The crisis started, like most crises in Eastfield, behind the bike sheds at the Recreation Ground.
Ethan found Callum pacing with more stress than he had before the Riverton game. Mason sat on a bollard, eating a sausage roll and watching Callum with mild amusement.
"It's over," Callum said, throwing his hands up. "I'm finished. My life is ruined."
"Did Rick the agent call you and say you have bad feet?" Ethan asked while dropping his bag.
"Worse," Callum said, stopping suddenly. "Sunday, June 24th."
Ethan looked confused. "Is that the Champions League final?"
"It's the anniversary," Callum hissed, eyes wide. "One year. Me and Mia. Three hundred sixty-five days of tolerating each other."
"Congratulations?" Ethan said hesitantly.
"No, you don't get it," Callum groaned, resuming his pacing. "It's the first year. You have to do something big, something romantic. Something that says, 'I care about you more than FIFA Ultimate Team.'"
"So buy her something," Ethan suggested with a shrug. "Get her a necklace."
Callum stopped again and turned out his pockets. A protein bar wrapper and three copper coins fell out. "I spent my savings on those molded stud boots," he whispered dramatically. "The ones Rick suggested. I have four pounds and fifty pence to my name."
Mason finished the last bite of his sausage roll. "You could buy her a nice meal deal. With a smoothie."
"Shut up, Mason," Callum snapped. "This is serious. If I mess this up, she'll think I don't care. And if she thinks I don't care, she dumps me. If she dumps me, I spiral, I lose my form, and we get relegated next season."
Ethan sat on the grass. It was strange. While he was worrying about contract release clauses and surviving the Yoyo test, Callum's world was falling apart over a date. It was refreshingly normal.
"Okay," Ethan said, shifting into playmaker mode. "Let's strategize. You have no money and limited skills outside of football. What does Mia like?"
"Me," Callum replied immediately.
"Debatable," Mason coughed.
"She likes photography," Callum listed. "She likes those little caramel coffees. She likes... winning."
"Do a picnic," Ethan suggested. "It's classic. Cheap. You make the sandwiches. It shows effort."
"I can't make sandwiches," Callum said. "I butter bread like a bricklayer."
"I'll help you," Ethan offered. "We can raid my mum's fridge. She's got the fancy ham from Marks & Spencer."
"And the location?" Callum asked, biting his nail. "Eastfield isn't exactly Paris. The park is full of dog walkers, and the town center smells like vape smoke."
"Take her to the Viaduct," Mason suggested unexpectedly.
Callum and Ethan looked at him. "The old train line?" Callum asked. "It's just overgrown weeds."
"It's high up," Mason said with a shrug. "Sunset view. Nobody goes there. It's nice."
Callum stared at Mason. "You old romantic. Who knew?"
Mason turned red. "Shut up. It's just a tactical advantage."
The operation launched on Saturday afternoon.
Ethan's kitchen became a production line. Ethan handled assembling the sandwiches while Callum took charge of quality control, munching on the leftovers.
"Do you think she'll notice this is Tesco Value cheese?" Callum asked, examining a slice.
"Not if you distract her with your charm," Ethan replied, slicing a cucumber. "Or if Mason actually brings the speaker."
"I can't believe I'm stressed," Callum admitted, leaning against the counter. "I've captained a team in a title decider. Why is this harder?"
"Because in football, you know the rules," Ethan said, wrapping a sandwich in foil. "Relationships are just improvisation."
Ethan paused and looked at Callum—his best friend, scared of disappointing a girl, wearing an apron that said Kiss the Cook.
"Hey," Ethan said. "You're a catch, Cal. You're funny, loyal, and the best captain I know. If you just show up as yourself, she'll love it."
Callum grinned, genuine relief on his face. "Thanks, mate. But I'm still taking the fancy ham."
Sunday evening came.
Ethan and Mason sat on a bench in the park, two hundred yards from the old railway viaduct. They were the support team, making sure no local kids disturbed the moment.
On the bridge, silhouetted against a surprisingly purple sunset, two small figures sat on a blanket.
"He's doing the arm-around-the-shoulder move," Mason said, squinting.
"Smooth," Ethan nodded. "Textbook."
"Do you think he told her about the boots?" Mason asked. "Definitely. He probably tried to justify it as an investment for their future."
They sat quietly for a moment, watching the sun sink below the horizon.
"It's weird," Ethan said quietly. "Next month, I'm fighting for a career. You guys are fighting for the league. But right now, it's just sandwiches."
"Sandwiches are important," Mason said wisely. "Keeps you alive."
A phone buzzed. Ethan checked it.
Callum: She loves the ham. We're good. Mission success. Over.
Ethan smiled. "He's safe."
"Good." Mason stood up. "I'm freezing. Let's go."
"You go," Ethan replied, remaining seated. "I'm going to do some ball work while I'm here. The grass is dry."
"On a Sunday night?" Mason raised an eyebrow. "You're obsessed."
"Pre-season starts soon," Ethan said, tapping his bag where his boots were hidden. "Gotta be ready."
Mason shook his head but smiled. "See you later, pro."
Mason walked off toward the estate. Ethan sat alone for a moment, looking up at the viaduct where Callum was the happiest boy in the world.
Ethan pulled his boots out of his bag. He laced them up tight. Callum had his victory. Now, Ethan needed to prepare for his battle.