If Manchester United were the aristocrats of youth football, then Manchester City were the machines.
In the week before the match, the team focused on video analysis instead of training. Gareth showed clip after clip of City's U18s. They didn't just win, they crushed their opponents. Their record was 8-0-0 with a goal difference of +25.
"They play like a computer program," Harvey whispered to Ethan while watching a City midfielder slice through a defense with a perfect pass. "No mistakes. No emotion. Just execution."
"We don't try to outplay them," Gareth told the team, turning off the screen. "If we play possession against Man City, we lose 6-0. We set up a low block to frustrate them. When we win the ball, we counter with speed. Ethan, Tyrell you're our outlets. If you lose the ball in transition, we're done."
It was Saturday morning at the City Football Academy.
While West Brom's training ground felt like a fortress, this place was a space station. The pitches looked like green carpets, and the buildings were sleek and modern. Even the air felt expensive.
Ethan stood in the tunnel, fixing his shin pads. The City players lined up next to them. They didn't seem arrogant. They looked indifferent, expecting to win. The question was only by how much.
The whistle blew.
For the first twenty minutes, Ethan never touched the ball.
City maintained possession with a smooth, rhythmic style. Pass, move, pass, move. West Brom shifted side to side, forming a blue and white wall to hold back the tide. It was tiring and thankless work. Ethan's lungs burned, and his legs felt heavy from chasing shadows.
In the 22nd minute, City made their breakthrough. A winger isolated West Brom's full-back, dropped a shoulder, and crossed the ball into the box. A quick tap-in. 1-0.
It felt inevitable.
"Heads up!" Tyrell shouted, clapping his hands. "Stick to the plan!"
Ethan gritted his teeth. He noticed the City midfielder marking him a boy who had already appeared in the first team during the Carabao Cup. The boy looked relaxed, hardly sweating.
I am not a tourist, Ethan thought fiercely. I am a hammer.
The match restarted. West Brom earned a throw-in deep in their half. The ball came to Ethan.
The City press engaged immediately. Two sky blue shirts closed in on him.
This was the test.
Ethan stayed calm. He used his body to shield the ball, absorbing the contact from the City midfielder. He felt the strength he had built in the gym hold firm. He didn't falter.
He rolled past the defender and spun into the center circle. He saw Harvey making a run.
Ethan moved forward. For the first time, the City defense had to retreat. He carried the ball thirty yards, ignoring the fatigue. He slipped a pass to Harvey, who shot wide.
It wasn't a goal, but it sparked hope.
"They bleed!" Tyrell shouted, punching Ethan's arm as they jogged back into position. "Let's go!"
The second half turned into a struggle. City scored again, a stunning strike from long range, making it 2-0. But West Brom didn't give up. They fought back.
In the 78th minute, Ethan had the ball again. He was tired, his muscles screaming from the effort. But his mind was clear. He spotted a gap in the City defense, a brief lapse in concentration from their center-back.
Instead of passing, he decided to charge at him.
He feinted left, then burst to the right. The City defender stumbled. Ethan was through.
Facing the goalkeeper, he opened up his body to curl the ball into the far corner. The keeper committed. Ethan pulled it back toward the near post.
The ball struck the inside of the post and ricocheted out.
Tyrell was ready. He lunged at the rebound and knocked it over the line.
2-1.
The last ten minutes were hectic. West Brom pressed forward, fueled by belief. City, rattled for the first time all season, resorted to wasting time in the corner.
The whistle blew.
Man City 2, West Brom 1.
It was a loss. But as the players shook hands, the City midfielder who had marked Ethan stopped him. "You're strong on the ball," he said, nodding with respect. "Hard to knock off."
Ethan walked off the pitch, soaked in sweat and his legs trembling. They had lost to the best team in the country, but they had not been humiliated. They made the machine sweat.
In the changing room, Gareth remained calm. "You went toe to toe with the champions," he said. "You made them panic at the end. That is progress."
Ethan sat on the bench, sipping a recovery shake. He checked his phone, no signal in the bunker-like changing room.
He closed his eyes, thinking about the shot that hit the post. Inches. The difference between "good" and "elite" was about inches.
He wasn't disheartened. He felt hungry. He now understood that the ceiling was high, but he could see it. And he knew, without a doubt, that he had the tools to reach it.
"Right," Tyrell said, sitting next to him and nudging his knee. "Leg day tomorrow. We go heavier."
Ethan opened his eyes and smiled. "Heavier."