He heard the whispers gather behind him as he reached the corridor.
"Can't believe he's back already."
"Thought Henderson would've sent him packing by now."
He moved past a group of younger players who offered polite greetings while the senior ones kept their distance. Danny Wright, a reserve striker, stopped beside him.
Danny lifted his chin. "Alright, boss? Head feeling better?"
Ethan managed a brief smile. "Yeah. Thanks, Danny."
Danny lowered his voice. "Heard what happened in the tactical meeting. Morrison's been playing like rubbish all season. Someone had to say it."
Ethan opened his mouth to answer as his phone began to ring.
He checked the screen and lifted it to his ear. "Hello."
Janet from HR spoke with a careful tone. "Ethan, it's Janet. How are you feeling? I hope your head's alright."
Ethan felt his stomach dip. "I'm fine."
Janet paused for a breath. "Good. Could you pop down to my office? I need to clear up some paperwork from your accident."
The call ended before he could say more.
He walked the length of the corridor and took the stairs down to the administrative wing. Janet Williams had been with Villa for fifteen years, long enough to see managers come and go and to watch players retire while new ones arrived. Her office wore fake wood panelling, and a faded teamwork poster hung above a chunky desktop computer that hummed on the desk.
He knocked and stepped inside as she typed.
Janet looked up with a practiced smile. "Come in, Ethan. I'm so glad you're okay. That incident was just awful."
She stood and touched his bandaged head with gentle fingers. "I'm really sorry about what happened. The whole thing just got out of hand."
She sat again and glanced at her monitor as her hand returned to the mouse. "The board directors asked me to give you this." She slid a sealed envelope across the desk. "It's standard procedure after a workplace incident."
Ethan frowned as the weight of the envelope settled in his palm. "What kind of procedure?"
Janet kept her eyes on the screen. "I just deliver what they give me. That's all I know."
He broke the seal and read the page in silence.
Following the incident of November 14th and subsequent investigation, the club requests your immediate resignation. Multiple witnesses have confirmed unprofessional conduct and violations of confidentiality agreements…
He looked up with his throat tight. "Confidentiality violations? What does that even mean?"
Janet flinched and lowered her gaze to the keyboard without replying.
He drew a sharp breath as the pieces fell into place. "This is about the formation leak, isn't it? Someone's been feeding our lineups to the Birmingham Mail, and Henderson's pinning it on me."
Janet raised a hand in a calming gesture. "Ethan, please keep your voice down."
Ethan slammed his palm on the desk before he could stop himself. "It wasn't me. I've never spoken to a journalist in my life."
Janet reached for her phone with a startled look.
Ethan turned on his heel and left with the letter crushed in his fist.
He covered the distance to the coaches' corridor in a few strides and stopped at Terry Henderson's door. The head coach sat three doors down, eyes on a training clip that showed Liverpool's 4-3-3 pressing patterns from their Champions League match.
Ethan stepped into the doorway and held up the letter. "Bit late to be studying proper tactics, isn't it, Terry?"
Henderson kept his gaze on the screen. "What do you want, Carter?"
Ethan walked to the desk and let the letter fall on top of the keyboard. "You know exactly what I want. This has your fingerprints all over it."
Henderson folded his arms and leaned back. "You brought it on yourself."
Ethan planted his hands on the table. "I brought it on myself? I told you Morrison was a passenger in midfield. I told you that high line would get punished because teams would exploit the space behind our fullbacks. You would not listen because admitting I was right would bruise your ego."
Henderson finally looked up with a thin smile. "Morrison's got more Premier League appearances than you've got coaching badges."
Ethan shook his head in disbelief. "Morrison completed sixteen passes against Liverpool. Sixteen. Gerrard walked through our midfield like we weren't even there."
Henderson's expression hardened. "You physically assaulted me in front of the entire coaching staff."
Ethan straightened as the memory stung. "I pushed you because you called me a clueless nobody when I suggested dropping Morrison for Williams, who tracks back and can pick a pass under pressure."
Henderson pointed to the door without raising his voice. "Get out of my office."
Ethan took a step back and met his eyes. "When you're managing Kidderminster in two years, remember this conversation."
Henderson's jaw tightened as he reached for the phone. "Security's downstairs, Carter. Don't make me call them."
---
Ethan rode the lift up to the directors' suite and walked into a room that smelled of leather and old meetings. Richard Harmon, the general manager, sat behind a desk the size of a small pitch and flipped through a folder without looking up.
Ethan took a chair without asking. "This whole thing is ridiculous, Richard. You haven't even heard my side."
Harmon set the folder down. "I've heard enough. Henderson filed a comprehensive report, and three witnesses confirmed your aggressive behaviour."
Ethan leaned forward with both hands clasped. "What about the tactical analysis I gave you last month, the one explaining why our defensive transitions were failing?"
Harmon turned a page. "What about it?"
Ethan kept his voice level. "Everything I predicted has happened. Morrison's lack of defensive awareness, the space behind our fullbacks, the overloads on the right because Williams wasn't getting enough support."
Harmon tapped the file with one finger. "Your job was to support the head coach's decisions, not undermine them."
Ethan sat back and stared at him. "My job was to help the team win football matches."
Harmon finally met his eyes. "Your job was whatever Terry Henderson said it was. And according to multiple witnesses, you've been sharing tactical information with journalists."
Ethan's laugh came out flat. "That's complete rubbish, and you know it."
Harmon closed the folder. "Three different match previews in the Birmingham Mail contained formation details that only coaching staff would know. Henderson says it was you."
Ethan paused as the room seemed to narrow. "So he accuses me of leaking team news, and you take his word for it."
Harmon laced his fingers together. "The players backed his version of events. Unanimously."
Ethan looked at the window and back at Harmon. "Of course they did. He lets them coast through training. I'm the one who makes them run when they give the ball away cheaply."
Harmon leaned back in his chair. "This decision came from the ownership level. There's nothing I can do."
Ethan's voice dropped. "I've spent ten years at this club. Ten years of arriving first, leaving last, and analysing every match until my eyes burned. You're throwing me out on the back of Henderson's accusation."
Harmon picked up his pen. "Clear out your office. Security will escort you if necessary."
The silence that followed ended the conversation.
---
Ethan stood in his small office and opened a cardboard box. He packed his coaching badges with steady hands and slid in the tactical notebooks he had filled across the years, page after page of formations, player analysis, and match reports that no one had read with any care.
He pulled open the bottom drawer and took out his UEFA B licence certificate. He had worked three jobs to pay the course fees and studied by lamplight in this same flat while other coaches leaned on connections and family money.
He placed the certificate on top and closed the box.
He drove home through slow traffic while the radio discussed Villa's upcoming fixtures and whether Henderson's job was under threat. The noise washed over him without landing.
He parked outside his building and climbed the stairs. Too little, too late.
He sat on the couch and looked at the rejection letters scattered across the coffee table. Coventry City: position filled. Walsall: seeking more experienced candidates. Bristol Rovers: no response.
He let the papers fall back into place. Nobody wanted a disgraced assistant coach with a reputation for trouble.
He leaned his head against the back of the couch while the room held its breath. The system remained quiet. There was no light, no mission prompt, nothing to suggest that his memories of tactical genius had been anything more than a dream.
He closed his eyes and sat very still. Maybe Jake Wilson had only ever been a story he told himself.