"Liverpool will press you until you suffocate," Gareth warned, moving magnetic counters around the whiteboard with aggressive snaps. "If you dwell on the ball in the midfield transition, they will strip you, and they will score. We play a 4-2-3-1, but in possession, it needs to look like a 4-4-1-1. Compact. Disciplined."
He looked directly at Ethan. "Matthews. You are the outlet. When we win the ball, you find the pocket behind their midfield. You have exactly two seconds to turn and release the winger before their center-backs step up to crush you."
Saturday morning arrived with a steady drizzle. The bus ride to Kirkby, Liverpool's academy complex, was silent. This wasn't a local derby, this was facing royalty. Liverpool's academy was a factory for Champions League winners.
Ethan stepped off the bus, his kit bag heavy on his shoulder. The facilities were pristine, intimidation radiating from the very grass.
In the changing room, the team sheet was posted. Ethan was starting again at number 10. Behind him, in the holding role, was Tyrell.
"Don't leave me exposed, Matthews," Tyrell grunted as they laced up. It was the closest thing to a pep talk Ethan was going to get.
The match kicked off, and the speed was blinding.
Liverpool didn't just run, they swarmed. For the first twenty minutes, West Brom couldn't get out of their own half. Ethan spent the time chasing shadows, cutting off passing lanes, his lungs burning as he shuttled side to side.
In the 24th minute, Liverpool's class showed. Their winger cut inside, played a one-two on the edge of the box, and curled a shot into the top corner. 1-0.
Heads dropped. The West Brom players looked shell-shocked.
"Shape!" Gareth screamed from the technical area. "Keep the shape!"
Ethan wiped rain from his eyes. He looked at Tyrell, who was breathing hard, frustration etched on his face. They were being overrun.
Be a hammer, Ethan thought. But he couldn't outmuscle Liverpool. Be a needle, he corrected himself. Find the thread.
The game restarted. Ethan stopped chasing the ball. He started drifting. When Liverpool attacked, he floated into the tiny pockets of space their midfielders vacated.
In the 40th minute, it happened. Tyrell won a monster tackle on the edge of his own box, winning the ball cleanly. He looked up, panicked, ready to hoof it clear.
"Tyrell! Feet!" Ethan screamed, dropping deep into a sliver of space.
Tyrell trusted him. He drilled a hard pass into Ethan's feet.
Two Liverpool midfielders converged instantly. Ethan didn't take a touch. He sensed the pressure. He opened his legs and let the ball run through them, a dummy.
The Liverpool players collided, wrong-footed. Ethan spun around them, collecting the ball in open grass. The transition was on.
He drove forward. The Liverpool defense, caught high, backpedaled. Ethan carried the ball forty yards. He saw Harvey sprinting down the left, but the passing lane was blocked by a recovering defender.
To his right, Tyrell, having continued his run from the tackle, was charging forward like a locomotive.
Ethan waited. He drew the center-back toward him, waiting for the commitment. At the last second, he rolled a perfectly weighted pass into Tyrell's path.
Tyrell didn't have the finesse of a striker, but he had power. He hit the ball first time, a low, thumping drive that went through the keeper's legs.
1-1.
Ethan raised his arms, too tired to sprint. Tyrell wheeled away, shouting, before turning and pointing directly at Ethan. The big midfielder jogged back and, for the first time all season, grabbed Ethan in a rough headlock. "That dummy," Tyrell shouted in his ear. "Filthy. Absolutely filthy."
The second half was a siege. Liverpool threw everything at them. Ethan was subbed off in the 75th minute, his legs completely gone. He watched from the bench, heart in his mouth, as West Brom defended with their lives.
The final whistle blew. 1-1. A point away at Liverpool.
In the changing room, the mood was ecstatic. It felt like a win. Gareth walked in, clapping his hands. "That is character," he said. "You went behind to a top team, and you fought back."
He looked at Ethan and Tyrell. "The tackle and the transition. That is Premier League quality. Well done."
As they walked to the bus, Ethan checked his phone. He had a signal. He typed a message to the group chat.
1-1 vs Liverpool. Assist. Tyrell scored.
A second later, a reply popped up from Callum. Tyrell scored?? Did the keeper fall asleep? Also, 1-1? We won 3-0 today. Just saying. Levels.
Ethan smiled, leaning his head against the cool window. He closed his eyes, the image of the dummy and the pass replaying in his mind. He had unlocked a Premier League defense.
He was tired. He was bruised. But as the bus pulled out of Liverpool, Ethan realized he wasn't just surviving the academy anymore. He was starting to play.