The second day started with a feeling Ethan hadn't experienced since his first preseason at Crestwood: dread.
His alarm rang at 6:30 AM. His ankle, where Tyrell had hit him, throbbed with pain. He got out of bed in the quiet, beige room, and the morning light from the West Midlands looked grey and harsh through the window.
Downstairs, Linda had set out cereal and toast. "Did you sleep well, love?" she asked brightly, moving around the kitchen.
"Yeah, fine," Ethan lied, shoving a spoonful of cornflakes into his mouth. His stomach twisted with nerves.
The shuttle ride was just as quiet as the day before. Ethan sat next to a boy named Harvey, a winger he had noticed yesterday. Harvey had messy blonde hair and looked as drained as Ethan felt. "Are you the one Tyrell smashed yesterday?" Harvey asked, staring out the window.
Ethan winced. "Yeah, that's me."
"Don't worry," Harvey said, managing a dry, humorless smile. "He smashed me on Monday. He likes to remind the first-years that he's going for a pro deal this year."
That was a small comfort. At least he wasn't the only target.
When they got to the training ground, the schedule was different. Tuesdays began in the classroom. The Education Suite was a modern building with glass walls overlooking the first-team pitches. It felt odd to sit in a classroom wearing a tracksuit, surrounded by boys who seemed to want to be anywhere else.
The education officer, a strict woman named Mrs. Clarke, went over the BTEC program. "You are here to play football," she said, pacing the front of the room. "But the stats aren't in your favor. 98% of academy scholars do not make a living from the game. This diploma is your safety net. You need to take it seriously."
The statistic hung in the air like a bad smell. 98%. Ethan looked around. There were twenty of them. Statistically, only one, or possibly none, would make it.
After class, it was time for analysis. They filed into a tiered theatre with a big screen. Gareth, the U18 manager, stood at the front with a laser pointer.
He played clips from the previous Saturday's U18 game, a 2-2 draw against Manchester United. He didn't show the goals. Instead, he focused on the mistakes. "Look at this shape," Gareth said sharply, pausing the video. "Tyrell, you're two yards too deep. Because you're deep, the passing lane to the striker is open. They play through and score. One step cost us two points."
Ethan watched, fascinated. At Crestwood, analysis was "pass quicker" or "mark him tight." Here, it was about geometry and precision. It was a level of detail he hadn't thought about before.
Then, they hit the grass.
The session focused on transition play, moving the ball from defense to attack in under ten seconds. Ethan was placed in the "probables" midfield, facing the "possibles," which included Tyrell.
The whistle blew, and chaos erupted. The speed was still intimidating, but Ethan tried to apply what he had seen in the theatre. It wasn't just about running; it was about angles.
He received a ball from the center-back. Immediately, he sensed the heavy rush of Tyrell closing in from behind.
One touch, you die. Gareth's voice echoed in his mind.
Ethan didn't take a touch. He didn't try to turn. He recalled the video, the passing lanes. He checked over his shoulder, saw Harvey making a run down the channel, and played a first time, blind flick around the corner.
He felt the wind of Tyrell's slide tackle rush by, missing his ankle by an inch.
The ball spun perfectly into Harvey's path. Harvey surged forward and crossed for the striker to score.
"Good!" Gareth shouted, the first positive thing he'd said all day. "Vision, Matthews! That's the level!"
Ethan exhaled, his heart racing. He glanced at Tyrell, who was getting up off the grass. The older boy glared at him, but this time there was something else in his eyes. Annoyance? Maybe. But also a hint of recognition. Ethan hadn't panicked.
In the changing room afterward, the atmosphere was a bit warmer. The adrenaline from the session had loosened people up. Harvey sat next to Ethan, unlacing his boots. "Nice flick," he said. "I thought Tyrell was going to snap you again."
"He tried," Ethan replied, pulling off his socks.
"He hates it when the new guys show him up," Harvey said with a grin. "I'm Harvey, by the way. Released from Villa last year, West Brom picked me up."
"Ethan. From... nowhere, really. Eastfield." "Eastfield?" Harvey frowned. "Where's that?" "Exactly," Ethan said, smiling.
That evening, back at the digs, Ethan lay on his bed. He picked up his phone and opened the group chat with Callum and Mason. It was buzzing with messages.
Callum: Saw a girl in a West Brom shirt today. Almost asked for her number just to get intel on you.
Mason: Don't encourage him. How was day 2?
Ethan typed his reply. Better. Still hard. But I didn't get tackled today.
Callum: Progress! Champions League next year then.
Ethan laughed, the sound echoing in the quiet room. He glanced at the framed photo of the three of them lifting the trophy, which he had placed on his bedside table. The 98% statistic still lingered in his thoughts. The feeling of isolation was still real. Tyrell was still waiting to try to take him down tomorrow.
But he had played a pass. He had made a friend. And for today, that was enough.