Thursday morning, 9:00 AM, WBA Training Ground.
The quiet of the international break ended abruptly.
The car park, which had been mostly empty for ten days, was now full of sleek black SUVs and sports cars. The noise in the canteen grew louder. The "Internationals" had returned.
Ethan sat in his usual spot, eating poached eggs. He watched the players walk in.
There was the Nigerian center-back, looking jet-lagged but energetic as he high-fived the chefs. There was the Irish winger, showing a video of his assist against France on his phone. Then there was the starting Number 8—Mitch Evans—a box-to-box player who had played two matches for Wales in four days.
Ethan felt a sudden sense of shrinking. For the past ten days, he had been Volkan Demir's partner. He had felt important. Now, with the real starters back, Ethan felt like a spare part again.
"Don't look so worried," a deep voice said.
Ethan looked up. Volkan Demir set his tray down across from him.
"Evans is tired," Demir said quietly, nodding toward the Welshman. "He played 180 minutes. His legs are heavy. You are fresh. Today, you don't step back. You step forward."
"He's the starter, Volkan," Ethan whispered.
"On Saturday, he is the starter," Demir corrected, cutting his omelet with precision. "Today? Today is Thursday. Today, the shirt is available for rent."
10:30 AM, Pitch 1.
The session felt disjointed. The returning players ran on adrenaline and caffeine, while the players who stayed behind were sharp and rhythmic.
Julian Vance stood in the center, looking unimpressed.
"Quality!" Vance yelled, stopping the drill. "The ball is bouncing! Why is the ball bouncing? We are West Bromwich Albion, not a Sunday League team! Kill the ball!"
He glared at Evans, who had just miscontrolled a simple pass.
"Evans! Wake up!"
"Jet lag, boss," Evans muttered, hands on his hips.
"The ball does not care about your time zone," Vance snapped.
Vance blew his whistle.
"11 v 11. Full pitch. 20 minutes. I want to see the shape for Ipswich."
Vance pulled out his tablet and checked the teams.
Usually, Ethan was on the "Shadow XI," the B-team that mimicked the upcoming opponent. He waited to hear his name.
"Shadow Team midfield: Hayes, Murphy..."
Ethan waited. His name wasn't called. That meant he wasn't playing against the starters.
"Starting XI midfield," Vance continued. "Demir..."
Vance paused and looked at Evans, who was stretching his hamstring grimly. Then he looked at Ethan.
"...and Matthews."
The group went silent. Evans looked up, surprised but not angry—mostly relieved he didn't have to run.
"Evans, go inside. Massage and pool. You're risking an injury," Vance ordered. "Matthews, you're the 8. You'll play next to Volkan. Show me you remember the string."
Ethan joined the Starting XI. He felt the eyes of the First Team on him. He stood next to the captain. He stood next to Demir.
"Ready?" Demir asked, not looking at him.
"Ready," Ethan breathed.
10:45 AM, The Match.
Playing in the First Team was different from playing against them.
When Ethan played for the Shadow XI, he was chasing. Now, he was in control.
The ball moved smoothly. The left-back trusted him. The captain trusted him.
In the 5th minute, Ethan received the ball from the center-back. He felt the Shadow Team midfielder—Danny Hayes—pressing him.
Hayes was smart. He cut off the easy pass, but Ethan knew Demir was dropping into the space behind him.
The String.
Ethan played a quick, one-touch bounce pass backward to Demir and spun into the space vacated by Hayes.
Demir sent it back instantly—a wall pass.
Ethan pushed forward. He found space. Cian Murphy, the Shadow Team's energetic player, came flying in to tackle him.
Ethan didn't engage. He saw the striker making a run. He played an early pass just before Murphy arrived.
It was perfectly weighted. The striker didn't have to break stride. He slammed it into the bottom corner.
"Yes!" Vance shouted. "Tempo! That is the tempo!"
Ethan high-fived the striker.
"Good ball, kid," the striker said with a grin. "If you put it there on Saturday, we'll have some fun."
Saturday?
Ethan shook the thought away. He focused on the next five minutes.
11:15 AM, Post-Session.
The whistle blew. Ethan was drenched in sweat, but he felt good. He hadn't looked out of place. He had fit into the team.
As they walked off, Mitch Evans (the Welsh starter) was waiting by the tunnel, looking fresh after his massage.
"Nice shift, Matthews," Evans said, offering a hand. "Vance said you slotted in well."
"Just keeping the seat warm," Ethan replied, shaking his hand.
"Maybe," Evans smiled tightly. "But it keeps me on my toes, doesn't it? Can't slack off if the kid is flying."
Evans jogged onto the pitch for light running.
Ethan realized then that he wasn't just a prospect anymore. He was competition.
Friday afternoon, 2:00 PM, The Squad List.
The digital screen in the locker room flickered. The notification bell chimed.
Matchday Squad vs. Ipswich Town (Home).
Ethan stood by his locker, not expecting this. Evans was fit. The squad was full.
He looked at the list out of habit.
Starting XI:
Carter (GK)...
Thorne (C)
Demir ...
Evans ...
Ethan scanned down to the bench.
Substitutes: ... 19. Hayes 20. Cole ... 48. Matthews
Ethan blinked. He read it again. 48. Matthews.
He was on the bench for a Championship game.
He felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Vance.
"Bassey's flight was delayed," Vance said, his voice flat. "He missed the tactical session. I don't play players who miss it. You're in."
Vance leaned in closer.
"This isn't a reward for your haircut. This is because for ten days, you worked harder than anyone else. Be at the hotel by 5:00 PM. Suit. Tie. No headphones in the lobby."
"Yes, boss," Ethan whispered.
Vance walked away.
Ethan stood there, the noise of the locker room fading. He was in the squad. He was going to walk out at The Hawthorns in front of 25,000 people.
He pulled out his phone. His hands shook slightly.
To: Dad Get your ticket. I'm on the bench tomorrow.
To: The Group Chat It's happening. Squad number 48. Bench vs Ipswich.
The replies came instantly.
Gary: Already on the website. Proud of you, son. Deep breaths.
Callum: NO WAY!!!! The robot is online! If you get on, do a stepover!
Mason: Massive. Well deserved, Eth. We'll be watching the stream.
Ethan sat down on the bench and looked at his boots. The orange Predators had a scuff mark from the U21 goal.
He thought about the muddy park in Eastfield. He thought about the endless passing drills against the garage door. He thought about the "Vance Report" he wrote in the stands at Fratton Park.
It all added up to this.
He packed his bag. He had a suit to iron.