Sunday evening at home was quiet. The house was still, except for the sounds of Dave and Linda watching a drama downstairs. Upstairs, Ethan sat on his bed with his laptop resting on his knees. His left ankle lay on a pillow, wrapped in an ice pack that slowly melted into a damp patch on the duvet.
His body felt like a map covered in bruises. His ribs hurt from the elbow of a Villa midfielder. His calf throbbed after a late tackle, and his legs felt heavy with deep fatigue.
He checked the time: 7:00 PM. Time for the ritual.
He tapped the call button.
The screen flickered to life, splitting into two. Callum appeared first, wearing a hoodie and looking surprisingly fresh for someone who had played ninety minutes the day before. Mason joined him a moment later, looking less impressive, he had a small cut above his eyebrow and was munching aggressively on an apple.
"There he is!" Callum shouted, his voice too loud for Ethan's small room. "The Derby Day survivor! We saw the result. 0-0? Boring. Did you even touch the ball?"
"I touched it enough to get smashed by a guy twice my size," Ethan replied, adjusting his ice pack with a wince. "It was a war zone. How was yours? I saw it ended 1-0. Scrappy?"
"Scrappy?" Callum scoffed, leaning back. "It was a tactical masterpiece of high-intensity, direct football. We call it 'The Siege.' Very sophisticated."
Mason snorted and took a bite of his apple. "It was ugly, Ethan. Horrible. We basically played rugby for eighty minutes."
"But we won," Callum pointed out, raising a finger. "Three points. Top of the league. Well, fourth on goal difference, but who's counting? And guess who got the assist?"
"Let me guess," Ethan smiled. "You ran down a blind alley, got tackled, and the ball fell to Mason?"
"Rude," Callum replied. "I won a header. Against a center-back who was basically a tree. I flicked it on perfectly."
"He missed the header," Mason corrected, his voice flat. "The defender panicked and knocked it up in the air. I was just there to volley it in."
"A volley?" Ethan raised his eyebrows. "Mason? Since when?"
"Since we stopped passing the ball," Mason said with a grunt. "Shaw's got us playing 'heavy metal' football. Get it wide, get it in the box, hit people. It worked, but my neck hurts from watching the ball in the air so much."
Ethan laughed, but a pang of homesickness hit him. He missed the banter. He missed the shared struggle. Even the idea of "ugly" football sounded appealing because it was their ugly football.
"So," Mason said, leaning closer to the camera. "Tell us about Villa. Did you start?"
"Yeah," Ethan confirmed. "Josh got injured. I was thrown in." He described the game, its speed, the sheer size of the Villa players, and the humiliation of the first twenty minutes where he was bounced around like a pinball.
"And then?" Callum asked, genuinely listening now.
"And then I stopped fighting them," Ethan replied. He recounted the moment with the giant number four, the roll, the spin, and the pass that almost led to a goal. "I didn't score, but... I handled it. Tyrell actually spoke to me afterwards and said I had 'bottle.'"
"Tyrell?" Callum asked. "The one who snapped you in training?"
"Yeah. I think he still hates me. But he respects me. That's enough for now."
There was a pause on the line. The three of them locked eyes through the pixels, Ethan in his beige room, Callum and Mason in their familiar childhood homes. The gap between their worlds felt enormous. Ethan navigated dressing room politics and physical survival against elite academies. Callum and Mason were grinding out results in the local park against kids they had known for years.
"It felt weird, though," Mason admitted quietly, breaking the mood. "On the pitch. I got the ball in the pocket twice in the first half. I looked up, expecting you to be there."
"Yeah," Callum added, his bravado fading. "Ryan tries, bless him, but he's got the first touch of a trampoline. We missed you, mate."
Ethan swallowed his emotions. "I missed you guys too. I had a chance in the second half where I played a ball into the channel nobody ran. The striker wanted it to feet. If it was you, Cal, you'd have been in."
"Obviously," Callum grinned. "I'm always in."
"We're improving," Mason said firmly. "We're a machine now. That's what Shaw calls us. We grind them down."
"And I'm a hammer," Ethan said, looking at his bruised legs. "That's what the fitness coach calls me. Well, a small hammer."
"Tiny hammer," Callum corrected. "Basically a tack hammer."
They talked for another hour, dissecting other results, Riverton's thrashing of their opponent, Man City's dominance in the U18 league. They discussed school, Mia, and the emptiness of a Sunday evening.
"Right," Mason finally said, checking the time. "School tomorrow. Some of us still have to go to assembly."
"Lucky you," Ethan remarked. "I've got recovery session and then video analysis of my mistakes for two hours."
"Sounds fun," Callum said. "Go show them the Eastfield magic, yeah? Don't let Tyrell bully you."
"I won't," Ethan promised.
"And Ethan?" Mason added just before signing off. "Ice that ankle. We need you fit for the Liverpool game. We checked the schedule. That's a big one."
"I will. See you, lads."
The screen went dark. Silence rushed back into the room. Ethan took the now warm ice pack off his ankle. He felt lonely, yes, but he also felt grounded. They were fighting their war, he was fighting his.
He stood up, testing his weight on the ankle. It held.
He walked to the window and looked out at the dark street of Great Barr. He was no longer just playing for a contract. He was playing so that when he called them next week, he'd have a story worth sharing.
He turned off the light. Week one was done. He had survived. Now, he had to thrive.