Monday, July 5th, 08:00 AM, West Bromwich Albion Training Ground.
The air in the high-performance center was clean, with a smell of ozone and fresh espresso. Ethan Matthews walked in. He was 18 years old, but his body had changed over the summer. A break in Ibiza, along with the personalized nutrition plan from the club, had filled him out. His shoulders were broader. His quads, including the rebuilt left one, were thick and defined.
He wasn't just the "Academy Kid" anymore. He was the Number 8.
"Morning, Asset," Ben Garner said as he held a tablet. "Body fat percentage?"
"8.2%," Ethan replied while stepping onto the biometric scale.
"Good. You gained 2 kg of muscle. Vance will like that."
Ethan walked into the changing room. It felt different. The names on the lockers had changed. Mitch Evans was gone, sold to Sheffield United. Remi Cole was still there. Liam Thorne was still there.
But there were new faces. Expensive faces. Sitting in the corner was Lucas Vega, a £22 million signing from Villarreal. He was a smooth Spanish playmaker with perfectly styled hair and calves that looked carved from marble. Next to him was Bouba Diop, a 6ft 4in defensive midfielder from Ligue 1. A tank.
Ethan headed to his locker. Vega glanced up. "Hola. You are the... 'Wonderkid,' si?"
Ethan pulled on his training shirt. "I'm Ethan. Welcome to England."
"England is cold," Vega shivered despite it being July. "And the food is... heavy."
"Wait until you try a balti pie," Ethan grinned. "Let's go. The Beep Test is waiting."
09:00 AM, The Gaffer's Tape.
The dreaded beep. The squad lined up on the baseline. Julian Vance stood with a whistle. "This season, we are not chasing. We are hunting. The Premier League is fast. If you cannot run, you cannot play. Simple."
BEEP.
They ran. Level 5. Easy. Level 10. The goalkeepers dropped out. Level 15. Sweat started to flow. Bouba Diop, despite his size, was a machine. Vega was struggling and breathing heavily.
Level 18. It came down to three men. Ethan Matthews. Jaden Kalu. Lucas Vega.
Vega was panting. He looked at Ethan, who was staring straight ahead, his face focused. BEEP. They sprinted. Vega missed the line and collapsed. "No mas," he gasped.
Level 20. Jaden Kalu dropped out, hands on knees. It was just Ethan. The whole squad watched him. The £22 million signing was watching the Academy graduate.
BEEP. Ethan ran. His lungs burned. His knee throbbed—a phantom pain—but he ignored it. He hit the line. BEEP. He turned.
"Stop!" Vance shouted. "Enough. He wins."
Ethan slowed to a walk. He didn't collapse. He put his hands on his head and opened his diaphragm. Vega looked at him in shock. "You run like a dog," Vega said, offering a hand. "A crazy dog."
"Wolf," Ethan corrected, shaking his hand. "We run like wolves here."
Tuesday, July 6th, 10:00 AM, Crestwood Park.
Across town, the scene was very different. There were no biometric scales. No £22 million Spaniards. Just a steep hill behind the stadium known as "The Vomit Hill."
Mason Turner stood at the bottom. He wore a new Crestwood training kit, sponsored by a local scaffolding company. It was scratchy polyester, but it had TURNER printed on the back.
"Right lads!" The Gaffer shouted while holding a stopwatch. "We are in the Football League now. That means we run until we drop. Ten reps up the hill. Go!"
Mason sprinted. His legs felt heavy, but his mind was clear. "I'm not at the warehouse," he told himself with every step. I'm not stacking boxes. I'm running up a hill.
Next to him, Callum Reid was complaining. "This is abuse!" Callum wheezed. "I'm a technical player! I need a ball! Why are we running up a mountain?"
"It's a hill, Cal," Mason panted. "Shut up and run."
They reached the top. Deano was already there, bent over, throwing up into a bush.
"See?" Callum pointed. "Deano is dying. We are killing our top scorer."
"Deano had a kebab last night," Mason replied. "That's not the hill. That's the chili sauce."
They jogged back down. Mason looked at his teammates. They were a mixed bunch. Ex-plumbers, ex-students, journeymen. But they were fit. They were hungry. "Again!" Mason shouted. "Let's go!"
1:00 PM, The Canteen (Crestwood).
Lunch wasn't a buffet by Michelin chefs. It was sandwiches and pasta salad in plastic tubs. Mason and Callum sat on a bench outside the changing rooms.
"So," Callum said, picking at a ham sandwich. "How does it feel, being a full-time pro?"
Mason took a sip of water. "My back doesn't hurt," he said. "For the first time in two years, my back doesn't hurt from lifting crates."
"My ego hurts," Callum muttered. "The Gaffer called me 'lazy' three times today."
"You were walking during the rondo," Mason pointed out.
"I was conserving energy!"
Mason checked his phone. "Ethan just texted. West Brom are flying out tomorrow."
"Where to?" Callum asked. "Cornwall? Scotland?"
"Los Angeles," Mason read. "They're doing a USA tour. Playing LA Galaxy and AC Milan."
Callum dropped his sandwich. "LA? He's going to Hollywood?"
"Yep. And we're going to..." Mason checked the schedule. "...Grimsby for a friendly on Saturday."
"Grimsby," Callum sighed. "The Hollywood of the North."
Wednesday, July 7th, 06:00 AM, Birmingham Airport.
Ethan wheeled his suitcase toward the private terminal. He wore the new club suit—navy blue, tailored, with the West Brom crest on the pocket. He looked like a businessman.
He saw Lucas Vega struggling with three Louis Vuitton bags. "Need a hand?" Ethan asked.
"Please," Vega sighed. "I brought too many shoes."
They loaded the bags onto the conveyor. "So, Ethan," Vega asked. "You are from here? Birmingham?"
"Born and raised."
"And your friends? They play?"
"Yeah," Ethan smiled. "They play for Crestwood. League Two."
"League Two," Vega nodded politely. "That is... respectable. Good fighters."
"The best," Ethan said.
He boarded the plane. First Class. Lie-flat seats. A menu with steak and lobster. Ethan sat down and looked out the window at the grey Birmingham runway.
He texted the group chat.
Ethan: Takeoff in 10. LA bound. Don't miss me too much.
Mason: Enjoy the sun. We are currently doing sit-ups in the rain.
Callum: Bring me back a souvenir. Preferably a celebrity.
Ethan: I'll bring you a fridge magnet.
The plane engines roared. Ethan leaned back. Season 4 was starting. He was flying to America to play AC Milan. Mason and Callum were driving to Grimsby for a game against a fishing town team.
The gap was widening. The worlds were drifting apart. But as the plane took off, Ethan touched his wrist. The watch was there. Wembley 2027.
The gap didn't matter. The Pact held.