The excitement of the Leicester City assist faded quickly, replaced by the harsh routine of academy life. Two weeks in, Ethan realized that being a professional footballer was 10% playing with a ball and 90% surviving the schedule.
It was Tuesday, "Leg Day," a term that terrified every first-year scholar.
Ethan stood in the high-performance gym, a large space filled with shiny machines, heavy plates, and the smell of stale sweat and rubber. The U18s were divided into groups. Ethan was paired with Harvey and, to his dismay, Tyrell.
"Right, lads," Mike, the strength and conditioning coach, called out, clapping his hands. He had a strong build and a stopwatch around his neck. "Hypertrophy phase. We build the armor today. Matthews, step up."
Ethan approached the squat rack. He loaded the bar with what he thought was a reasonable weight the same he used to lift at the local gym in Eastfield.
Mike stepped in, shaking his head. "What's that? A warm-up?" He added two heavy plates to the bar. "You're in the Championship now, son. You're good technically, but if a center-back sneezes on you right now, you'll break. We need to put five kilos of muscle on you by Christmas. Lift."
Ethan got under the bar. It felt heavy. He gritted his teeth, his legs shaking as he forced himself down and up, down and up. His vision blurred at the edges.
"Come on, Eastfield!" Harvey yelled, supporting him. "Drive!"
Ethan finished the set and racked the bar, gasping for air, his quads burning. He stepped back, grabbing his water bottle, feeling faint.
"Cute," Tyrell said, stepping up to the rack.
Tyrell didn't just add weight; he doubled it. He got under the bar and lifted it with consistent, powerful strength, his muscles contracting and relaxing like coiled steel. He didn't struggle; he controlled the metal. It was a clear reminder of the gap between a boy who played football and a man who was built for it.
"See that?" Mike said to Ethan, pointing at Tyrell. "That's why he wins the ball. He doesn't ask for space; he takes it. You want to play number ten in this league? You can't just be a violin. You have to be a hammer, too."
Lunch was quiet in the canteen. The food was carefully prepared—lean chicken, brown rice, and steamed broccoli, lacking flavor. It felt more like fuel than a meal. Ethan ate mechanically, his legs throbbing under the table.
"I can't feel my toes," Harvey mumbled, chewing his broccoli. "I think Mike is a sadist." "He's right," Ethan replied, glancing at the second-year table. Tyrell was laughing loudly, looking fresh as if he hadn't just lifted a small car. "I'm too light. I felt it against Leicester. I bounced off their midfielder."
"You're sixteen," Harvey shrugged. "You'll grow." "I don't have time to grow," Ethan said, stabbing a piece of chicken. "I have to build."
That evening, back at the digs, the house felt quieter than usual. Dave and Linda were watching TV downstairs. Ethan lay on his bed, his body aching in unfamiliar places. He opened his laptop and clicked the FaceTime icon.
Callum's face appeared instantly, looking pixelated but cheerful. Mason showed up a moment later in a smaller box, looking tired yet content.
"There he is!" Callum exclaimed. "The West Brom wonderkid! How's life in the fast lane? Driving a Ferrari yet?"
"I'm currently unable to walk down the stairs," Ethan groaned, shifting his legs slowly. "Leg day. I think my quads have given up."
"Soft," Mason grunted, though he smiled. "We had conditioning tonight too. Shaw's got us running hills. Says we need to be 'machines' since we don't have our magician anymore."
"How's the team?" Ethan asked, feeling a wave of homesickness. He missed the hills, the muddy pitch, and being the magician.
"Different," Callum replied, his expression turning serious. "Ugly, to be honest. We're playing... well, we're playing Mason-ball." "Hey," Mason warned. "It's true!" Callum laughed. "Big tackles, long balls into the channels, me fighting center-backs. We beat the U17s in a scrimmage today, though. 1-0. Scrappy goal."
"It works," Mason said simply. "We're adjusting. Ryan's doing a job. He's not you, obviously. He tries to pass through the eye of a needle and hits the corner flag. But he runs hard."
Ethan listened as they recounted the session—the jokes, arguments, and the feeling of being part of a family. In comparison, his day of silent reps, bland food, and professional distance felt cold.
"Are you okay, though?" Mason asked, studying Ethan closely. "You look tired."
"I am," Ethan admitted. "It's just... relentless. It's not just playing anymore. It's the gym, diet, and analysis. Every minute is monitored. I'm playing catch-up physically."
"You'll get there," Mason said confidently. "You always do." "And when you get ripped," Callum added, "send us a photo so I can show Mia. She still doesn't believe you have abs."
Ethan laughed, feeling a bit lighter. "I'll work on it."
"Right, gotta go," Callum said. "Mia's got me watching some reality show. The sacrifices I make for love." "Later, Eastfield," Mason said.
The screen went black, leaving Ethan alone in the beige room.
He stood up and walked to the mirror on the wardrobe door. He looked at himself—lean, wiry, a boy's frame. He thought of Tyrell's strength. He thought of the German midfielder who had knocked him down. He remembered Mike's words: You have to be a hammer.
He dropped to the floor. Ignoring the protests of his legs and chest, he started doing push-ups. One. Two. Three.
He wasn't in Eastfield anymore. The fun was over. The work had begun.