The adrenaline that had driven Ethan's 60-yard sprint and the celebration afterward faded somewhere on the M6 motorway, leaving a deep, aching feeling behind.
The team coach was quiet. It was 1:00 AM. Most players were asleep, heads resting against the windows and wrapped in club blankets. The excitement from the changing room was gone, replaced by the heavy, satisfying tiredness of a job well done.
Ethan couldn't sleep. His legs hurt, and his calves twitched as if cramping. He stared out at the streetlights passing by, clutching his phone.
He had 47 new messages.
Tyrell, sitting next to him, was also awake. He was watching game highlights on his phone, the blue light lighting up his face.
"Look at that," Tyrell whispered, nudging Ethan. He pointed to the screen. It was the 105th minute. The interception. The run.
"You look like a sprinter," Tyrell said, shaking his head. "Six months ago, that Irish guy would have caught you. He would have eaten you for breakfast. Today? You left him behind."
"Red Plan," Ethan murmured, his voice rough.
"Red Plan works," Tyrell agreed. He locked his phone and leaned back. "You know what this means? Fifth Round. We're in the last sixteen. People will start talking about us winning it all."
"One game at a time," Ethan replied, echoing Gareth's mantra.
Tyrell snorted. "Boring. We just beat United at Old Trafford. Let's dream a little, Matthews."
The next morning, the alarm went off at 7:00 AM. It felt like a personal attack.
Ethan rolled out of bed, his feet hitting the floor. His body felt heavy. Walking down the stairs to the kitchen required real effort.
"Morning, superstar," Linda said, placing a bowl of porridge in front of him. "Dave watched the game online. He woke up the neighbors when you scored."
"Sorry," Ethan mumbled, rubbing his eyes.
"Don't be," she smiled. "Eat up. You've got school."
That was the reality check. He had conquered the Theatre of Dreams on Wednesday night, but on Thursday morning, he still had to go to his BTEC Business Studies lecture.
He arrived at the training ground. The vibe was different. The first-team players were arriving in their fancy cars, and for the first time, a few nodded at the U18s walking into the building. The result had caught attention.
In the canteen, the clip of his goal played on a TV loop. He watched himself run, see the finish, and do the slide.
"Hollywood," Harvey said, sitting down with a tray of eggs. "Total Hollywood. You know who you look like? You look like a real player."
"I feel like an old man," Ethan groaned.
"Gareth says we have a light session today," Harvey said. "Pool recovery, massage, then video analysis of the Fifth Round draw. It's Friday."
"Who do we want?"
"Not City," Harvey replied immediately. "Anyone but City."
Meanwhile, in Eastfield, the atmosphere buzzed for very different reasons.
Callum walked into the Sixth Form common room like he owned the place. He wasn't wearing his school blazer. Instead, he sported a West Bromwich Albion away shirt—number 10, Matthews—that was stiff with dried mud and sweat.
"Callum, take that off," a teacher sighed from the doorway. "Uniform policy."
"It's a historical artifact, Miss," Callum argued, pointing at the grass stains. "This shirt scored the winner at Old Trafford last night. It hasn't been washed. It holds the essence of victory."
"It holds the essence of body odor," the teacher shot back. "Bag it. Now."
Callum reluctantly took it off, revealing his school shirt underneath. He carefully folded the jersey and placed it on the table like a prized possession.
Mason walked in a moment later, looking tired but pleased. He dropped his bag. "Train got in at 3 AM," Mason said, yawning. "My mum was furious."
"Worth it," Callum said, stroking the shirt. "Did you see the video Mia posted? It's got a thousand likes. Me screaming like a banshee."
"I saw it," Mason said. "You looked insane."
A group of younger kids gathered around the table, staring at the shirt. "Is that Ethan's?" one asked. "The very one," Callum replied proudly. "Hand-delivered to the fans, a.k.a. me."
"He's really doing it, isn't he?" the kid said, eyes wide. "Like, properly doing it."
Mason looked at the shirt, then at a photo on his phone of the scoreboard at Old Trafford. "Yeah," Mason said softly. "He's properly doing it."
He glanced at Callum. "Which means we need to step up. Saturday. Marston Vale. We can't let the 'essence of victory' be the only thing we win this week. We have a title to defend."
Callum packed the shirt away, his expression shifting from fan to captain. "Marston Vale," he nodded. "Let's crush them. For the brand."
Back at West Brom, Ethan lay in the hydrotherapy pool, the warm jets easing his sore back. Tyrell floated nearby.
"The Fifth Round draw is out," Tyrell said, looking at a waterproof screen on the wall.
"Who is it?" Ethan asked without opening his eyes.
"Southampton," Tyrell said. "Away."
Ethan opened one eye. "Southampton? Long trip."
"Doable," Tyrell said. "We beat Arsenal. We beat United. Southampton is nothing."
He splashed water at Ethan. "Rest up, buddy. We have a cup to win."
Ethan closed his eyes again, sinking deeper into the water. The ache in his legs faded, replaced by a warm sense of satisfaction. He was tired, sore, and far from home. But Tyrell was right. They had a cup to win.