Old Trafford didn't look like a football stadium. It looked like a city.
As the West Brom coach entered the players' entrance, tall red brick walls blocked out the sky. Security felt stricter than an airport. Ethan stepped off the bus, his breath visible in the cold Manchester air.
"Big pitch," Tyrell muttered, his usual confidence dimmed somewhat as he gazed up at the Sir Alex Ferguson Stand. "Lots of running."
Inside, the away dressing room was nice, with carpet and warmth. It was meant to make you feel comfortable and trick you into a false sense of security before the home team took control.
Gareth pinned the team sheet to the wall. "They've done what we expected," the manager said, tapping a name on the United lineup. "Greenwood. Shoretire. They've dropped two players from the U23s. They are scared of losing. Good. Use that fear."
Ethan laced his boots, his hands shaking a little. He wasn't afraid of the players; he was anxious about the event.
"Heads up," Harvey whispered, nudging him. "Your fan club is here."
Ethan checked his phone before turning it off. He saw a selfie from Callum. He, Mason, and Ethan's mum were sitting in the corner of the East Stand, bundled in coats and holding pies. The stadium behind them looked huge, filled with about four thousand fans—a big crowd for a youth game, mostly in the lower sections.
Walking down the tunnel was legendary. The red walls and the history were impressive.
They stepped out into the light. The floodlights were blinding. The grass looked impossibly green.
Ethan glanced toward the corner. He spotted a small red smudge waving frantically. Callum.
The whistle blew.
If the league game had been fast, this would have felt like supersonic. United's "ringers" made an instant impact. Their winger, dropping down from the U23s, was electric. In the 8th minute, he took on the West Brom full-back, pulled off a dazzling step-over, and whipped a cross into the box.
United's striker tapped it in.
1-0.
The home crowd erupted. It felt like everything was going according to script. West Brom played the supporting role in a United highlight reel.
"Settle down!" Tyrell shouted, clapping his hands. "Don't respect them! Attack!"
But United looked comfortable. Their number 6, the Irish youth international Tyrell had warned about, was a nightmare. He was tall and tricky. Every time Ethan got the ball, he felt a stud scrape up his Achilles or a knee knock into his back.
In the 25th minute, Ethan tried to turn. The number 6 slammed into him, his forearm hitting Ethan's ribs. Ethan went down hard. No whistle came.
"Welcome to Old Trafford," the Irishman sneered.
Ethan lay there for a second, winded. He looked up at the towering stands, feeling small.
Be a hammer.
He got up. He didn't complain to the ref. He just adjusted his socks.
The rest of the half was all defense. West Brom held on by their fingertips. Leading 1-0 at halftime felt miraculous.
In the changing room, Gareth remained calm. "They are more skilled than us," he admitted. "But they don't like it when you disrupt the flow. Ethan, stop trying to make pretty passes in the middle. Their 6 is dominating you. Drop deeper. Pull him out. Make him run."
The second half began. Ethan adjusted his game. He stopped standing in the number 10 area. He moved back, collecting the ball from the center-backs.
The Irish number 6 followed him.
This opened up space.
In the 64th minute, Ethan picked up the ball deep. The number 6 was right behind him. Ethan felt the pressure. He planted his legs, leaned back, and absorbed the impact. He didn't fall.
He spun away from the Irishman, moving into the open space in midfield.
"Go on!" a voice shouted from the away end—Callum's voice, cutting through the noise.
Ethan surged forward. The United defense, relaxed for an hour, suddenly looked vulnerable. Tyrell burst down the center. Harvey was wide.
Ethan faked the pass to Harvey, freezing the center-back, then slipped a perfect pass through to Tyrell.
Tyrell took it in stride. He went one-on-one, smashing the ball low. The keeper saved it, but the rebound went out.
Harvey was there. He tapped it into the empty net.
GOAL.
1-1.
The away section erupted. Ethan sprinted to Harvey, but Tyrell grabbed him first. "That turn! That's the strength, boy! That's the strength!"
The last twenty minutes were chaotic. United, fearing extra time, pushed hard. West Brom defended like lions.
90 minutes. 1-1.
Extra time.
Fatigue set in. Ethan's calves were cramping. He looked at the sideline. Gareth had one substitute left.
"Keep going, Matthews!" Gareth shouted. "You're staying on!"
In the 105th minute—the last minute of the first half of extra time—United won a corner. They crowded the box.
The ball came in. Tyrell headed it away.
The ball landed at Ethan's feet on the edge of his own box.
He was tired. The field stretched out ahead like a desert. But he noticed the United keeper was still retreating.
Ethan took a touch. He saw Harvey sprinting on the right, but Harvey was drained. He spotted the Irish number 6 chasing him down, furious and desperate.
Ethan pushed the ball past him and took off. It became a footrace.
His legs screamed. His lungs burned. But all the hours of sprints, the hills in Eastfield, and the beep tests—they all paid off at once.
Ethan pulled ahead, crossing the halfway line, then the 25-yard line.
He was alone. The goal looked massive.
He recalled the Harrington penalty and the muddy pitch in Eastfield.
He didn't try to round the keeper. He didn't chip. He waited for the keeper to set, picked his spot, and struck it low and hard into the bottom corner.
GOAL.
2-1 West Brom.
Ethan didn't celebrate. He couldn't. He just collapsed onto the grass, sliding on his back, staring up at the night sky of Manchester.
A moment later, he found himself buried under a pile of blue shirts.
The second half of extra time was a blur of survival. But the whistle finally blew.
They had done it. They had won at Old Trafford.
As the team celebrated on the pitch, Ethan slipped away. He limped toward the away corner.
Callum and Mason hung over the barrier, security guards trying and failing to hold them back. His mum jumped up and down.
"You legend!" Callum yelled, his face red, tears in his eyes. "You actual legend! You ran the whole pitch! You ran the whole pitch!"
Mason grinned, a rare, joyful smile. He pointed at the scoreboard: MAN UTD 1 - 2 WBA.
"Not bad, Eastfield," Mason shouted. "Not bad at all."
Ethan took off his match shirt—the sweaty, grass-stained number 10—and threw it into the crowd. Callum caught it, holding it like treasure.
Ethan stood there, shirtless in the cold, his body spent, his heart full. He had come to the Theatre of Dreams and written his own story.