The autopsy took place on Monday morning.
The blinds in the video analysis room were drawn, blocking out the gray February light. Gareth stood at the front with the remote control in his hand, ready to begin.
He didn't shout. He didn't need to. The silence in the room was punishment enough.
"Pause," Gareth said.
On the screen, frozen in high definition, was the buildup to Southampton's second goal. It showed the free kick being won. It showed Tyrell out of position, chasing a ball he couldn't win. It showed Ethan, standing five yards away, hands on his hips, just watching.
"Look at the body language," Gareth said flatly. "That is not a player trying to win the ball back. That is a player feeling sorry for himself because his pass was intercepted."
He looked directly at Ethan. "You are looking at the referee. You are looking at the ground. You are not looking at the threat. Two seconds later, the ball is in our net."
Ethan stared at the floor, his face burning. It was brutal, forensic, and undeniably true.
"The cup run was a holiday," Gareth continued as he switched off the screen. "It was nice. We all enjoyed the lights. But the holiday is over. It is February. It is cold. Your bodies are tired. We have Blackburn Rovers on Saturday. They are second from the bottom. If you play against them with this attitude"—he gestured at the blank screen—"you will lose. You won't just be out of the cup; you'll be out of the team."
The rest of the week was a grind. The "Red Plan" had been adjusted. Mike, the fitness coach, decided Ethan needed more explosive power, so heavy squats were replaced with plyometrics. Box jumps. Sled pushes.
Ethan pushed the weighted sled across the indoor gym's turf. His legs burned. Sweat stung his eyes. Every step was a battle against gravity and friction.
"Drive!" Mike shouted. "Don't stop! Southampton didn't stop!"
It felt petty to use the loss as motivation, but it worked. Ethan gritted his teeth and pushed his legs harder, shoving the sled over the line before collapsing onto the turf.
Tyrell walked past, carrying two heavy kettlebells. He didn't offer a hand up. He just nodded. "Pain is weakness leaving the body," Tyrell muttered, quoting a gym poster without any irony. "Pain is pain," Ethan gasped.
Saturday arrived.
WBA U18 vs. BLACKBURN ROVERS U18.
It was the definition of an "after the Lord Mayor's Show" fixture. The pitch at the training ground was heavy after a week of rain. There were no fans, just a few shivering parents and the scratching of scouts' pens.
Blackburn, trying to avoid finishing at the bottom, played a low block. They put eleven men behind the ball and dared West Brom to break them down.
For 60 minutes, it was dreadful. West Brom passed the ball side to side—"horseshoe football," Gareth called it. Ethan tried to find pockets of space, but Blackburn clogged the middle. Every time he touched the ball, he was swarmed.
The frustration began to mount. Harvey was throwing his arms up. Tyrell was shouting at the center-backs to push up.
Ethan felt the ghost of the Southampton game. The feeling of helplessness.
Not today, he told himself.
In the 68th minute, the ball came to him deep. A Blackburn midfielder pressed him sluggishly.
Ethan didn't look for the "Hollywood" pass. He didn't look for a viral clip. He looked at the space in front of him.
He drove into it.
He carried the ball ten yards, drawing a second defender. He played a simple, sharp one-two with Tyrell, getting the ball back on the edge of the box.
A big center-back closed him down. Ethan felt the contact. Instead of going down for a foul or trying a flick, he bumped the defender using his shoulder. He created a yard of separation and fired a low, hard shot.
It wasn't a top-corner screamer. It was a scuffed, bobbling drive.
The keeper dove, but the ball took a wicked deflection off a defender's shin and rolled into the opposite corner.
GOAL.
1-0 West Brom.
There was no pile-on. No screaming celebration. Ethan just clenched his fist and jogged back to the center circle. It was an ugly goal in an ugly game. But it counted.
They won 1-0.
"Job done," Gareth said in the changing room as he ticked a box on his clipboard. "Professional. Boring. I love it."
Later that evening, Ethan sat in his room, icing his ankle. His phone buzzed.
Mason: We won 2-1. Riverton won 4-0. The gap is still 2 points. It's getting tight.
Callum: I got a yellow card for kicking the ball away. Shaw fined me £5. Raging.
Ethan smiled tiredly. He typed back. Won 1-0. Deflected goal. Gareth called it boring.
Mason: Boring wins titles.
Callum: Boring is boring. When's the next trip to Old Trafford?
Ethan looked at the message. The truth was, there might not be another trip to Old Trafford. Not this season. Maybe not ever. Most players went their whole careers without playing there.
He looked at the mud still clinging to his shins. The cup run was a memory. This—the ice packs, the deflected goals, the silent dressing rooms, the relentless pressure of the league table—this was the career.
He typed back. No more trips. Just the grind.
He put the phone down and picked up his BTEC textbook. The magic carpet had landed. Now he had to walk.