The kitchen table in the Matthews household had experienced a lot: homework problems, family dinners, and the breakdown of U10 matches. But it had never seen a contract like the one Rick Sterling spread out on the floral tablecloth.
This wasn't a club contract; it was a "Representation Agreement."
Rick sat across from Ethan's mum, sipping tea from a mug that read World's Best Mum. He looked out of place, his tailored suit jacket hanging over the back of a wooden chair.
"It's standard practice, Mrs. Matthews," Rick said smoothly. "The club will offer Ethan a deal in January. That's when the scholarships are given. If he goes into that room alone, they will offer him the minimum. If he goes in with me, we aim for the best."
Ethan sat quietly, watching his mum. She was reading the fine print with the same focused attention she used for his homework.
"10% commission on all commercial earnings," she read aloud. "And a two-year exclusivity clause." She looked up over her reading glasses. "You want to own him before he's even earned a penny."
"I want to invest in him," Rick replied gently. "I take the risk now. I put my time, contacts, and reputation on the line. If Ethan doesn't make it—and the stats say 98% don't—I get nothing."
He turned to Ethan. "I saw the video of the Arsenal assist again. It has 50,000 views now. Adidas is looking for 'Next Gen' athletes. I can get a pair of boots sent to your house next week. Not a contract yet, just a seeding package. Free gear."
Ethan felt a spark of excitement. Free Adidas was what kids wanted.
"We'll think about it," his mum said, closing the folder firmly. "We aren't signing anything today. Ethan has a summer to enjoy."
Rick didn't push. He knew he had made his pitch. He stood, flashing a bright smile. "Take your time. But the wolves don't sleep, Mrs. Matthews. And neither do I."
A week later, the "summer to enjoy" ended with the annual Eastfield 5-a-side Tournament.
Usually, this was a casual event held on the caged astroturf courts behind the leisure center. Teams were made up of dads, regulars from the pub, and local teenagers. The prize was a crate of beer (or soda for the U18s) and bragging rights for the year.
This year, "Team Crestwood" entered. Roster: Callum (C), Mason, Ethan, Ryan, and Harvey (who had come down on the train for the weekend, bored of his own company).
They stood by the chain-link fence, watching a team of overweight plumbers struggle against a team of sixth-formers.
"This feels unfair," Harvey whispered, adjusting his shin pads. "We're an academy team. We train every day. We're going to destroy them."
"Don't get cocky," Mason grunted. "These pitches are slippery. And Big Dave from the King's Head is playing for the 'All-Stars.' He tackles with his elbows."
Callum was looking at his feet, where he sported brand new boots with molded studs. "Rick was right," Callum muttered, stamping on the turf. "These grip better. No slipping today."
They walked onto the court for their first game.
The whistle blew.
It was a massacre.
Ethan, fresh from the "Red Plan" and the U18 Premier League, was playing at a different level. The ball stuck to his foot as if it were magnetized. He didn't run; he glided. When a defender tried to shoulder charge him, Ethan simply stiffened his core, and the defender bounced off the wire fence.
He wasn't only playing for himself. He was playing for Callum.
Every time Ethan got the ball, he looked for his captain.
Pass. Move. Pass. Move.
"Callum! Back post!"
Ethan rolled the ball across the goal line. Callum tapped it in. 1-0.
"Again!" Ethan shouted.
He chipped the ball over a defender's head. Callum volleyed it in. 2-0.
By the semi-final, Callum had scored 12 goals. The ghost of Riverton faded with each net ripple. He was laughing again, attempting flashy backheels and celebrating with silly dances.
In the final, they faced "The Gym Lads"—five men who were pure muscle and no skill. They tried to bully the boys.
Mason loved it. He engaged in physical battles with a man twice his age, winning every tackle and leaving the guy gasping for air.
In the last minute of the final, the score was 3-1 to Crestwood. Ethan picked up the ball in his own half. He beat one defender with a step-over, nutmegged another, and found himself one-on-one with the keeper.
The crowd—mostly teams that had lost and their girlfriends—cheered, waiting for the finishing touch.
Ethan stopped the ball just before the goal line. He placed his foot on it. He waited.
"Callum!" he shouted.
Callum sprinted forward. Ethan backheeled the ball into Callum's path. Callum slammed it into the empty net.
4-1.
The whistle blew. Team Crestwood were the champions of the Eastfield 5-a-side.
They sat on the curb outside the leisure center afterward, drinking the prize sodas, sweat cooling on their skin.
"That," Harvey said, wiping his forehead, "was better than beating Arsenal. Less pressure, more goals." "And free Fanta," Mason added, cracking open a can.
Callum beamed. He looked at his new boots. "Molded studs," he nodded. "Game changer. Tell Rick he knows his stuff."
Ethan smiled, leaning back against the fence. "I'll tell him."
"So," Mason asked, looking at Ethan. "Are you going to sign with him?"
Ethan looked at his friends. He glanced at the cheap plastic trophy Callum was holding like the World Cup. He thought about the Adidas boots Rick had promised.
"My mum's still reading the contract," Ethan said. "But... I think so. The club is a business, Mason. Rick said it, and Gareth said it. I need someone on my side."
"Just don't forget us when you're famous," Callum grinned. "I want a job. 'Head of Morale' Or 'Chief of Celebration Choreography.'"
"You're hired," Ethan laughed.
His phone buzzed in his bag. He dug it out. An email notification.
Sender: West Bromwich Albion Academy Subject: U18 Pre-Season Schedule & Expectation Packet
Ethan opened it. It wasn't a friendly welcome back. It was a PDF titled "THE PATHWAY: YEAR 2."
He scrolled down. Start Date: July 1st. Day 1: The Yoyo Test (Level 2). Body Fat Target: <10%. Squad Size: 22. Available Pro Contracts: 3.
The laughter from the 5-a-side tournament faded, replaced by the cold reality of the screen.
"What is it?" Harvey asked, seeing Ethan's expression.
"The packet," Ethan said quietly. "We start Monday."
Harvey groaned, putting his head in his hands. "The Yoyo test. I'm going to be sick."
Ethan stood up. The summer was over. The fun was done. He looked at Callum and Mason one last time—the kings of the park.
"I've got to go," Ethan said. "I need to prep."
"Go on then," Callum said, raising his soda can. "Go get that contract. We'll hold the fort here."
Ethan grabbed his bag and walked away. He was leaving the playground and heading back into the factory. Year One had been about survival. Year Two was about taking action.