The excitement of the City Football Academy (CFA) had faded long ago.
When Ethan first crossed the modern bridge connecting the Etihad Stadium to the academy, he felt like a tourist at a space station. The glass, the steel, and the meticulously trimmed pitches had been overwhelming.
Now, a year later, it felt sterile.
Ethan stepped off the West Brom coach and didn't even glance at the giant City crest on the building. He shifted his bag and looked uninterested.
"It's quiet," Tyrell whispered, scanning the clean, silent plaza. "It's always so quiet here. Like a library."
"It's a laboratory," Ethan replied as he headed toward the changing rooms. "They don't build footballers here; they clone them."
"Don't be cynical, old man," Tyrell shot back with a grin. "You're just envious of the heated benches."
"I am definitely envious of the heated benches," Ethan admitted.
As they approached the entrance, a figure pulled away from a group of scouts near the coffee station. It was Rick Sterling.
He wasn't dressed in his usual suit but in a casual bomber jacket and designer sunglasses, even with the gloomy Manchester sky. He looked more like a celebrity on a day off than an agent.
"Ethan!" Rick called, waving him over.
Gareth nodded at Ethan. "Make it quick. Team talk in five."
Ethan walked over. Rick stood with a boy in a Manchester City training kit. The boy was Ethan's height but stockier, sporting bleach-blonde tips and diamond studs in his ears.
"Ethan, meet Jax," Rick said, proudly gesturing between the two. "Jax, this is Ethan. The 'Steel and Silk' kid I told you about."
Jax studied Ethan, chewing gum loudly. "You're the one with the blackout Preds?" Jax asked. His South London accent was sharp and confident.
"Yeah," Ethan replied, keeping his expression neutral.
"Cute," Jax smirked. He pointed at his own feet. He wore the same orange Adidas Predators as Ethan, but his had JG7 stitched in gold on the heel. "I got the full release early. Custom stitching."
"Jax is the top scorer in the league," Rick said, oblivious to the growing tension. "Seven goals in three games. You two are the stars of the agency's U18 roster. I want a good, clean match today, alright? Make me look good."
"Don't worry, Rick," Jax winked as he turned to walk away. "I'll go easy on him. I only want a brace today."
Jax jogged off toward the City changing room, stopping to give a teammate a high-five.
Ethan looked at Rick. "He's your client too?"
"He's a talent, Ethan," Rick said with a shrug while checking his watch. "We diversify. Just like a stock portfolio. Now go out there and show him why I signed you."
11:00 AM. Kickoff. Man City U18 vs. WBA U18.
The game was exactly as Ethan remembered from last season: suffocating.
Playing Barnet in the National League was a physical battle. Facing Man City felt like death by a thousand cuts. They passed the ball in a mesmerizing rhythm—tic, tac, toe—drawing West Brom out of position before slipping a sharp pass through the lines.
Ethan knew the drill. Keep the shape. Don't dive in. But knowing and doing were two different things when facing Jax.
Jax was a nightmare. He played on the left wing, drifting inside into the areas Ethan was meant to cover.
In the 25th minute, Jax received the ball wide. He isolated West Brom's right-back. Step-over, drop shoulder, gone.
He cut inside. Ethan moved to cover, recognizing the danger just as he had in the video analysis.
Jax didn't panic. He saw Ethan approaching. He flicked the ball with his studs, waited for Ethan to commit his weight, and then nut-megged him.
It was humiliatingly easy.
Jax sprinted past, looked up, and curled a shot into the top corner.
1-0 Man City.
Jax ran to the corner flag, doing a choreographed dance for the club photographer. Rick clapped politely from the sideline.
Ethan picked himself up. His face burned. He stared at his boots—tools Rick had given him. He looked at Jax—the other asset.
I'm just a stock, Ethan thought bitterly. Right now, his value is rising, and mine is crashing.
"Wake up!" Tyrell shouted, pushing Ethan. "Stop respecting them! Hit them!"
Halftime. 1-0.
Gareth didn't yell. He just looked disappointed. "You are playing like guests," he said, pacing the changing room. "You're too polite. You're letting them play their rondo. Put a foot in. Make it ugly. Remind them this is a contact sport."
Ethan sat quietly, sipping his water. He closed his eyes and thought about Mason.
What would Mason do? Mason wouldn't try to out-skill Jax. Mason would make Jax regret touching the ball.
Second Half.
The whistle blew.
When Jax got the ball again, he tried the same trick. He rolled his studs over the ball, waiting for the defender to bite.
Ethan didn't bite. He didn't slide.
He accelerated.
Just as Jax attempted to push the ball past him, Ethan stepped across the line. He didn't play the ball. He played the man. He dropped his shoulder into Jax's chest, using the full force of his "Red Plan" frame.
Thud.
Jax flew back, landing hard on the pristine turf and rolling three times.
The referee blew the whistle immediately. Yellow card for Ethan.
Jax sat up, looking shocked as he rubbed his chest. "What are you doing? It's a youth game! Chill out!"
Ethan stood over him. He offered a hand, but his eyes were cold. "Welcome to the Midlands," Ethan whispered. "We hit harder."
Jax didn't take the hand. He got up, dusting off his kit, looking shaken.
The dynamic changed right away. Jax stopped trying the tricks and started passing backward. The fear of the hit had disrupted his game.
In the 75th minute, West Brom capitalized.
Ethan won the ball in midfield with a clean, aggressive tackle on the City number 8. The City team claimed a foul, but the ref waved play on.
Ethan looked up and saw Kofi making a run.
Ethan launched a long ball. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't "City DNA." It was a clearance turned into a weapon.
Kofi chased it down, muscled the center-back off the ball, and slotted it past the keeper.
1-1.
They held on. For the last fifteen minutes, they parked the bus. Ethan made three blocks on the edge of the box. Tyrell cleared everything away. It was ugly, desperate, and effective.
Full Time: Man City 1 - 1 WBA.
Ethan walked off the pitch, his legs cramping.
Jax walked past him. The swagger was gone. "You're a thug," Jax muttered.
"I'm a draw," Ethan corrected. "And I'm still unbeaten."
Rick was waiting by the tunnel. He looked conflicted with his sunglasses tucked away. "Interesting game," Rick said. "Jax is furious. You rattled him."
"Good," Ethan said, walking past without stopping. "Tell him to keep his head up."
2:00 PM. The Coach Ride Home.
The adrenaline faded quickly on the motorway, replaced by fatigue. Ethan sat at the back, alone.
He opened his phone, not checking Instagram for Rick's spin on the game. Instead, he looked up the National League scores.
Crestwood vs. York City.
Crestwood needed a win. They were sitting 19th. A home game against York was a "must-win" to avoid further losses.
He refreshed the page.
Full Time: Crestwood 1 - 0 York City. Goalscorer: M. Turner (88').
Ethan stared at the screen. Mason.
Mason had scored. A winner in the 88th minute.
Ethan could picture it clearly. The muddy scramble for the goal. The brave header. The chaos in the Shed End. The smell of the flares.
He opened the group chat.
Callum: MASE SCORED!!! WE WON! FIRST WIN!!!
Callum: Header from a corner. He's bleeding again. Sully kissed him on the forehead.
Ethan smiled at the screen, feeling real pride for his friend. But it was quickly followed by that familiar, hollow ache.
He had just drawn away at the best academy in the world. He shut down a wonderkid. He kept West Brom in the title race.
But Mason scored the winner at a packed Crestwood stadium. Mason was probably being carried on shoulders right now. Mason was living a movie while Ethan was living a career.
He typed a message.
Get in there Mase! Huge win. 1-1 against City for us. Tough game.
He hit send.
Looking out the window at the grey motorway, Ethan had the agent, the boots, and the result. Yet, as the bus traveled along, he realized that for the first time, he would trade his custom Adidas Predators and the pristine pitches of Manchester for a pair of muddy, unbranded boots and a goal in the 88th minute at the Crestwood Shed End.