The drive ended not at a stadium but at a sensible semi-detached house in a quiet cul-de-sac in Great Barr. This was it. The "digs."
His mum turned off the engine. The silence in the car felt heavy, filled with the hum of cooling metal and the weight of the moment. "Well," she said, her voice bright but fragile. "Number 42. Looks nice."
They were greeted at the door by Dave and Linda, the host parents approved by the club. They had experience in this; they had housed academy boys for a decade. They were friendly but efficient, knowing how to welcome a teenager while still giving him space.
"Room's upstairs, first on the left," Linda said, handing him a key. "WiFi code is on the fridge. Dinner is at six thirty, but if you're hungry now, there's toast."
Ethan carried his bags upstairs. The room was clean, beige, and functional. It had a bed, a desk, and a wardrobe. It was perfectly fine, but completely lacked personality. It smelled of air freshener, not home.
Unpacking was a quick, mechanical process. When he finished hanging the last shirt, the inevitable moment arrived.
His mum stood by the front door, her car keys in hand. She didn't make a scene. She hugged him tight, a fierce, rib-crushing squeeze that lasted a few seconds before stepping back, wiping her eyes. "You call me," she said. "And you work hard." "I will," Ethan replied. "I love you, love." "Love you too, Mum."
She walked to the car, got in, and drove away. Ethan watched the taillights disappear around the corner. At sixteen years old, a hundred miles from Eastfield, he stood in a stranger's hallway. The silence of the house pressed in on him. He had never felt so singular or completely alone.
The next morning, the reality of his new life began at 7:15 AM.
A club minibus pulled up to the curb. Ethan climbed in, nodding to the driver. Two other boys sat in the back, headphones on, staring out the window. They offered brief nods but no conversation. They were teammates, but also competitors. The camaraderie of Crestwood, the shared jokes, the history, felt like it was miles away.
The West Bromwich Albion training ground emerged from the morning mist like a fortress. Security barriers lifted automatically. They passed manicured lawns and sleek glass buildings. This was a different universe from the muddy pitches of the regional league. This was a workplace.
Ethan walked into the U18s changing room with his washbag. It was intimidatingly quiet. There was no music blasting and no banter about girls or school. Just the sound of zippers closing and boots being laced.
He found the locker with "MATTHEWS" on a magnetic strip. Inside hung the training kit, navy blue and white, with the club crest and a large sponsor logo. It felt serious. He changed out of his civilian clothes and put it on. The fabric felt different, heavier, more professional.
"Fresh meat."
Ethan turned. A tall player with intricate braids and the physique of a middleweight boxer leaned against the lockers opposite him. He looked older, maybe a second-year scholar, and was sizing Ethan up with a cold, appraising stare.
"I'm Tyrell," the boy said, not offering a handshake. "Midfield?" "Yeah," Ethan replied, standing his ground. "Number ten." Tyrell let out a short, sharp laugh, looking around at the other boys. "We've got four number tens, mate. Hope you know how to tackle."
Before Ethan could respond, a whistle blew from the corridor. "Out! On the grass! Two minutes!"
The session was led by Gareth, the U18 manager. He was a former pro known for being ruthless and wasted no time on pleasantries. "Welcome back," Gareth barked. "And welcome to the new lads. I don't care who you were at your old clubs. You start from zero today. We are in the U18 Premier League. The standard is perfection. Anything less, and you're gone."
They went straight into a rondo. There was no warm-up jog, just intense ball work.
The speed was intimidating. At Crestwood, Ethan had time to think. He could take a touch, look up, and scan the field. Here, the ball zipped across the wet turf like a bullet. Ping. Ping. Ping.
Ethan stepped into the circle. The ball came to him fast, passed in by a winger. He took a touch to control it, a touch that would have been fine in Eastfield.
Here, it was a mistake.
Before he could even shape to pass, Tyrell had tackled him hard, taking the ball and part of Ethan's ankle. Ethan hit the ground hard.
"Too slow!" Gareth shouted from the sideline. "This is the Academy, Matthews! You take two touches, you die! One touch! Move it!"
Ethan scrambled to his feet, his ankle throbbing. Tyrell didn't help him up. He just played the pass and moved into space, his expression bored.
The rest of the session was a blur of physical and mental exhaustion. The other players were faster, stronger, and smarter than anyone Ethan had ever faced. His "gravity", the reputation that had given him space in the regional league, meant nothing here. To these boys, he wasn't a star. He was just another kid trying to earn his spot.
By the end of the session, Ethan's lungs burned, and his legs felt like lead. He walked back to the changing room with his head down.
He sat on the bench, staring at the floor, the silence heavy with competitive breathing. He checked his phone. A text from Callum read How's the big time? You showing them how it's done?
Ethan stared at the screen. He considered lying, saying he had it all under control. Instead, he typed the truth. It's hard. Really hard.
He put the phone away and looked up at his locker. The West Brom crest stared back at him. He realized then that the "pathway" Mark had mentioned wasn't a gentle slope. It was a vertical wall. And he was at the very bottom, looking up.