The second half wasn't just a football match, it was an invasion.
Arsenal, stung by the equalizer and scolded by their coaches, came out with a fierce intensity. They didn't just want to win; they aimed to make a statement. They camped in West Brom's half, moving the ball so fast that it made Ethan dizzy.
For twenty minutes, West Brom struggled to breathe. They were pinned back, defending their penalty box like a castle under siege. Ethan wasn't playing as a number 10 anymore, he was a defensive midfielder, a left-back, clearing the ball at every opportunity.
In the 62nd minute, Arsenal's number 8, who thought he was too talented for this field, danced past Tyrell and unleashed a powerful shot.
CLANG.
The ball hit the crossbar, echoing like a gunshot throughout the stadium. The crowd collectively gasped.
"Wake up!" Gareth yelled from the technical area, his neck veins bulging. "Get out! Squeeze the pitch!"
Ethan wiped sweat from his eyes. His legs burned, the lactic acid weighing them down. He glanced at the clock. 65 minutes. 1-1. They just had to hold on.
But holding on wasn't enough. Not tonight.
In the 75th minute, the game opened up. Arsenal, hungry for a winner, surged forward. West Brom cleared a corner, and suddenly, the ball landed at Ethan's feet near his box.
He was surrounded. Three Arsenal players closed in on him.
Panic whispered in his mind. Clear the ball.
"No," his instinct replied. "Play."
Ethan didn't boot it away. He dropped his shoulder, let the ball run across his body, and spun 180 degrees, leaving the first Arsenal player tackling nothing but air. The crowd erupted, a sudden wave of belief.
Ethan looked up. He saw open space. He charged toward it.
He carried the ball thirty yards, then forty. His lungs screamed, but he refused to slow down. The Arsenal number 8 chased him, closing the distance.
Ethan sensed the presence behind him and anticipated the challenge. He waited.
Just as he neared the final third, twenty-five yards from the goal, he felt contact. A clip on his heels. A shove in the back.
Ethan could have stayed on his feet. He was strong enough. But he was smart enough to understand the game. He let his momentum carry him down, crashing to the turf right in front of the referee.
Whistle.
Foul. Yellow card for the Arsenal number 8. Free kick to West Brom in a dangerous area.
Ethan lay on the grass for a moment, catching his breath, staring at the floodlights. He heard cheers from the East Stand. He rolled over and stood up.
Tyrell was there immediately, grabbing the ball. "I'll take it," the big midfielder said, adrenaline pumping. "I'll smash it."
Ethan placed a hand on the ball. "No," he said, staying calm despite his racing heartbeat. "The wall is too tall. You'll hit them. I'm taking it."
Tyrell studied him, recognizing the look in Ethan's eyes, the same one he had seen before the pass in the first half. Tyrell nodded and stepped back. "Put it on a plate, Eastfield."
Ethan set the ball down. He looked at the goal, then at the Arsenal wall, four tall, imposing defenders.
Next, he glanced past the goal into the stands. He spotted the red tracksuit. Callum leaned over the barrier, shouting something, pointing at the top corner. Mason stood next to him, arms folded and watching intently.
Ethan took three steps back. The stadium went silent. The only sounds were the wind and the referee's whistle.
He didn't shoot immediately. He noticed movement at the back post. Their center-back, a towering player named Kieran, was peeling off his marker.
Ethan ran up. He wrapped his foot around the ball, sending it with fierce pace and curl.
It wasn't a shot, it was a cross.
The ball soared over the wall, dipping sharply. The Arsenal keeper stepped forward, hesitated, and then scrambled back. It was too late.
Kieran rose up. He met the ball six yards out, powering a header that slammed into the ground and bounced high into the net.
GOAL.
2-1 West Brom.
The noise was overwhelming. It wasn't just a cheer; it was a wave of energy. Kieran sprinted to the corner flag, but Ethan didn't follow right away. He turned to the stands, found his friends, and punched the air, releasing pure, unfiltered passion.
The last five minutes flew by in a blur of desperate defending, time-wasting, and grit. When the referee finally blew the full-time whistle, Ethan dropped to his knees.
They had done it. They had beaten Arsenal at The Hawthorns.
The post-match scenes were chaotic. Ethan hugged everyone. Tyrell, Harvey, and Gareth. Then, he broke from the squad and ran to the side of the pitch where the East Stand met the tunnel.
Security guards tried to stop him, but he waved them off.
Callum and Mason were there, leaning over the advertising hoardings. Callum was practically vibrating.
"You beauty!" Callum shouted, grabbing Ethan's hand and pulling him into a half-hug over the barrier. "That ball! That was a missile! I told everyone! I said, 'Watch this, that's my mate!'"
Mason reached over, gripping Ethan's shoulder firmly. "You played a man's game tonight, Ethan," he said, serious amid the noise. "You took hits and kept going. You belonged out there."
Ethan glanced at them, his past and anchor, then back at the pitch where his teammates celebrated, his future.
"I couldn't have done it without the 'Red Plan,'" Ethan laughed, breathless. "Or without you two watching."
"Get in there," Callum said, gently pushing him back toward the tunnel. "Go celebrate. You're the King of the Hawthorns tonight."
Ethan jogged back to the tunnel as applause rained down on him. He felt ten feet tall. He had stepped onto the biggest stage, taken the hits, created the moment, and emerged victorious. The Academy was tough, brutal, and lonely, but nights like this? Nights like this made it all worthwhile.