The M6 motorway felt slower than usual. To Ethan, sitting in the passenger seat of his mum's Ford Fiesta, every red light and slow driver was a personal insult.
He had done his part. West Brom had beaten Leeds 2-0 that morning. It was a solid, efficient performance, and Ethan had registered another assist. That secured a 4th place finish in the U18 Premier League. Gareth had shaken his hand, told him to enjoy his summer, and let him sprint to the car park before the warm-down was even finished.
Now, the professional world was behind him. The destination was Riverton.
They arrived at the ground at 2:45 PM. Riverton's home pitch was impressive for the regional league. It had a railed pitch with a small seated stand and dugouts. The place was packed. The entire Crestwood crowd was there: parents, friends, and kids from school.
Ethan pulled his hood up, trying to keep a low profile, and squeezed into a spot near the corner flag.
He spotted them.
Crestwood was in their away kit—all red. They looked small next to the Riverton team. Riverton was the league's highest scorer for a reason. They were big, athletic, and technically skilled.
Callum stood in the center circle for the coin toss. He looked pale. Mason was bouncing on the spot, staring at the Riverton striker as if he wanted to eat him.
The situation was simple but harsh. Crestwood needed a draw. Riverton needed a win.
The whistle blew.
For forty-five minutes, it was painful. Crestwood did not try to play football. They parked the bus. They formed a wall of red shirts on the edge of their box and dared Riverton to break through.
Riverton dominated possession. They moved the ball side to side, searching for a gap. But the "Heavy Metal" defense held strong. Mason was everywhere—blocking shots, heading crosses clear, and shouting at his full-backs.
The score was 0-0 at halftime.
Ethan didn't go to the dugout. He stayed by the rail, his stomach knotted. He understood this game. Defending for ninety minutes against a team that had scored 40 goals was like playing Russian roulette.
The second half began, and the pressure increased.
In the 55th minute, Riverton hit the post. A long-range shot beat the Crestwood keeper and bounced back off the woodwork.
"Clear it!" Callum shouted, hacking the rebound into the parking lot.
60 minutes. 0-0.
65 minutes. 0-0.
Then, the moment came.
It wasn't a moment of brilliance. It was a moment of exhaustion.
Ryan, the Crestwood winger, had been chasing the Riverton full-back all afternoon. In the 72nd minute, his legs gave out. He was half a second late closing down a cross.
The ball floated into the box.
The Riverton striker, a tall, slender boy who had done nothing all game, slipped behind the Crestwood center-back. He didn't smash it. He merely guided a header back across the goal.
The Crestwood keeper scrambled and got a fingertip to it.
But it wasn't enough. The ball grazed the inside of the post and settled into the side netting.
GOAL.
1-0 Riverton.
The home crowd erupted. The Riverton players sprinted to the corner, piling on top of each other.
Ethan watched Callum. His captain didn't shout. He simply put his hands on his knees and stared at the grass for two seconds. Then he stood up and clapped his hands. "We're not done!" Callum yelled, his voice cracking. "We just need one! Get the ball!"
The dynamics shifted instantly. Crestwood, who had spent 75 minutes on defense, now had fifteen minutes to save their season.
They pushed everyone forward. Mason abandoned his defensive duties and moved up with Callum. It was desperate, chaotic football.
In the 84th minute, the chance came.
Mason won a flick-on. The ball fell perfectly into Callum's path inside the box. He was ten yards out. He had scored this goal a hundred times in Eastfield Park.
Callum swung his left foot.
But the mud—the dried, uneven mud of late April—interfered. The ball skipped just as he struck it.
Instead of going to the bottom corner, the shot skidded off his shin and flew over the bar.
Callum fell to his knees, hiding his face in his hands. The groan from the Crestwood parents was heartbreaking.
"Get up!" Mason yelled, pulling Callum by the shirt and lifting him to his feet. "We're not out yet!"
But they were.
Riverton, now sensing victory, retreated. They managed the game perfectly. They took the ball into the corners, feigned cramps, and ran down the clock.
The referee glanced at his watch.
Ethan gripped the metal railing, his knuckles turning white. Just one chance, he silently begged. Just give them one more.
But the whistle blew.
Three sharp blasts.
FULL TIME: RIVERTON 1 - 0 CRESTWOOD.
The Riverton bench emptied, players sprinting onto the pitch, champagne spraying. It was sparkling grape juice, but the effect was the same. They were the champions. They had won on goal difference.
On the other side, it was pure devastation.
Ryan lay flat on his back, sobbing. Mason stood with his hands on his hips, staring at the Riverton celebration in disbelief.
And Callum sat in the center circle, staring blankly.
Ethan hopped over the barrier. He wasn't supposed to be on the pitch, but no one stopped him. He walked through the celebrating Riverton players, ignoring them.
He reached Callum first. He didn't say anything. He just sat down on the grass next to him.
Callum didn't look at him. "I missed," he whispered, his voice thick. "I had the chance. And I missed."
"The ball bobbled," Ethan said softly.
"Doesn't matter," Callum replied, tears finally spilling over. "I lost it, Ethan. We were at the top all season. And I lost it on the last day."
Ethan put an arm around his friend's shoulder. "You didn't lose it. You carried this team for eight months. Without you, they finish mid-table."
Mason came over. He looked like he had aged ten years in ninety minutes. He glanced at Ethan, then at Callum. Then he dropped to one knee.
"We gave it everything," Mason said, his voice lacking its usual toughness. "We just ran out of road."
They sat there for a long time—the West Brom playmaker, the Crestwood captain, and the enforcer—while the Riverton team lifted the trophy ten yards away. The cheers rang out, cruel and loud.
"It hurts," Callum choked out.
"I know," Ethan said. "It's supposed to."
Ethan looked at the silver trophy glimmering in the sun as Riverton paraded it. He remembered lifting it last year and how heavy it felt.
Losing, he realized, felt heavier.
"Come on," Mason finally said, standing up and offering a hand to Callum. "Let's go. I'm not watching them lift it again."
They walked off the pitch together, past the celebrating champions, toward the silent changing room. The season was over. The title was gone. And for the first time in their lives, the boys learned that sometimes you can give everything you have, and it still isn't quite enough.