The "two weeks off" rule lasted exactly four days.
By Wednesday, Ethan was back at the Eastfield Recreation Ground. He wasn't following the full "Red Plan"; Mike would kill him if he found out. Instead, he focused on maintenance—shuttle runs, ball control, and keeping his skills sharp.
He was juggling the ball near the rusty goalposts, sweat trickling down his nose, when he spotted the car.
It was a matte black Mercedes C-Class, oddly parked next to the battered Ford Fiestas and vans in the small gravel lot. In Eastfield, a car like that usually meant one of two things: a drug dealer or someone lost looking for the motorway.
Ethan caught the ball on his neck, balanced it, and let it drop to his foot. He watched as the driver's door swung open.
A man stepped out. He looked to be in his early thirties, dressed in a fitted navy polo shirt, designer jeans, and white trainers that seemed brand new. He checked his phone, glanced at Ethan, and smiled.
He walked across the grass, dodging the uneven ground with ease.
"Ethan Matthews," the man called out. His voice was smooth and carried easily across the pitch. "The boy who silenced the Stretford End."
Ethan trapped the ball under his foot, feeling a twinge of wariness. Gareth had warned them about this during the 'Life Skills' seminars. Sharks, Gareth had called them. They can sense weakness even before it happens.
"Who's asking?" Ethan replied, keeping his distance.
"Rick. Rick Sterling," the man said, stopping a respectful few yards away. He didn't extend a hand, sensing Ethan's hesitation. "I work for Apex Sports Management. We represent several players you faced this year. The City winger, the one who scored against you? He's with us."
"Okay," Ethan said, unimpressed. "He's good."
"He is," Rick nodded. "But he didn't score the winner at Old Trafford—you did."
Rick stepped closer, his eyes scanning Ethan—not like a scout evaluating talent but like an investor eyeing a potential stock. "I've been tracking your data, Ethan. Your progress from September to May is impressive. Mark and Gareth are doing well with you, but they're focused on West Brom's interests."
"And you're focused on mine?" Ethan asked.
"Exactly," Rick smiled, showing off perfect teeth. "You're heading into your second scholarship year, the 'Contract Year.' The club will offer you a pro deal—if they're smart, they won't pass you up. But will they give you a fair deal? Will they include a release clause? Will they secure you a boot deal with Adidas? Or will they hand you the usual academy scraps and tie you down for three years?"
Ethan stayed quiet. He had considered the contract, sure. But boot deals and release clauses? That felt like something from FIFA Career Mode.
Rick pulled out a card from his pocket. It was thick, black cardstock with gold lettering. "I'm not here to sign you today," Rick said, placing the card on the top of the goalpost. "I'm just introducing myself. But the competition gets fierce in the second year, Ethan. You need someone to guide you. Or better yet, someone who can fight for you."
He turned to walk away but then paused. "Oh, and tell your friend Callum to switch to molded studs on these pitches. Metal blades are why he missed that shot against Riverton. Too much grip, caught on the turf."
Ethan's eyes widened. "You watched the Riverton game?"
"I watch everything," Rick winked. "Enjoy your summer, Ethan."
He walked back to the Mercedes, which started purring to life, and drove off.
Ethan stood there for a while, staring at the black card resting on the rusty crossbar. Rick Sterling. Senior Agent. Apex Sports.
He picked it up; it felt substantial.
That evening, the kitchen table felt tense.
Ethan placed the card in the center. His mom picked it up, eyeing it like it was something dangerous. "He came to the park?" she asked, her tone sharp. "While you were alone?"
"Yeah," Ethan said, poking at his spaghetti. "He knew about Old Trafford. He even mentioned Callum's miss against Riverton."
"That's creepy," Sarah commented from the sofa. "Stalker vibes."
"It's his job," Ethan defended, though he felt uneasy too. "He said I need representation for the contract talks next year."
"You have representation," his mom replied firmly. "Me. And your father, if he ever answers his phone."
"Mum, you're a nurse," Ethan said gently. "Rick is talking about boot deals, Adidas, and release clauses. Do you know how to negotiate a release clause?"
She hesitated. The gap between her world—hospital shifts, school runs, budget sheets—and the world Ethan was entering felt vast. "I know that people in fancy cars who hang around playgrounds usually want something," she countered. "Did you tell the club?"
"Not yet."
"You tell Gareth tomorrow," she instructed. "If Rick is legitimate, the club will know him. If he's a shark, they'll advise you to run."
The next day, Ethan sent a text to Gareth and attached a photo of the card.
This guy approached me at the park yesterday. He said he wants to represent me.
The reply came within five minutes. Gareth didn't text back; he called.
"Rick Sterling," Gareth said dryly. "I wondered when he'd find you."
"Is he legit?" Ethan asked.
"He's legit," Gareth sighed. "A pain sometimes, but legit. He represents a few Premier League players. He'll promise you the world—boots, money, followers. Just remember: he only gets paid if you do. He works for you but benefits from you."
"He said I need help with the contract."
"You might," Gareth admitted. "Negotiations can get tricky in the second year. But don't sign anything yet. Tell him to talk to your parents. If he tries to speak to you again without an adult, block his number. Got it?"
"Got it."
Ethan hung up and stared at the card on his desk.
It was an alluring piece of paper. It signaled that he wasn't just a kid from Eastfield anymore; he was an asset. A commodity. A star in the making.
Later that afternoon, he went to find Callum, who sat in the same deckchair, still mourning the season.
"An agent?" Callum perked up immediately when Ethan told him. "Like, a Jerry Maguire agent? 'Show me the money'?"
"Something like that," Ethan replied. "He drove a Merc."
"Did he mention me?" Callum asked, sitting up. "Did he ask about the captain of Crestwood?"
"Actually," Ethan winced. "He said you should switch to molded studs."
Callum's jaw dropped. He glanced at his feet. "He saw the miss? A professional agent saw the miss?"
"He watches everything, apparently."
Callum groaned, slumping back in the chair. "Great. My failure is now professionally acknowledged."
"He wants to sign me," Ethan said quietly.
"Do it," Callum said seriously. "If he can get you a boot deal, do it. Mason needs new boots, and I'm a size 9. Just saying."
Ethan laughed, but the weight of the decision loomed large. The summer was supposed to be a break, a time to recharge. But even here, in the quiet of the garden, the machine of professional football was humming away, ready to pull him in.
He looked at the black card in his hand. He wasn't just playing for fun anymore. He was playing for a future. And the competition was starting to close in.