The meeting didn't take place at the training ground, nor was it held at a kitchen table. Instead, it unfolded in a private room at a boutique hotel in Birmingham city center. There, coffee cost five pounds, and the carpet was so thick it felt like you could sleep on it.
Ethan sat in a leather chair, with his mom beside him. Opposite them sat Rick Sterling, next to a man from Adidas named Paul.
On the table lay a contract.
"This is a standard Tier 3 Academy deal," Paul explained as he slid the document forward. "It places you in the 'Next Gen' pool. You'll receive allocated boots for the season, including match pairs, training pairs, and options for soft and firm ground. You also get an apparel allowance. Plus, if you make a first-team appearance in the Championship or a cup competition, you'll trigger a bonus."
Ethan examined the paper. It wasn't the millions of pounds people discussed on TV. It was mainly free shoes and a little cash. But the logo at the top—the three stripes—made his heart race. It felt like validation. A brand was saying they believed in him.
"What do I have to do?" Ethan asked.
"Wear the boots," Paul replied with a smile. "Post about them once a month. And keep playing like you did against Dortmund."
Ethan glanced at his mom. She had her reading glasses on again, reviewing the clauses. After a moment, she frowned, then nodded. "It looks fair," she said. "No image rights conflicts with the club?"
"All cleared with West Brom," Rick said smoothly. "They're happy. It makes their academy look good."
Ethan picked up the pen and signed next to the 'X.'
Ethan Matthews.
Paul reached under the table and pulled out a box. This wasn't the plain white prototype box—it was the retail version, black and orange. He opened it to reveal the new-season Predators, personalized with a small flag on the heel: EM10.
"Welcome to the family," Paul said.
The final weekend before the U18 Premier League season began, Ethan was allowed to go home. He carried the orange box as if it contained something explosive.
He met Callum and Mason at the park. It was raining, a typical British summer drizzle that turned the dirt into slick mud.
Callum was already there, kicking penalties against Mason. "Look who it is!" Callum shouted as he jogged over. "The German conqueror! The Trivela King!"
Ethan dropped his bag on the bench. "Alright?"
"Better than alright," Callum grinned. "Mia bought me a keychain for my car keys. I don't have a car or a license, but it's the thought that counts."
"Show us," Mason said, nodding at Ethan's bag. "Rick said you signed."
Ethan pulled out the box and lifted the lid.
The boots shone against the grey sky. The personalization on the heel caught the light.
Callum let out a low whistle. He reached out, touching the leather with reverence. "EM10. That is serious. Can I try them on?"
"They're a size 8, Cal. You're a 9."
"I'll curl my toes," Callum insisted.
Mason looked at the boots, then back at Ethan. "Adidas doesn't give those to benchwarmers," he said quietly. "That means you're starting on Saturday?"
"Gareth hasn't named the team yet," Ethan replied, closing the box to protect it from the rain. "But yeah. I think I am. Me and Kofi. The partnership."
"Kofi?" Callum asked. "The Chelsea lad?" "Yeah. He signed yesterday. We... we work well together."
Mason nodded as he picked up the wet match ball they had been using. He tossed it to Callum and then turned back to Ethan. His expression was serious, lacking his usual dry sarcasm.
"Good," Mason said. "Because we've got news too. About next season."
Ethan looked at them. "The U18 fixtures are out?"
"Forget the U18s," Mason said, standing taller. "We're done with that. We're done with Riverton. We're done with the academy setup."
Ethan frowned. "What do you mean?"
Callum stepped forward, his face serious, though his eyes sparkled with excitement. "The Gaffer called us in on Thursday. The first team manager. He watched the tapes of last season. He says he needs legs. He needs hunger."
"And?"
"And," Mason continued, "we've been promoted to the Senior Squad. We're in the National League, Ethan."
Ethan's mouth dropped open. "The National League? Step Five?"
"Step Five," Callum confirmed. "One level below the Football League. We're playing Gateshead away next Tuesday. We're playing Oldham. We're facing teams that are on TV."
Ethan stared at them. This wasn't Sunday League. This wasn't a casual kick-about in the park. The National League was rough, semi-professional, sometimes fully professional football. It was the place where former Premier League players went to retire and hungry young players went to toughen up.
"You're seventeen," Ethan said, astonished. "You're going up against grown men. Professionals."
"We signed non-contract terms," Mason said, suppressing a grin. "Pay as you play. But the win bonuses? Eth, if we win a game, I earn more in ninety minutes than I do in a month at the warehouse."
"It's madness," Callum laughed, shaking his head. "I'm going to be marking wingers who have played in the Championship. The Gaffer said, 'Sink or swim, lads. Welcome to the deep end.'"
Ethan looked at his two best friends. The balance had shifted dramatically. Ethan was in the protected, elite realm of a Premier League academy. Callum and Mason had just jumped into the intense world of non-league football. In some ways, they were about to experience "real" football before he did.
"That is unbelievable," Ethan smiled, feeling a surge of respect. "Seriously. That's real football. If you play in the National League at 17, scouts will notice you."
"That's the plan," Mason said, rolling his shoulders. "We're taking the long route. But we'll get there."
"Saturday," Callum added. "You play Liverpool U18s. Saturday afternoon, we're heading on the coach to Barnet. We're all in the big leagues now, Eth."
"Saturday," Ethan agreed. "You wear your fancy boots. I'll wear my molded studs. And try not to get snapped in half by a 35-year-old center-back."
"No promises," Mason grunted. "I plan on doing the snapping."
They stood in the rain, three boys on the edge of adulthood, as summer washed away around them. The contracts were signed, promotions were secured, and their days of playground football were officially over.
Ethan picked up his bag. "I've got to get back. The train's in an hour."
"Go on then," Mason said. "Don't trip over your wallet."
Ethan walked away, the orange box tucked under his arm. He didn't look back. He didn't need to. He knew exactly where they would be on Saturday—stepping onto a National League pitch, fighting for points that mattered.
The season was starting. They were all professionals now.