Tuesday night arrived with a vengeance.
The rain in Eastfield was not the gentle drizzle of the weekend; it was a freezing downpour that turned the Crestwood pitch into a muddy bog.
7:00 PM. The Dressing Room.
Callum sat in his spot, staring at his boots. He felt heavy.
It wasn't that he was still drunk; the alcohol had worn off on Sunday. It was the aftermath. The messed-up sleep, the dehydration, and the fatigue from a night spent jumping on sticky floors until 3 AM.
He bounced his leg, trying to wake up his muscles. They felt unresponsive, like rubber bands stretched too far.
"Lively, lads!" Sully shouted, clapping his hands. "Halifax are third. They move the ball fast. If we sleep, we're done."
Sully stopped in front of Callum. He leaned down, theatrically sniffing the air. "You smell like deep heat, kid. Good cover."
"I'm ready, Skip," Callum lied as he stood up.
"You better be," Sully warned, narrowing his eyes. "Their left-back is tough. He'll test your lungs."
Mason, who sat next to Callum, said nothing. He was taping his ankle with focused precision. He glanced at Callum once, raised an eyebrow, and then put on his serious face.
7:45 PM. Kickoff: Crestwood vs. FC Halifax Town.
From the first whistle, the tempo was frantic. Halifax moved the ball with speed and purpose that Barnet and York hadn't shown.
Callum played right wing. His opponent was Glover, a stocky, bald defender with 300 games in the Football League under his belt.
In the 5th minute, the ball was played into the channel for Callum to chase.
On Saturday, Callum would have covered the ground easily. Tonight, his first step lacked the explosive speed. He reached the ball, but Glover was right with him. Glover shoved Callum off balance with his shoulder and took the ball easily.
"Weak!" Glover yelled.
Callum scrambled back, his lungs already burning. The air felt thin.
In the 18th minute, disaster struck.
Crestwood was attacking. Callum tried to dribble past Glover. He attempted a step-over, but his feet were slow. He tripped over the ball.
Glover took it and launched a counterattack.
"Track back!" Mason shouted from center-back.
Callum turned to sprint. He willed his legs to move, to hit that top gear that made him special. But the gear wasn't there. He was stuck in slow motion.
The Halifax winger surged into the space Callum had left. Glover overlapped. It was 2-v-1 against the Crestwood fullback.
Pass. Cross. Header. Goal.
0-1 Halifax.
Callum bent over, hands on his knees, gasping for air. He looked up to see Mason staring at him. Mason didn't yell. He just shook his head and turned away to pick the ball out of the net.
That silence hurt more than any shout.
8:15 PM. WBA Academy Accommodation.
Ethan was in the common room, his legs in Normatec compression boots that hissed as they inflated and deflated.
He watched the live text updates on his phone.
18' GOAL - FC Halifax Town (J. Smith) Crestwood caught on the break down the right flank.
"Right flank," Ethan muttered. "That's Cal."
He could picture it. The Tuesday night struggle. The heavy pitch. If you weren't at your best, that league found you out.
His phone buzzed. It was a WhatsApp message from Gareth, the U18 manager.
Gareth: Change of schedule. You're not with us tomorrow morning. The U21s need a midfielder for prep against Aston Villa. You're stepping up. Pitch 1, 10:00 AM. Don't look out of place.
Ethan stared at the message.
The U21s. Premier League 2.
It wasn't the First Team, but it was the "Reserves." It was the waiting room for professional football. He would train alongside players who were 19 or 20, some of whom had already made bench appearances for the senior squad.
While Callum was struggling in the mud of the National League, Ethan was quietly moving up the ladder. It was the ultimate reward for the "boring" Sunday.
He took a screenshot. He didn't post it. He just typed back: Understood.
Then he increased the pressure on the compression boots. Recovery is work.
8:30 PM. Halftime at Crestwood.
The dressing room door slammed shut hard enough to scatter dust from the ceiling.
The Gaffer didn't even look at the tactics board. He walked straight up to Callum.
Callum sat with a towel over his head, trying to hide.
"Get that towel off," The Gaffer said quietly.
Callum pulled it down. He looked pale.
"You're out of breath," The Gaffer said. "You're walking. You're losing 50-50s. You're letting a 36-year-old left-back run past you."
"I'm sorry, Gaffer," Callum whispered. "My legs are heavy."
"Legs are heavy?" Sully's voice boomed from the corner. He stood up, shirtless, mud smeared across his chest. "I saw you on Saturday night, lad. You were doing the worm at 2 AM. Your legs looked fine then."
The room fell dead silent.
The Gaffer turned from Sully to Callum. His eyes turned cold. "Is that true?"
Callum looked at the floor. "We were just celebrating the win."
"You celebrate when the season is over!" The Gaffer shouted, kicking a laundry basket across the room. "These men here have mortgages! They have kids! That win bonus pays for their electric bills! And you're out there jogging because you wanted to show off at the club?"
Callum shrank into his locker.
"You're off," The Gaffer spat. "Shower and get changed. And don't you dare come out for the second half. Sit here and think about whether you want to be a footballer or a party boy. Because you can't be both in this league."
"Sub!" The Gaffer yelled at the reserve winger. "Get warm. You have 45 minutes to save us."
Mason sat in the corner, drinking water. He didn't look at Callum. He couldn't defend him. In the harsh reality of semi-pro football, Callum had just cost everyone money.
9:45 PM. Full-time.
Crestwood 1 - 2 FC Halifax Town.
Crestwood had rallied in the second half. Mason was immense, heading everything that came into the box, playing with an intense focus. They had pulled one back, but the damage was done.
The players walked back into the changing room. Callum sat there, fully dressed in his tracksuit, his bag packed. He looked small.
Nobody spoke to him.
Sully walked in. He sat down heavily, ripping tape off his socks. He glanced at Callum.
"You owe me fifty quid," Sully grunted.
"What?" Callum asked, his voice trembling.
"Win bonus," Sully said. "That's what I lost tonight. You owe me."
He was sort of joking, but there was no humor in his eyes.
"See you Thursday," Sully said to Mason. "Good game, Mase. You dug in."
Sully stood up and walked to the showers, completely ignoring Callum.
Mason packed his bag slowly. "Ready?" Mason asked Callum.
"Yeah," Callum whispered.
10:15 PM. Mason's Mum's Car.
The drive home was painfully quiet. The rain beat against the windscreen.
"I messed up," Callum finally admitted, staring into the darkness.
"Yep," Mason replied.
"The Gaffer looked like he wanted to kill me."
"He did," Mason agreed. "And Sully wasn't happy either."
Callum put his head in his hands. "I thought I could handle it. I thought one night wouldn't matter."
"Ethan doesn't do it," Mason said simply.
"Ethan is a robot," Callum snapped. "He's in an academy bubble."
"Ethan just got called up to the U21s," Mason said calmly.
Callum froze. "What?"
"He texted me while you were in the shower," Mason said. "He's training with the Reserves tomorrow. Premier League 2 setup. While we were losing to Halifax."
Callum stared out the window. The contrast was brutal. He had spent Sunday nursing a hangover; Ethan had spent his recovering. Tonight, Callum had been humiliated in the National League; Ethan had moved up within the academy.
"That's the difference, Cal," Mason said, turning onto Callum's street. "But you can fix it. Train hard on Thursday. You have to earn Sully's respect back. Or you'll be back in the U18s playing Riverton next week."
The car stopped.
"Thanks for the lift," Callum said quietly.
"See you Thursday," Mason replied.
Callum got out. He walked up his driveway in the rain, with no swagger and no sunglasses. Just a 17-year-old who had learned the hardest lesson of men's football:
The game doesn't care how much fun you had on Saturday. It only cares what you can do on a rainy Tuesday night.
His phone buzzed.
Ethan: Saw you got subbed at HT. Everything ok?
Callum stared at the message. He felt a wave of shame.
Tactical change. Hamstring tight.
He lied. He hit send. Then he went inside, vowing never to feel this way again.