Saturday morning arrived with a slate-colored sky and a light drizzle that felt like an aerosol spray.
09:00 AM. WBA Training Ground.
The changing room was quiet. The nervous energy of the first-years was intense; they were practically vibrating on the benches.
Ethan sat in his usual spot. He opened the orange Adidas box. The "EM10" Predators glowed under the fluorescent lights.
"Bold choice," Tyrell murmured as he laced up his standard-issue Nikes. "Orange boots on Day 1 against Liverpool. You better play well or they'll rip you apart."
"Rick said to wear them," Ethan replied, his voice steady, even though his stomach was doing somersaults. "It's part of the deal."
"Just pass me the ball," Kofi said from across the room, looking focused. "And don't get sent off."
Ethan pulled on the boots. They fit like a second skin. He stood up and stamped on the rubber floor. He felt taller and... marked.
10:30 AM. The M1 Motorway.
The Crestwood team coach was a different story. It smelled of coffee, bacon sandwiches, and old carpet.
Callum sat at the back table, staring in horror at the pile of coins and notes vanishing before him.
"That's a flush, lad," Sully said, laying down his cards with a grin. "Pay the man."
"I thought a flush was three of a kind?" Callum squeaked.
"That's 'Three of a Kind'," Sully corrected, scooping up Callum's ten pounds. "You're learning. That tenner is tuition. Deal again."
Mason was sitting next to the window, headphones on, staring at the grey motorway. He wasn't playing cards; he was watching videos of Barnet's striker on his phone.
"He's 6'3"," Mason muttered to himself. "Left-footed. Likes to peel off the back post."
"Relax, son." The Gaffer shouted from the front. "Don't play the game in your head before you get there. You'll be worn out by kickoff."
11:00 AM. Kickoff: WBA U18 vs. LIVERPOOL U18.
The pitch was slick. The ball zipped across the surface.
Liverpool started fast. They were the kings of academy football—technically perfect, confident, and fluid. Their number 8, a boy Ethan recognized from England youth camps, glanced at Ethan's orange boots and smirked.
"Nice shoes," the Liverpool player teased during a break in play. "Do they come with a first touch?"
Ethan stayed silent.
In the 12th minute, Liverpool pressed high. Tyrell played a slightly under-hit pass to Ethan. The Liverpool number 8 sensed an opportunity. He sprinted in, ready to tackle Ethan and steal the ball.
Last year, Ethan would have panicked. He would have tried to play it first time and lost possession.
This year, he planted his right foot—the orange boot digging into the turf. He opened his body as if to pass back to the center-half.
The Liverpool player fell for the feint and lunged to block the passing lane.
Ethan didn't pass. He rolled his foot over the ball, spun 180 degrees, and used his hip to nudge the Liverpool player off balance.
The "Red Plan" core strength kicked in. The Liverpool player stumbled. Ethan was gone.
He drove into space. The midfield opened up.
"Kofi!" Ethan shouted.
He didn't play a safe pass. He sent a bold, vertical ball that split the Liverpool defense. Kofi collected it on the turn, took a touch, and shot, which the keeper tipped onto the post.
"Unlucky!" Ethan shouted, clapping his hands.
He looked at the Liverpool number 8, who was getting back up. Ethan didn't smile. He just pointed to his eyes. Watch the boots.
12:15 PM. The Hive Stadium, London.
The Crestwood bus pulled into the stadium complex.
Callum looked out the window and swallowed hard. "That's... a proper stadium."
The Hive wasn't a muddy field with a rope around it. It had four massive stands, amber seats, towering floodlights, and a crowd that was already gathering at the turnstiles.
"Capacity 6,500," Mason read from Wikipedia, his face pale. "Average attendance 2,000."
"Two thousand people," Callum whispered. "If I trip over the ball, two thousand people are going to laugh at me."
"And if you score," Sully said, standing up and grabbing his kit bag, "two thousand people will go quiet. That's the thrill, lads. Let's go."
12:30 PM. Second Half: WBA U18 vs. LIVERPOOL U18.
The score was 0-0. It was a tactical deadlock.
Ethan was tired. The first game of the season always shocked the lungs. His legs burned, but he kept running.
In the 75th minute, West Brom won a free kick on the edge of the box.
"I'll take it," Kofi said, picking up the ball.
"No," Ethan said. He didn't shout, but his voice was firm. "It's left side. Right footer."
Kofi looked at him. He glanced at the orange boots. He handed the ball to Ethan.
Ethan placed the ball on the spot. He looked at the wall. He looked at the keeper.
He remembered the countless hours in the park with Callum and Mason. He remembered the rusty goalposts and the "Heads and Volleys" games.
He took three steps back.
He ran up and struck the ball.
It wasn't a power shot. It was a whip. The ball curled over the second man in the wall, dipped sharply, and kissed the inside of the near post before settling in the net.
GOAL.
Ethan didn't run to the corner flag. He didn't do a backflip. He just jogged back to the center circle, arms raised, while Tyrell and Kofi celebrated with him.
"The boots work!" Harvey shouted, jumping on his back.
Ethan smiled. 1-0.
14:00 PM. The Changing Room, The Hive.
"Team sheet!" The Gaffer yelled, slapping a piece of paper onto the wall.
Callum and Mason crowded around.
1. Jones
2. Roberts
3. Sullivan (C)
4. Mason
...
11. Smith
Subs: 12. Callum ...
"I'm starting," Mason whispered. "I'm actually starting."
"I'm on the bench," Callum said, a mix of relief and disappointment washing over him. "Impact sub."
"Mason," The Gaffer said, walking over. "You're alongside Sully. Their striker is called Akinola. He played in League Two last year. He's strong, he's tough, and he will try to bully you. Don't let him turn."
"I won't," Mason promised, tightening his shin pads.
"Callum," The Gaffer pointed. "Watch their left-back. He gets tired after sixty minutes. That's when I unleash you. Understand?"
"Yes, Gaffer."
"Right," Sully roared, slamming his fist into a locker. "Listen to the noise out there! They think we're a pub team! They think we're just here for a day out! Let's go out there and smash them!"
14:55 PM. The Tunnel.
Mason stood in the tunnel. To his left was Sully, looking like a gladiator. To his right was Akinola, the Barnet striker. Akinola was huge. He looked down at Mason and winked.
"School term starts next week, kid?" Akinola asked.
Mason stared straight ahead. "Kickoff is in five minutes," he replied in a monotone.
The referee picked up the ball.
Mason walked out. The noise hit him—a wall of chanting, drums, and applause. It wasn't the polite clapping of an academy game. It was a roar.
Back in the dressing room, Callum sat on the bench, shivering slightly in his tracksuit, listening to the crowd.
At the same moment, two hundred miles away, Ethan was walking out of the showers, checking his phone.
Ethan: Won 1-0. Scored a free kick. Boots are magic.
He noticed the time. 15:00.
He opened the live score app. He searched for "National League".
Barnet vs. Crestwood 00:00
"Come on, boys," Ethan whispered to the empty changing room. "Show them."