The bus ride to the south coast was long, quiet, and surprisingly comfortable.
Four hours on a luxury coach can make you feel too relaxed. As they passed the endless grey fields of Oxfordshire and Hampshire, the squad shifted their chat from tactics to possible quarter-final opponents.
"If we win tonight," Tyrell said, scrolling through the draw on his phone, "we get Liverpool or Leeds at home. Imagine Liverpool at The Hawthorns." "We'll crush them," Harvey replied, propping his feet up. "We beat United at Old Trafford. Who are Southampton? They're mid-table in the South Group."
Ethan sat quietly, looking out the window. He tried to bring back the nervous energy he'd felt before Arsenal and United, but it was missing. Instead, he felt a heavy contentment. They were the giant-killers. They were the underdogs in the cup. Surely, the story would just keep going?
They arrived at St. Mary's Stadium. It was a bowl-shaped, modern venue, not as imposing as Old Trafford but slicker than The Hawthorns. The pitch looked perfect—a smooth surface made for technical football.
In the changing room, Gareth sensed the mood. "You are too relaxed," the manager said sharply, slamming the door. "You are talking about Liverpool. You haven't even kicked a ball yet. Southampton has the best set-piece record in the country. Their midfield runs more kilometers than anyone else. If you think you can just show up and toss your shirts on the pitch, you're going home upset."
The warning lingered in the air, but it didn't fully register.
The whistle blew.
For the first ten minutes, it seemed Gareth was mistaken. West Brom started strong. Ethan found space, delivering two nice passes to Harvey. Tyrell won a tough tackle.
We've got this, Ethan thought. They're scared of us.
Then, in the 12th minute, reality hit.
Ethan tried to turn his defender, a sharp midfielder, using the same move he'd used at Old Trafford. But the Southampton player had done his homework. He didn't dive in. He waited, stole the ball from Ethan's toe, and launched a counter-attack.
Three passes. Quick, quick, quick.
The ball went wide and then cut back to the edge of the box. Southampton's striker didn't take a touch. He shot first time, curling it into the bottom corner.
1-0 Southampton.
"Wake up!" Tyrell yelled. "Focus!"
But the wake-up call came too late. Southampton wasn't rattled like Arsenal, and they weren't arrogant like United. They were a machine. They pressed West Brom without mercy, closing in on Ethan every time he touched the ball.
In the 35th minute, West Brom conceded a free kick twenty-five yards out.
"Wall!" the keeper shouted.
Ethan stood in the wall, linking arms with Tyrell. He glanced at the Southampton player taking the kick. He appeared calm.
The whistle blew. The kick was perfect. It whipped over Ethan's head, dipped sharply, and hit the inside of the post before settling in the net.
2-0.
Halftime was grim. Gareth didn't shout. He just looked disappointed. "You're chasing shadows," he said. "You look for the big pass every time. Ethan, stop trying to win the game by yourself. Tyrell, stop running out of position for big tackles. We need control."
The second half was better, but it felt like climbing a mountain with a backpack full of rocks.
Ethan tried. He really tried. He dropped deep and ran the flanks. In the 65th minute, he slipped past two defenders and found Harvey, but the winger's shot was brilliantly saved by the keeper.
In the 80th minute, Ethan stood over a free kick in almost the same spot as the one against Arsenal. Just one goal, he prayed. Just give us a chance.
He struck it well. It cleared the wall. It seemed destined for the top corner. But the Southampton keeper leaped across his line, tipping it away with a fingertip save.
Ethan put his hands on his head. That was the moment. That was the magic. And today, the magic wasn't enough.
The final ten minutes blended into a flurry of desperate long balls and Southampton maintaining possession in the corner, managing the game with a control that West Brom lacked.
The final whistle blew.
SOUTHAMPTON 2 - 0 WEST BROM
There wasn't any collapse to the floor this time. No tears. Just a hollow, numbing silence.
Ethan stood in the center circle, hands on his hips, watching the Southampton players celebrate. They were jumping, hugging, and pointing to their fans. It looked just like West Brom had two weeks ago.
Tyrell walked past him, staring at the ground, his face full of anger. He didn't say anything.
In the changing room, the silence was overwhelming. The kit man moved quietly, gathering the dirty shirts. The dream of the semi-finals, the final, the glory—it all vanished in ninety minutes of efficient, professional football.
Gareth stood in the middle of the room. "Remember this feeling," he said quietly. "Hold onto it. Because this is what happens when you buy into your own hype. You beat United and thought you were on top. Southampton treated you like just another team, and they beat you."
He looked at Ethan. "You can't be the hero every week, Matthews. Sometimes, the other guy is just better that day. Pack up. We move."
The bus ride home felt like a funeral. No music. No phones lighting up the darkness. Just twenty boys staring into the night, coming to terms with the fact that their season was now just about the league.
Ethan's phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it for an hour but eventually gave in to curiosity.
Callum: Saw the score. 2-0. Tough one.
Mason: Happens. You can't win them all. Old Trafford still counts.
Callum: Also, if it makes you feel better, I missed a penalty in training tonight and Shaw made me run laps until I nearly threw up.
Ethan managed a weak, tired smile. He typed back.
We were poor. They were better. Cup run over.
He put the phone away and leaned his head against the cold window. The magic carpet ride was over. He was back on the ground. And looking at the fixture list for the rest of the season—Stoke away, Everton at home, Leeds away—the ground felt very, very hard.