The bus didn't turn left towards the training ground. It turned right, merging onto the Birmingham Road. The floodlights of The Hawthorns rose above the terraced houses like glowing, metallic trees.
For Ethan, who had spent six months playing on pitches surrounded by hedges or wire fences, the sight was overwhelming. This wasn't just a training complex. This was a football cathedral.
The bus rolled into the players' entrance. Security guards waved them through. They weren't just academy kids tonight; they were the main event.
Stepping into the home dressing room felt surreal. It was vast, curved, and smelled like professional sports—deep heat, fresh kit, and expectation. Ethan found his spot. His shirt, the number 10, hung there, not tossed onto a bench but placed with care.
"Different gravy, innit?" Harvey whispered, sitting next to him, eyes wide.
"Just a pitch," Tyrell grunted from the corner, though he was lacing his boots with a frantic intensity that showed his nerves. "Grass is green. Goals are white. Let's not freak out."
Gareth entered, looking different in a suit instead of his tracksuit. "Listen to the noise," he said.
They fell silent. Through the concrete walls, a low rumble filtered in. The rumbling of a crowd. "Three thousand people," Gareth said. "Friends. Family. Scouts. Fans who just want to see the future. Arsenal are technical and pretty, but they don't like it when you get in their faces. Under these lights, on this pitch, you don't let them dance. You make it a fight."
Walking down the tunnel was a blur. The sound of studs on concrete. The referee holding the ball. The Arsenal players, sleek and confident in their famous red and white, looked straight ahead.
They stepped out.
The noise hit them. It wasn't the roar of a full Premier League game, but for a youth match, it was deafening. The East Stand was open and packed.
Ethan scanned the crowd during the handshake line. He saw his mum first, waving frantically. Then, a few rows back, he spotted a flash of red, a Crestwood tracksuit top.
Callum and Mason were there. They stood up, Callum pointing at Ethan and shouting something to those around him, probably claiming he taught Ethan everything he knew.
Ethan exhaled the breath he'd been holding since the bus ride. The knot in his stomach loosened. He wasn't alone.
The whistle blew.
For the first twenty minutes, West Brom barely touched the ball.
Arsenal were intimidating. They moved in triangles that seemed impossible to intercept. Their number 8, a midfielder rumored to be training with the first team, dictated the game. Ethan spent that time chasing shadows, his lungs burning in the cold night air.
In the 18th minute, the inevitable happened. Arsenal worked the ball wide, cut it back, and their striker finished with a simple side-foot into the corner.
0-1.
The crowd quieted. The Arsenal players celebrated with a relaxed swagger.
"Heads up!" Tyrell shouted, clapping his hands loudly. "We haven't started yet! Wake up!"
The game restarted. Ethan focused on the Arsenal number 8. He thinks he's better than me, Ethan thought. He thinks I'm just an average player.
Ethan dropped deeper and demanded the ball from the center-back.
"Yes! Feet!"
He got it. The Arsenal press came instantly, two players closing in like a pack.
This was the test. The "Red Plan" muscles versus the Hale End technique.
Ethan didn't flick it. He backed into the Arsenal number 8. He felt the contact, planted his feet, and held his ground. He absorbed the shove, spun away using his low center of gravity, and burst into the space behind the midfield.
The crowd roared, sensing the shift.
Ethan drove forward. The pitch at The Hawthorns was wide and inviting. He saw Harvey making a run down the right.
Ethan prepared for the pass, freezing the left-back, and then cut the ball back onto his left foot. He drove inside, past a lunging defender.
He was 25 yards out. The goal loomed ahead.
He didn't shoot. He noticed the Arsenal center-back stepping up to engage him. At the last moment, Ethan slipped a no-look reverse pass, perfectly weighted, through the eye of the needle.
Tyrell, of all people, had made a bursting run from deep. He reached the ball in the box. He took a touch, shielded it from the recovery tackle, and smashed it low and hard past the keeper.
GOAL.
1-1.
The East Stand went wild. It was a roar that belonged to the first team. Ethan felt the ground shake. Tyrell didn't celebrate with a dance; he ran straight to Ethan, screaming and grabbing his shirt.
"That's the pass! That's the magic!"
Ethan looked up into the stands as his teammates surrounded him. He found the red tracksuit top. Callum was jumping up and down, hugging Mason.
The game restarted, but the mood had shifted. Arsenal looked rattled. West Brom, fueled by the crowd and the excitement of the equalizer, were flying.
They went into halftime level, but walking down the tunnel, Ethan felt ten feet tall. He had stepped onto the biggest stage of his life, taken a hit, and returned one.
"Forty-five minutes," Gareth said in the changing room, his eyes fierce. "You have them worried. Now, go finish them."