The golden haze of Cornwall faded quickly, replaced by the stark, grey reality of a Tuesday morning in Eastfield. The countdown had ticked away quietly in the background all summer, and it had finally hit zero.
Today was moving day.
Ethan's bedroom looked stripped down. The posters were gone, leaving rectangular pale patches on the walls. The shelves, once filled with trophies, match programs, and schoolbooks, were empty. His life was reduced to two large suitcases and a West Bromwich Albion duffel bag that sat by the door, looking unusually professional.
His mum buzzed around, a bundle of nervous energy, double checking lists she had already checked three times. "Toothbrush?" she asked while smoothing a pile of socks. "Passport? I know you don't need it for the digs, but for the tournaments..."
"I've got it, Mum," Ethan replied, sitting on the edge of his bare mattress. He looked around the room. It felt small. It felt like a kid's room. And he didn't feel like a kid anymore.
Sarah, his little sister, stood in the doorway, gripping the frame as if afraid to let go. She wasn't running around or joking today. "You're coming back on weekends, right?" she asked softly.
Ethan walked over to her. "Whenever the schedule allows," he promised, crouching down to meet her gaze. "And you're coming to watch games. You have to. Who else will tell me if I played poorly?"
She managed a weak smile and hugged him, burying her face in his shoulder. "You better not play poorly."
A knock at the front door broke the heavy atmosphere. Ethan knew who it was before he opened it.
Callum and Mason stood on the porch. They weren't in their usual tracksuits; instead, they wore jeans and t-shirts, looking unusually serious. There was no football at their feet today.
"Car's packed?" Mason asked, nodding toward the open boot of Mrs. Matthews' car in the driveway.
"Yeah," Ethan replied. "Just about."
They stood there for a moment, the three of them on the threshold of the house where they had planned world domination over FIFA and pizza for the last five years.
"Right," Callum said, scuffing his trainer on the pavement. He looked up, his usual bravado replaced by raw sincerity. "So, this is it. The big time."
"It's just the U18s, Cal," Ethan replied.
"It's the path," Mason corrected. "Don't downplay it. You're doing what we talked about."
Mason pulled out a small, slightly crumpled card from his pocket. "My dad got this. It's a railcard. Discounted tickets to Birmingham." He shrugged, looking embarrassed. "So we don't have an excuse not to come up."
Ethan took it, feeling a lump form in his throat. "Thanks, Mason."
Callum stepped forward, placing a hand on Ethan's shoulder. "Listen. Don't let those academy posh boys push you around. You're from Eastfield. You've got more grit in your little toe than they have in their whole bodies. Show them the 'gravity,' yeah?"
"I will," Ethan smiled.
"And fix your hair before you get there," Callum added, his grin returning. "Can't be on Sky Sports looking like that."
Then they hugged, a tight, three-way embrace that held all the unspoken fears and pride of their friendship. It lasted a moment longer than usual.
"Go on then," Mason said, stepping back and jerking his head toward the car. "Don't keep the Baggies waiting."
Ethan walked to the car, hugged Sarah one last time, then got into the passenger seat. His mum started the engine.
As they pulled away, Ethan rolled down the window. Callum and Mason stood on the pavement, watching him leave. Mason gave a single, stoic wave. Callum held up two thumbs, looking like he was trying hard not to cry.
The car turned the corner, and they were gone.
Ethan watched Eastfield scroll past the window. They passed the school, empty for the summer. They passed the park, where the grass was worn thin in the goalmouths from thousands of hours of practice. They passed the stadium, now silent, where the memory of the trophy lift still lingered.
"You okay?" his mum asked softly, glancing at him.
Ethan took a deep breath. The sadness was there, a heavy anchor in his chest. But as they hit the slip road for the motorway and the sign for "THE NORTH/WEST MIDLANDS" flashed overhead, he felt something else too.
The anchor was lifting. The fear was turning into adrenaline. He was leaving his past behind, but he was driving 70 miles an hour toward his future.
"Yeah," Ethan said, turning to face the road ahead. "I'm ready."