The first Saturday of the season felt off.
As the Crestwood U17s stepped onto their home field, the stands were noticeably fuller than usual. The title win had attracted a new crowd, buzzing with the hope of witnessing the same impressive football that marked the previous year.
Callum sensed the pressure right away. He glanced at the barrier and, as expected, saw Mia and her brother smiling and waving. He gave a firm, confident nod, but his stomach twisted with anxiety.
In the tunnel, Mason pulled him aside. "They're here to see last season," he grumbled. "We aren't last season. Don't try to be. Just be a machine."
Their opponent was Northbridge, a frustrating, defensive team they had only narrowly beaten thanks to a lucky deflection. This time, Northbridge knew what to expect from a Crestwood team missing its playmaker.
The whistle blew.
For forty-five minutes, it was a disaster.
Crestwood's new "heavy metal" football was a clumsy, disjointed mess. Mason, in his new box-to-box role, would win a tough tackle to cheers from the crowd, then surge forward, but seeing no options, he'd force a pass that wasn't there and lose the ball.
Callum, tasked with dropping deeper to connect play, felt lost. He made a run for a pass, but the nervous U16 midfielder, Finn, was too slow to notice him. By the time Callum received the ball, he'd turn to look for Mason's forward run, but Mason was out of position after his own tackle.
The timing was off. The rhythm was broken.
"This is awful!" a fan shouted from the stands.
"Where's the magic?" another one called out.
At the thirty-five-minute mark, frustration peaked. The winger, Ryan, had the ball on the touchline. Callum made his signature run, the one he'd practiced countless times with Ethan, angling between the center-backs. "Ryan! Now!" he yelled.
Ryan looked up, panicked, took an extra touch, and then made a pass that wasn't precise. It was a hopeful kick, ten yards too heavy, rolling harmlessly to the Northbridge keeper.
Callum stopped with his hands on his hips and turned around. "You have to see it earlier!" he shouted, his voice echoing in the frustrated stadium.
"He's not Ethan, Cal!" Mason yelled back from midfield. "Stop making that run!"
"Then what am I supposed to do?!"
The score was 0-0 at halftime. The changing room felt lifeless.
Coach Shaw walked in and wiped the tactical board clean. "Pathetic," he said. "You're playing like ghosts. You're all waiting for someone else to take action. Callum, you're waiting for a perfect pass. Mason, you're waiting for a perfect run. The rest of you are waiting to see how they play."
He pointed at the board. "The magic is gone. We all know it. So, you have two choices, complain and lose, or win it in a different way."
He drew a new, rough diagram. "We stop passing through the middle. It's not working. We go wide. Get to the byline, and cross it. And you," he pointed at Callum, "stop dancing around. Get in the box. I want you fighting the center-backs for every header. And you," he turned to Mason, "your job isn't to create. Your job is to drive the play. Win the ball and get it wide. Now."
The second half was a different story. It wasn't football; it was a battle.
Crestwood abandoned all attempts at pretty, possession based play. Mason won a tackle and, without looking, blasted the ball into the channel for the winger to pursue. Ryan didn't try to be fancy; he just ran.
He beat his man and sent in a cross. It wasn't a good cross, it was too high and too floaty.
But Callum was in the box, just as instructed. He wasn't waiting. He charged at the ball, challenging the 6 foot 2 center-back. He missed, but the defender, rattled by the challenge, headed it straight up instead.
The ball hung in the air. Time slowed.
Mason, having charged forward from midfield, came in like a freight train. He didn't wait for it to drop. He leaped, body sideways, and struck a powerful full volley.
The ball nearly tore the net apart.
1-0.
The stadium didn't just cheer, it erupted in a roar of pure relief. Mason responded with a fierce shout, veins bulging in his neck. Callum was the first to reach him, grabbing him in a headlock.
The final thirty minutes were a rough, desperate battle. Crestwood held on for a 1-0 victory.
As they walked off the pitch, drenched in sweat and bruises, Callum spotted Mia at the barrier. "That," she said, raising an eyebrow, "was not very pretty."
"We won, right?" Callum replied with a grin, still catching his breath. "Told you. A machine."
In the changing room, the team was too worn out to celebrate. They had secured their three points, but the price was clear. Mason sat down, mud covering his face, his legs trembling. "That," he grunted, "was hard work."
Callum sat next to him, unwinding the tape from his wrist. "Harder than it should have been."
They both glanced at the empty locker in the corner, the one without a name, the one that used to belong to Ethan. They had won. But they both felt, with a cold certainty, that this season would be a long, tough struggle. The "machine" was running, but it would be a hard road ahead.