Wednesday, January 6th. 3:00 PM. The Crestwood Clubhouse.
The clubhouse smelled of stale beer and Deep Heat. The Crestwood squad sat around two pushed-together tables, eating lukewarm post-training lasagna. They had just drawn 0-0 with Altrincham. The mood was flat.
Mason sat at the head of the table, ice taped to his shoulder. Callum was next to him, scrolling through his phone with a cracked screen.
"Boring," Callum muttered. "My life is boring. Train. Draw. Eat pasta. Repeat."
Ethan walked in. He wasn't wearing a Crestwood tracksuit. He had on a long wool coat and a West Brom scarf. He looked expensive.
The chatter stopped. "Look who it is," Deano shouted. "The Championship hero! The Leeds Slayer!"
Ethan smiled as he walked over to the table. He placed a small envelope in front of Mason.
"What's this?" Mason asked, wiping tomato sauce from his lip.
"Open it."
Mason tore open the envelope. Inside were three tickets. They were gold-embossed.
MANCHESTER UNITED vs. WEST BROMWICH ALBION.
FA CUP THIRD ROUND.
SECTOR: W205 (FAMILY & FRIENDS).
ACCESS: PLAYERS' LOUNGE.
Callum snatched a ticket. His eyes bulged. "Old Trafford? The Lounge? Does this mean free food?"
"Unlimited food," Ethan confirmed. "And my dad is driving. We leave Saturday at 9 AM."
Mason looked at the ticket and then at Ethan. "You're actually playing?"
"Starting," Ethan said, trying to keep his voice steady but unable to hide his grin. "Vance told me this morning. Me and Volkan against Grimes and Frank."
"Bruno," Callum whispered in awe. "If you tackle Frank, I will frame the photo."
"I'll try," Ethan laughed. "Just don't embarrass me in the lounge. No stealing the cutlery."
Saturday, January 9th. 11:30 AM. The M6 Northbound.
Gary's Ford Focus hummed along the motorway. Ethan wasn't in the car—he had traveled up with the team yesterday. It was just Gary, Mason, and Callum.
"This is mental," Callum said from the back seat, staring at the grey Manchester sky. "Last week I was playing in front of 400 people in Dorking. Today I'm going to the Theatre of Dreams."
"He's worked for it," Gary said, gripping the steering wheel tight. He wore his 'lucky' tie. "Riverton made him."
"Riverton hardened him," Mason corrected, looking out the window. "But he was always this good. He just needed the stage."
They passed the sign: WELCOME TO MANCHESTER. In the distance, the stadium loomed. The red brickwork, the glass, the sheer size of it. It looked like a cathedral.
1:45 PM. The Sir Bobby Charlton Stand.
They were in their seats. The view was incredible—right near the halfway line, close enough to hear the players shout. The stadium was filling up. 74,000 people. A sea of red shirts.
The PA system boomed. "This is the One..." by The Stone Roses played.
"Goosebumps," Callum muttered, rubbing his arms. "Actual goosebumps."
Then the teams walked out. Manchester United in red. West Brom in navy and yellow.
Ethan walked out third, right behind Liam Thorne. He looked at home. He wasn't looking around like a tourist. He stared straight ahead, chewing gum, doing little jumps to warm up his calves.
"He looks calm," Mason noted. "Scary calm."
The camera panned down the line. It showed Bruno Frank. Then Mark Keane. Then Jamie Stone. Then it showed Ethan Matthews.
"That's our boy," Gary whispered, filming the Jumbotron with shaky hands.
The Match.
15th Minute.
The game moved fast. Premier League fast. United moved the ball like it was on a string.
Ethan was marking Jacob Grimes, United's young midfield prodigy. Grimes received the ball and tried a sharp turn. Ethan read it. He didn't dive in. He mirrored the movement, stayed low, and poked the ball away.
"Yes!" Mason clapped. "Stay with him, Eth!"
32nd Minute.
Bruno Frank got the ball. He had space. He wound up for one of his trademark 30-yard passes.
Ethan sprinted. He threw himself into the block. The ball smashed into Ethan's ribs. Thud.
Ethan didn't wince. He recovered the loose ball, looked up, and played a calm, 10-yard pass to Volkan Demir.
"He blocked Bruno!" Callum screamed, shaking Gary by the shoulders. "He actually blocked Bruno!"
55th Minute.
0-0. West Brom were frustrating the giants. Ethan received the ball under pressure from Waller. The Brazilian tank came thundering in.
Ethan did something bold. He waited. He felt the contact. Then he rolled his studs over the ball, spinning 360 degrees—a Marseille Turn—leaving Waller grasping at thin air.
A collective "Oooooh" went around Old Trafford.
"That's the Riverton spin!" Mason laughed. "He learned that against the butchers in the National League!"
Full Time.
Manchester United 1 - 0 West Bromwich Albion.
United won it late. A RKeane goal in the 88th minute broke the resistance. But West Brom hadn't been embarrassed. They had fought.
Ethan stood in the center circle, swapping shirts. He talked to Kobbie Mainoo. They shook hands, laughed about something, and exchanged jerseys.
Ethan put the red United shirt over his shoulder. He walked over to the section where his dad and friends were sitting and applauded them.
Gary was crying openly now. Mason and Callum stood up and saluted.
5:30 PM. The Players' Lounge.
The lounge was plush. Waiters served mini burgers and prawn skewers. Ethan walked in, fresh from the shower, wearing his club suit. He looked tired but full of energy.
"You didn't steal the cutlery, did you?" Ethan asked, hugging his dad.
"I thought about it," Callum admitted, his mouth full of a mini burger. "But the spoons are heavy. Would slow me down."
Mason hugged him. "You looked like you belonged, Eth. Seriously. Grimes is class, but you matched him."
"It was intense," Ethan sighed, sitting down. "The speed. You have zero time. If you blink, Keane is gone."
He pulled the red shirt out of his bag. GRIMES 37.
"gRIMES said I was 'annoying to play against,'" Ethan grinned. "Best compliment I've ever had."
"Better than 'too lightweight,'" Gary said, wiping his eyes.
"So what now?" Callum asked. "You're a Premier League player in waiting. Do you forget us peasants?"
Ethan looked around the room. The luxury. The fame. Then he looked at his friends. The boys who had brought him Nando's in the hospital. The boys who had visited him in Riverton.
"Never," Ethan said. "Next weekend, West Brom play Friday night. I'm coming to watch Crestwood on Saturday. I want to see you play on that mud patch against Gateshead."
"You'll get your shoes dirty," Mason warned.
"I know," Ethan smiled, touching his knee. "I like the dirt."
He raised a glass of water. "To the grind."
"To the grind," they toasted.