Back in Eastfield, the summer evening was warm, and the sky was a bruised purple as the sun set behind the Crestwood clubhouse. It was the first official training session of the new season, the first step in their title defense.
But for Callum and Mason, walking from the car park to the pitch felt less like a beginning and more like a missing limb.
They walked side by side, their boots slung over their shoulders. The space to their right, where Ethan usually walked while adjusting his shin pads and laughing at Callum's latest story, was empty. It was a physical absence that neither of them acknowledged, but both felt strongly.
"We need to set the tone tonight," Mason said, breaking the silence. His voice was rough and all business. "New guys coming up from the U15s. They'll be looking at us."
"Yeah," Callum replied, scuffing his trainers on the gravel. "Show them who the champions are."
They entered the changing room. It was loud, filled with the nervous energy of the new recruits and the confident banter of the returning winners. But as they headed to their usual corner, they stopped.
A skinny, scared looking kid from the year below was sitting in Ethan's spot.
Callum opened his mouth, an instinctual 'Oi, move' ready to come out.
Mason put a hand on his arm. "Leave it," he muttered. "It's just a bench."
Callum closed his mouth, nodded once, and sat down next to Mason. It was just a bench, but it felt wrong.
Coach Shaw blew his whistle five minutes later. "Right, listen up!" The squad gathered. Shaw looked at them, his eyes hard. "Last season is history. That trophy in the cabinet? It doesn't help you win a tackle today. You are the champions, and that means every team in this league wants to knock you off your perch. We have to work harder than we did last year, or we will lose. Simple."
He pointed to the pitch. "Possession drill, 6 v 6. Move the ball. Keep it alive."
The drill started. Immediately, the rhythm felt off.
Callum, wearing the yellow bib of the attacking team, made his signature run, a sharp dart between the center-backs, pointing to the space where he wanted the ball. In his head, the ball was already there, curled perfectly into his path by Ethan's right boot.
In reality, the ball stayed in the midfield. Ryan, now playing deeper, didn't see the run. He took an extra touch, got closed down, and played a safe, square pass to Mason.
Callum stopped his run, throwing his arms up. "Forward! I was in!"
"He closed the lane!" Ryan shouted back, flustered.
"You have to see it earlier!" Callum snapped.
The drill continued. Mason received the ball. He looked up. Usually, Ethan would drop into the pocket, demanding it and linking the play. Today, the pocket was empty. The new midfielder was standing too high, hiding behind a defender. Mason hesitated. The pressing team swarmed him. He was forced to shield the ball, turn, and hoof it long, a clearance, not a pass.
"Quality!" Shaw barked from the sideline. "Where is the quality? It's disjointed! Fix it!"
Frustration began to boil over. Callum was making runs that nobody spotted. Mason was trying to do the job of two midfielders, winning the ball and trying to create, but his passes lacked Ethan's finesse. The smoothness that had won them the league was gone, replaced by a clunky, grinding friction.
After twenty minutes, Shaw blew the whistle, stopping the session. The silence on the pitch was heavy. "Pathetic," Shaw said, walking into the center of the group. He looked at Callum, then at Mason. "Stop looking for him," Shaw said quietly.
Callum blinked, wiping sweat from his forehead. "What?"
"You know who I'm talking about," Shaw said, his voice rising. "You're making runs for a pass that isn't coming, Reid. And you," he turned to Mason, "are holding onto the ball waiting for a number ten who is currently in the West Midlands."
The squad went silent. The ghost had been named.
"Ethan is gone," Shaw stated, his voice empty of sentiment. "He is not walking through that gate. If you keep playing like he's here, we will get relegated. We need to find a new way. We don't have a magician anymore, so we have to be a machine."
He turned to the tactical board. "Mason, you're not holding anymore. You're box to box. You drive the ball forward yourself. Callum, stop running in behind every time. Drop deeper. Link the play. If the pass isn't there, come and get the ball."
He looked at them both. "Change. Or we will fail. Let's go again."
The restart was ugly at first. Callum hated dropping deep because he wanted to be on the shoulder of the last defender. Mason hated leaving the defensive line exposed.
But slowly, painfully, a new rhythm began to emerge.
Mason won a tackle, and instead of looking for a pass, he powered forward, bulldozing through the midfield with sheer force. He drew a defender and played a simple, hard pass to Callum's feet. Callum, with his back to goal, held off his man. He didn't have a through ball to run onto, so he spun, using his strength, and laid it off to the winger.
It wasn't pretty. It wasn't the smooth, one-touch football of the previous season. It was heavy metal football loud, physical, and direct.
"Better!" Shaw shouted. "That's it! Force the issue!"
By the end of the session, they were exhausted in a way they hadn't been before. The mental strain of compensating for Ethan's absence was heavier than the physical running.
As they walked off the pitch, the sun had fully set, and the floodlights hummed above them. Mason sat on the bench, unlacing his boots, his face grim. "That was hard work," he grunted.
"Yeah," Callum agreed, sitting next to him. He looked at the empty spot on the bench again. "I kept waiting for him, Mason. Every time I looked up, I expected to see him finding the gap."
Mason nodded. "I know. I kept waiting for him to show for the pass." He sighed, tossing his shin pads into his bag. "But Shaw's right. We can't be the same team. We've got to be tougher."
Callum picked up a water bottle and took a long swig. "Tougher," he repeated. He looked at Mason. "We're going to have to bully teams this year, aren't we? No more passing around them."
"Looks like it," Mason said. A small, crooked smile appeared on his face. "Lucky for us, I like hitting people."
Callum laughed, a short, sharp sound. "And I like scoring. Even if I have to run through a brick wall to do it."
They stood up together. The ghost of Ethan was still there, lingering in the spaces on the pitch, but the paralysis was breaking. They were the champions. They were the leaders now.
"Right," Callum said, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Mia's waiting. She said she'd buy us chips if we didn't cry about missing Ethan."
"I didn't cry," Mason said defensively, heading for the door.
"Close enough," Callum smirked. "Come on. Let's go eat."