Saturday's match against Westford was played under a heavy, grey sky that reflected Ethan's own fatigue. He had spent the last two nights cramming for his mocks, sacrificing sleep for history dates and math formulas. During warm-ups, his legs felt heavy, and his mind felt foggy, disconnected from the sharp movements of his teammates.
Coach Shaw's final words in the changing room were direct. "Westford is high on confidence. They think they can easily beat us like they did Riverton. Don't give them a reason to believe it. Start fast."
But Crestwood didn't start fast. They started slow, especially Ethan. His first touch, usually reliable, felt heavy. A simple pass to the fullback went astray and rolled harmlessly out of play. He was a beat behind the pace, and Westford's disciplined, high-energy midfield seized on his every mistake.
In the 31st minute, the inevitable happened. Ethan, trying to force a pass through an impossible gap, had his pocket picked by Westford's central midfielder. The counter-attack was quick and harsh. Three passes later, the ball was in the back of Crestwood's net. 1-0 Westford.
The home crowd fell silent. Mason turned and shouted at the midfield, "Wake up! What are you doing?" Ethan could only lower his head, feeling the weight of his exhaustion and his mistake pressing down on him.
Halftime was a relief. The changing room was quiet and tense. Coach Shaw paced the floor, his face showing controlled anger. He stopped directly in front of Ethan. "You're not here, Matthews," he said, his voice low. "Your mind is on your schoolbooks or wandering elsewhere, and it's costing this team. I don't care what's happening in your life. When you're on this pitch, you are fully present. You have 45 minutes to decide if you're the player everyone thinks you are or just a passenger."
The personal, public criticism felt like a slap in the face. As Ethan walked back out for the second half, his legs were still tired, but a cold, sharp anger cut through the mental fog. He felt embarrassed.
He stopped trying to be the hero. He returned to basics, playing the simple, two-touch football Coach Shaw had drilled into them. He let Jake and Mason do the heavy lifting, focusing instead on his positioning and getting the ball out quickly, determined not to get caught in possession again.
The game turned into a frustrating stalemate. Westford defended their lead while Crestwood, despite their renewed focus, couldn't break through the organized defense. The clock ticked past 80 minutes. The crowd grew restless. It looked like they were heading for their first defeat.
Then, with only minutes left, Mason won a tackle and pushed the ball forward to Ethan. He was 30 yards out, and in an instant, two Westford players were on him. He didn't have the energy to turn and run. He didn't have time to think. He was running on pure instinct.
He saw a blur of movement—Callum, starting a run he had seen countless times. Without looking, Ethan played a quick, no-look reverse pass, flicking the outside of his boot to split the two defenders and send the ball curling perfectly into the space behind the backline. It was a pass guided not by energy, but by deep-rooted football memory.
Callum, frustrated all game, sprang to life. He raced onto the pass and, without hesitation, blasted the ball past the onrushing goalkeeper.
The 1-1 equalizer sent waves of relief through the stadium. The game ended minutes later. It wasn't a win, and they had dropped two important points at home. But they hadn't lost.
As the team walked off, Ethan felt completely drained, his legs shaking. Mason threw a heavy arm over his shoulder. "You look dead on your feet, Eastfield," he said, his voice rough. "But that pass... that was pure class."
Ethan nodded, too exhausted to reply. He had saved a point, but he knew with a looming dread that he couldn't keep this up. His mind and body were pushed to their limit. The balancing act was no longer just difficult; it was failing.