Sunday morning in Eastfield was usually filled with dog walkers and joggers. But at 10:00 AM, the local park hosted a regular meeting.
Ethan sat on a bench, stretching his hamstrings. He wore his West Brom recovery tights and sipped from a bottle of electrolyte water that tasted like chalk.
Mason was already there, gently juggling a ball and careful not to twist his knee. He looked like he had been in an accident—black eye, swollen cheek, limp—but his eyes were clear.
"How's the head?" Ethan asked as he watched Mason control the ball.
"Fine," Mason said. "The concussion protocol says I can't head the ball for 48 hours. But the headache's gone."
"And the hero status?"
"Dad bought a frame for the newspaper clipping," Mason smirked. "It's going on the mantel next to my Nan's urn."
They waited. Ten minutes passed.
"He's not coming," Mason said, glancing at his watch.
"He'll come," Ethan replied. "He never misses Sunday debrief."
At 10:25 AM, a figure appeared at the park gate, moving slowly and awkwardly.
Callum wore a hoodie with the hood up and dark sunglasses, even though the clouds hung heavy. He carried a bottle of blue Powerade as if it were a lifeline.
He reached the bench but didn't sit; he slumped down, barely staying upright.
"Speak quietly," Callum whispered. "Please."
Ethan and Mason exchanged a look. "Good night?" Ethan asked, grinning.
Callum groaned and lifted his sunglasses slightly to glare at them. His eyes were bloodshot. "I have seen things," he croaked. "Terrible, wonderful things."
"Did you go to Liquid?" Mason asked.
"Liquid?" Callum let out a dry laugh that turned into a cough. "That was just the warm-up. We went to a place called The Dungeon. Or maybe it was The Palace. I don't know. It had sticky floors."
"And Sully?"
"Sully is not human." Callum shook his head. "He drank pints of Guinness, then shots that were green. He then argued with a bouncer—and won. Afterward, he bought a kebab for a homeless guy. Then he made me drink something called a 'Depth Charge'."
"What's a Depth Charge?" Ethan asked.
"I don't know," Callum shuddered. "But I think it contained petrol."
Mason stopped juggling. He put his foot on the ball. "You're training on Tuesday, Cal. Halifax at home."
"Don't say the word 'training,'" Callum begged, closing his eyes. "Everything hurts. My legs hurt from the game. My head hurts from the music. My soul hurts from the dancing."
"Dancing?" Ethan raised an eyebrow.
"Deano made me do the worm," Callum whispered dramatically. "On the sticky floor."
Ethan laughed, unable to help it. The image of Callum, the National League speedster, doing the worm in a dive bar was just funny.
But Mason didn't laugh. He looked at Callum with a serious expression—not judgment, but a keen assessment.
"You've got 48 hours to get that out of your system," Mason said. "Halifax are third in the league. Their left-back is ex-League Two. If you show up on Tuesday moving like that, Sully will eat you alive."
Callum pushed his sunglasses up. "Sully was buying the shots, Mase! He was the one telling me to down it!"
"Sully is thirty-four," Mason replied. "His body is made of leather and regrets. He can handle it. You're seventeen. You need your legs."
Callum sighed, sitting up and wincing as his stomach protested. "I know. I know. It was just... one night. The initiation."
He looked at Ethan. "You're lucky, Eth. The academy doesn't let you have fun."
Ethan glanced at his electrolyte water and his £200 recovery tights. "I don't know about lucky," he said. "But I feel fresh."
"Rub it in," Callum muttered.
Ethan stood up. "Right. I've got a recovery run to do. Zone 2 heart rate. Very boring. You coming?"
Callum looked at the path and then at his Powerade. "If I run, I will vomit."
"Walk then," Ethan said. "Get the poison out. Come on."
The three of them started around the edge of the park. Ethan jogged lightly, his breath steady. Mason walked with a limp, tending to his injuries. Callum shuffled behind them, hood up, muttering about the evils of green shots.
"So," Callum said after a while, his voice gaining a bit of strength. "Mia texted me this morning."
"Yeah?" Ethan asked, slowing down to let them catch up.
"She said she had fun," Callum said, a small smile creeping out from under the hood. "She said I'm a 'fun drunk.' Apparently, I tried to explain the offside rule to the DJ."
"You're an idiot," Mason said affectionately.
"Yeah," Callum admitted. "But I'm a National League winger who's seeing a girl who thinks I'm fun. So... worth it?"
"Ask me on Tuesday," Mason replied.
They completed two laps. By the end, Callum had some color back in his cheeks, though he still refused to take off his sunglasses.
As they reached the gate to leave, a car drove past. It was a matte black Range Rover.
Ethan froze. He recognized the number plate. RS 10 AGT.
It was Rick Sterling.
The car slowed down. The window rolled down. Rick wore a Bluetooth headset. He looked at Ethan, then noticed Mason's black eye and Callum's hungover state.
He didn't wave. He just tapped his watch, pointed at Ethan, and drove off.
"Who was that?" Mason asked.
"My agent," Ethan said, feeling a cold weight in his stomach.
"Friendly guy," Callum muttered.
"He's checking up on me," Ethan realized. "He knows I'm home. He's making sure I'm working."
"On a Sunday?" Callum asked.
"Every day is a workday," Ethan said, repeating one of Rick's lines. He looked at his friends—one beaten up, one hungover. They looked like teenagers. Rick looked like business.
"I have to go," Ethan said suddenly. "I need to stretch."
He jogged away toward his house, leaving them at the gate.
"He's intense, isn't he?" Callum watched him leave.
"He's scared," Mason said quietly.
"Scared of what? He's the golden boy."
"Scared of falling behind," Mason replied, touching his bruised eye. "Come on, Cal. Let's go get you a fry-up. Before you pass out."