The strict routine of academy life, school, training, matches, and repetition had disappeared. In its place was the wild, salty freedom of the Cornish coast.
To celebrate the end of their GCSEs and the start of summer before Ethan moved away, the boys' parents had chipped in for a week at a caravan park near Newquay. It wasn't a fancy villa in Ibiza, but to three sixteen year olds with no curfew and a football, it felt like paradise.
"I'm telling you," Callum said, struggling with a deckchair on the small wooden patio of their caravan. "This is the life. No Coach Shaw yelling about zonal marking. No revision. Just sun, sea, and..." He waved at the grey Atlantic ocean. "Sand."
"And burnt sausages," Mason added, poking at a disposable barbecue that was billowing smoke on the grass. "If you don't flip those, we're having charcoal for dinner."
Ethan sat on the steps, a can of cheap soda in his hand, watching his friends argue. It was a familiar and comforting rhythm. For the last few days, the pressure from West Bromwich Albion had faded. Here, he wasn't the "next big thing." He was just Ethan, the kid who couldn't surf and kept losing at cards.
"Right," Callum said, leaving the deckchair behind. "Food later. Football now. The tide's out. That beach is begging for a masterclass."
They grabbed the ball, the same battered match ball from the Harrington game that Callum insisted on keeping close, and headed down the cliff path.
The beach was huge and mostly empty in the late afternoon. They set up goalposts with hoodies and driftwood. The game was 1 v 1 v 1, a wild format called "World Cup" where rules were flexible and fouls were part of the fun.
It was football in its simplest form. There were no scouts taking notes, no tactical orders, and no stress. Ethan felt a freedom he hadn't experienced in months. He tried daring flicks he would avoid in a real game. He juggled the ball on his head while running into the surf, laughing as Mason chased him and tackled him into a wave.
Callum, naturally, was performing for an imaginary crowd. He tried an overhead kick on the wet sand, completely missed the ball, and landed flat on his back with a wet thud.
"And the crowd goes wild!" Mason shouted, jogging past him to tap the ball into the 'goal.'
"Technical difficulty," Callum spluttered, spitting out sand. "The pitch is waterlogged."
They played until their legs burned and the sun began to set, streaking the sky with purple and orange. Exhausted, they collapsed onto the dunes and watched the waves roll in.
"You know," Callum said, breathing hard and staring at the sky. "I texted Mia. She said she misses me. I reckon she's the one, lads."
"You've been dating for three weeks," Mason pointed out dryly.
"When you know, you know," Callum grinned.
A comfortable silence fell over them, a silence shared by friends who didn't need to fill the air with words.
"Are you ready for it?" Mason asked suddenly, not looking at Ethan. "The pre-season. The digs. All of it."
Ethan dug his toes into the cold sand. "I think so. The fitness packet they sent me is serious. I'm supposed to track my macros." He laughed, gesturing back up the cliff toward the caravan. "Pretty sure burnt sausages aren't on the list."
"You'll be fine," Mason said, his voice firm. "You survived Linton away. You survived Germany's midfield. You'll handle the West Brom beep test."
"It's just..." Ethan hesitated. "It's going to be quiet. Without you two yelling at me."
Callum sat up and dusted sand off his arms. "We'll still be yelling at you. We'll just do it through the TV screen when you make your debut." He nudged Ethan. "And don't think you're getting off that easy. We expect daily updates. Gossip about the pros. Who's a diva? Who drives the worst car? All of it."
"Deal," Ethan smiled.
"And," Callum added, lowering his voice a bit, "if it gets tough... you know. We're just a train ride away. Crestwood isn't going anywhere."
Ethan looked at his two best friends, Callum, with sand in his hair and a grin that could light up a stadium, and Mason, the steady, unshakeable anchor. He realized that while he was leaving the town, he wasn't leaving the team. The bond they forged in the mud of Crestwood and the thrill of the title race was strong.
"Come on," Mason said, standing up and brushing off his shorts. "Those sausages are probably radioactive by now. Let's go eat."
They walked back up the cliff path as the first stars began to twinkle. For tonight, there were no contracts, no expectations, and no goodbyes. Just three boys on a beach, holding onto the last golden days of their childhood.