The script had been written weeks ago: a sunny afternoon, a packed stadium, an easy win against the league's worst team, and a trophy lift to send Ethan off to West Brom.
But it seemed Harrington hadn't read that script.
From the first touch, the celebratory atmosphere turned into a heavy blanket. Crestwood players were tense, their touches heavy. They could hear every shout from the crowd, every hopeful cheer. They weren't playing to win; they were trying not to ruin the party.
Harrington, acting with the reckless freedom of a team already at the bottom, sensed the fear. They didn't hold back. They pressed.
In the 12th minute, disaster struck.
A simple pass from the back was underhit. The nerves got to the right-back. The Harrington left-winger intercepted the ball, looked up, and sent a hopeful cross into the box. It was a bad cross, floating too high, but the wind caught it. The Crestwood keeper backpedaled, misjudged the flight, and tipped the ball onto the crossbar.
It bounced down. Chaos ensued. In the scramble, a Harrington boot poked the ball through a mass of legs.
The net rippled.
0-1.
A heavy silence fell over the stadium. It was shocking and immediate. Then, a low, horrified murmur spread through the crowd.
Ethan stood in the center circle, hands on his hips, staring at the celebrating Harrington players. It felt like a nightmare. The exact banana peel Coach Shaw had warned about all week.
"Wake up!" Mason yelled, shoving the dazed right back. "Head in the game! Now!"
But the damage was psychological. The crowd, trying to help, grew anxious. "Come on, lads!" changed to frustrated groans with every misplaced pass. Callum, eager to impress Mia, started forcing things. He shot from impossible angles, trying to win the game with one kick.
To make things worse, news trickled in from the sidelines.
"Riverton are up," a ball boy whispered to the keeper as he retrieved a ball. "Two-nil after twenty minutes."
The equation was simple and terrifying. As it stood, Riverton had 47 points. Crestwood had 45. They were losing the league.
Ethan tried to take control. He dropped deep, demanding the ball, trying to set a rhythm. But Harrington had set up shop. They had their lead and defended it with eleven men in their own penalty box.
In the 38th minute, Ethan created a moment of magic. He danced past two defenders on the edge of the box and slid a pass to Callum. Callum turned and struck it well, but the Harrington keeper—who hadn't made a save all season, pulled off a miraculous fingertip stop.
The halftime whistle blew.
Crestwood 0, Harrington 1.
The walk to the tunnel felt like a gauntlet. The cheers had vanished, replaced by stunned silence. Ethan kept his head down, unable to look at his mum or at the spot where the West Brom scout might be watching his final triumph.
In the changing room, the only noise was heavy breathing. Some players had their heads in their hands. They looked defeated. They looked like they had already lost.
The door slammed open. Coach Shaw walked in. He didn't look angry. He looked terrifyingly calm.
"Riverton is winning 4-0," he said, his voice flat. "They're popping champagne right now. They're laughing at you. They're laughing because you listened to the crowd, believed the hype, and forgot to play football."
He walked over to the whiteboard and wiped it clean with one swipe of his hand.
"Tactics don't matter right now," he said. "You're scared. I can see it. You're scared of losing the title. You're scared of embarrassing yourselves in front of your families."
He turned to Ethan. "You leaving us with a loss, Matthews? Is that the legacy? The boy who signed for West Brom but couldn't beat Harrington?"
Ethan flinched, the words cutting deep.
Shaw faced the whole room. "You have forty-five minutes. Not to win a title. Forget the title. You have forty-five minutes to save your dignity. You go out there and play with some fire, or don't bother coming back in here."
He kicked a kit bag, sending it skidding across the floor. "Get out."
Ethan stood up. He looked at Mason, whose jaw was set in stone. He looked at Callum, who appeared pale and sick.
"He's right," Ethan said, his voice quiet but breaking through the tension. "We're playing scared. Stop thinking about the trophy. Stop thinking about the crowd." He grabbed the ball from the floor. "Let's just go out there and score one goal. Just one. Then we'll see what happens."
He walked to the door, pausing to look back at his team.
"I'm not leaving this club a loser," he said. "Are you?"