Monday, August 10th. 08:00 AM. West Bromwich Albion Training Centre.
Day One. Pre-Season.
The excitement of the World Cup is short-lived and misleading. It takes place in lavish stadiums, reaches billions of viewers, and is filled with talk of national pride.
But club football doesn't care about national pride. It is a machine. It involves cold mornings, endless training, and the relentless pressure of a thirty-eight-game Premier League season.
Ethan Matthews parked his Audi in the players' lot at the West Brom training ground. A few paparazzi were waiting outside the main gates, hoping to snap a photo of the "Broken Boy of Atlanta" looking unhappy.
Ethan didn't give them that satisfaction. He grabbed his washbag, stepped out of the car, and entered through the glass double doors with confidence.
The familiar mix of deep heat, clean laundry, and wet grass filled the air. It was the scent of hard work.
He pushed open the heavy door to the first-team dressing room.
The room buzzed with energy. Players were joking across the lockers, and loud music played from a portable speaker.
When Ethan walked in, no one hushed. Nobody offered him a sympathetic glance.
Liam Thorne, the veteran captain, sat on a physio table getting his ankles strapped. He glanced up, tossed a roll of zinc-oxide tape at Ethan, and grimaced.
"Nice of you to finally show up, superstar," Thorne said. "Some of us have been running hills in the Black Country rain for two weeks while you were on holiday."
Ethan caught the tape and smiled genuinely. The normalcy of the dressing room was exactly what he wanted.
"My legs have seen more mileage in the last month than your whole career, skip," Ethan shot back as he walked to his locker.
Jaden Kalu, tying his boots two lockers down, laughed. "Don't poke the bear, Eth. Vance has been running us into the ground. I think my lungs are bleeding."
There was no talk of the crossbar. No mention of Brazil. In this room, Ethan was just another player. He needed to get fit before Matchday 1.
09:30 AM. Training Pitch 1.
The morning air was crisp, and the grass was cut perfectly.
Julian Vance stood in the center circle, flanked by Lorenzo Rossi and the sports science team. The squad formed a tight circle around them.
Vance didn't greet them warmly. He didn't ask about their summers.
"Last season, you were a surprise," Vance said, scanning the squad with his dark eyes. "You shocked the Premier League. You pulled this club into the Champions League because no one took you seriously until it was too late."
Vance began pacing slowly inside the circle.
"That advantage is gone. Now you are a target. When we go to Anfield, they will respect you. When we go to the Etihad, they will not rest their starters. You're in the elite bracket now, and the elite bracket requires resilience."
He stopped and pointed to the far end of the pitch, where a tightly arranged grid of cones had been set up.
"We survive this season not by running faster but by thinking quicker. Rondo of death. Maximum three touches. If you lose the ball, you run a lap of the complex. Move."
10:15 AM. The Rondo.
The drill was intense. It aimed to replicate the overwhelming pressure of a Champions League midfield battle.
Ethan stood in the center of the grid with Lucas Vega. Six players surrounded them, trying to keep the ball away.
Whistle.
The ball zipped around with incredible speed.
For the first two minutes, Ethan's timing was slightly off. Three weeks of isolation had left a thin layer of rust on his brain. He lunged for an interception but misjudged the angle, allowing the ball to flash by him.
A new signing, a highly-rated defensive midfielder brought in from the Bundesliga to add depth, smirked as he passed the ball around Ethan.
"Little slow today, England," the new signing said with a strong accent, trying to assert himself early in the pre-season hierarchy.
Lorenzo Rossi, observing from the edge of the grid, caught Ethan's eye. He said nothing but tapped his temple.
Govern the space. Erase the rust.
Ethan took a deep breath. He closed his eyes for a moment, picturing the rusted chain-link fence in Eastfield. He cleared his mind.
The ball came back to the Bundesliga signing.
The midfielder took a heavy touch, expecting Ethan to press him hard. He was ready to shield the ball and spin away.
But Ethan didn't engage the man. He focused on the passing angles.
Ethan read the midfielder's body language. He knew where the pass was going before the player even struck the ball.
As the pass came, Ethan didn't lunge. He stepped into the lane, trapping the ball perfectly under his right boot.
The transition was instant.
Before the other players could close in, Ethan made a lightning-fast, disguised reverse pass through the stunned Bundesliga signing's legs, finding Vega on the other side of the grid.
"Lap," Ethan said quietly to the new midfielder without even looking at him.
The squad reacted with a loud "Oooooh!" at the nutmeg.
Rossi allowed a small smile to appear as he noted something on his clipboard. The dictator was back.
1:00 PM. The Canteen.
Ethan sat at a table with Thorne, Kalu, and Armando, eating a carefully measured portion of chicken and quinoa. His muscles ached with the satisfying burn of hard training.
"We draw the Champions League group stages in two weeks," Armando said, stabbing a piece of chicken. "Pot 4. We are going to get the group of death."
"Let them put us in the group of death," Thorne grunted. "I want to go to the Bernabéu. I want to face a Galáctico."
Julian Vance entered the canteen. The room went silent.
Vance walked to the coffee machine, poured an espresso, and turned toward Ethan's table.
"Matthews. My office. Five minutes."
1:10 PM. The Manager's Office.
Ethan sat in the leather chair opposite Vance's desk. The walls were covered in complex, color-coded diagrams mapping out the first month of the Premier League schedule.
Vance took a sip of his espresso. He didn't look at Ethan with pity. He regarded him as an asset.
"How is the engine?" Vance asked bluntly.
"Repaired, boss," Ethan replied, meeting the manager's gaze. "The rust is gone."
"Good," Vance nodded, setting his cup down. "Because the media outside those gates will try to convince you that you are broken. They will analyze your first bad pass. They will scrutinize your first missed tackle. They want the story of the shattered Wonderkid."
Vance leaned forward, resting his elbows on the polished desk.
"I don't care about the penalty, Ethan. I don't care about Atlanta. In this building, you are the heartbeat of my midfield. We play Chelsea at Stamford Bridge on Matchday 1. They've spent two hundred million pounds this summer. They think they can walk all over us."
Vance's eyes hardened.
"I need the dictator back. I need you to go to West London and completely dominate them. Can you do that?"
Ethan felt a familiar fire ignite in his chest. The ghost of the crossbar was gone, replaced by the determined demand of the club.
"I'll control them, boss," Ethan said quietly.
Vance nodded firmly. "Get to the ice baths. Tomorrow, we run."