Saturday, November 18th. 1:30 PM. The Team Hotel.
The pre-match meal was quiet.
Ethan sat at the end of the long table in his club suit. He picked at a plate of plain pasta and chicken. He felt like he was in a costume. The tie was too tight, and the collar was too stiff.
Across from him, Remi Cole, the striker, watched highlights of Ipswich Town's defense on his phone.
"Relax, kid," Cole said, not looking up. "You're vibrating. You're shaking the table."
"Sorry," Ethan whispered as he put down his fork.
Julian Vance walked into the room. He clapped his hands once.
"Bus in ten minutes. Minds right. Let's go."
2:00 PM. The Arrival.
The team bus turned onto Halfords Lane. The Hawthorns towered over the terraced houses like a cathedral of steel and glass.
The streets were packed. As the bus slowed, fans banged on the sides. This wasn't the polite tapping of academy parents; it was a rhythmic, tribal thumping.
Ethan looked out the tinted window. He saw a kid, maybe eight years old, wearing a replica shirt with SWIFT 19 on the back.
"Headphones off," Liam Thorne, the captain, ordered from the front. "Look at them. They pay your wages. Acknowledge them."
Ethan took out his AirPods, stood up, and filed off the bus.
A wall of noise hit him. Autograph hunters thrust pens and programs over the barriers.
"Who's that?" a fan shouted, pointing at Ethan.
"Academy kid," another replied. "Matthews. Heard he's decent."
Ethan kept his head down, clutching his washbag, and walked into the tunnel.
2:45 PM. The Dressing Room.
His shirt was hanging there.
MATTHEWS 48
It wasn't a youth team shirt. It had the Premier League badge on the sleeve (the EFL badge, technically, but it felt important). It was pressed, pristine, and waiting.
Ethan changed slowly. He put on his shin pads—the same ones he'd worn at Eastfield Park. He tied his laces.
"Warm up!" the fitness coach shouted.
Running onto the pitch felt surreal. The stadium was only half full, but the noise was already louder than any U21 game. The Liquidator blared over the PA system.
Ethan passed the ball to Danny Hayes in a rondo.
"Keep it tight, Eth," Hayes winked. "Don't let the occasion get to you."
3:00 PM. Kickoff.
Ethan settled into his seat on the bench. It was a bucket seat, heated, and incredibly comfortable. He sat next to Hayes and the backup goalkeeper.
West Brom vs. Ipswich Town.
The game was strategic. Ipswich was organized, pressing high. West Brom tried to play through the lines.
22nd Minute. Ipswich scored. A counter-attack down the right. The cross came in, and their striker tapped it in. 0-1.
The Hawthorns sighed.
40th Minute. West Brom equalized. Volkan Demir won a tough tackle in midfield. He passed to Evans, who surged forward and slipped the ball to Remi Cole. Cole finished clinically. 1-1.
The roar was deafening. Ethan felt it in his chest.
4:15 PM. 65th Minute.
The second half was a battle.
"Go warm up," Vance barked at the bench.
Ethan, Hayes, and the backup winger jogged down the touchline. The fans in the front row applauded.
"Come on, lads! Give us something!" a fan shouted.
Ethan stretched his hamstrings while watching the game. He noticed Mitch Evans. The Welshman was struggling, holding his hamstring after every sprint. The jet lag and the minutes were catching up.
78th Minute.
West Brom took the lead.
A corner kick. Liam Thorne leaped like a skyscraper and powered a header into the net.
2-1 West Brom.
The stadium exploded. Vance didn't celebrate. He turned immediately to his assistant.
"Evans is done," Vance said. "We need fresh legs. We need to control the game."
Vance looked down the touchline. He glanced at Danny Hayes (the attacking playmaker) and then at Ethan (the controller).
Vance waved his hand.
"Matthews!"
Ethan froze mid-stretch. "Me?"
"Get here! Now!"
Ethan sprinted back to the dugout. His heart raced so hard he thought it might crack a rib. He ripped off his bib.
Vance grabbed him by the shoulders and looked into Ethan's eyes.
"Listen. We are 2-1 up. We do not need a hero. We need a ghost."
"A ghost?" Ethan stuttered.
"You sit in front of the back four," Vance ordered, positioning Ethan like a subbuteo figure. "You fill the gaps. If Demir goes right, you go left. You do not cross the halfway line. You win the second ball. Keep the structure tight. Understood?"
"Yes, boss."
The Fourth Official held up the board.
OFF: 8 (Evans) ON: 48 (Matthews)
The PA announcer boomed, "Substitution for West Bromwich Albion... making his senior debut... Number 48, Ethan Matthews!"
A ripple of polite applause followed.
Ethan stepped over the white line.
82nd Minute.
The game moved fast.
From the bench, it looked quick. On the pitch, it was a blur.
Ipswich was pushing hard for an equalizer.
Ethan's first involvement came thirty seconds in. The Ipswich #10 dropped into space.
The Vance Report. Don't jump in. Screen the gate.
Ethan didn't tackle. He dropped back, cutting off the passing lane to the striker. The #10 had to make a sideways pass.
"Good position, Eth!" Thorne yelled from the center-back position.
88th Minute.
The pressure was relentless. Ipswich launched a long ball. Thorne headed it clear, but it landed in "No Man's Land" just outside the box.
An Ipswich midfielder sprinted toward it, readying for a volley.
Ethan spotted it.
He didn't think; he reacted.
He threw himself in the way.
Thud.
The ball hit Ethan's stomach, leaving him winded. He gasped and fell to one knee.
But the block was successful. The ball soared up into the air.
Volkan Demir was there to chest it down and clear it.
Demir walked over to Ethan and lifted him by his shirt.
"Breathe later," Demir said. "Game's not over."
Ethan nodded, wheezing, and scrambled back into position.
90th + 4 Minutes.
The referee checked his watch.
Ipswich had one last throw-in deep in the West Brom half. They sent their goalkeeper forward.
The ball was launched into the box. It was chaos, bodies flying everywhere.
The ball landed at the edge of the area. It fell to Ethan.
He had a split second. An Ipswich player was closing in.
The crowd yelled, "HOOF IT!"
Ethan pulled back his leg to smash it. But he saw it—a chance. He noticed Remi Cole standing unmarked on the halfway line because the keeper was up.
Ethan didn't hoof it.
He cushioned the ball with his chest, let it fall, and hit a calm, curled pass into the channel.
The crowd gasped. It was risky.
But it was perfect.
Cole chased it down and put it into the empty goal.
Beep. Beep. Beeeeeeep.
Full Time. West Brom 3 - 1 Ipswich.
The Aftermath.
Ethan collapsed onto the grass. Relief washed over him like a cold shower.
He felt a hand ruffle his hair.
"You've got ice in your veins, you little maniac," Liam Thorne laughed, looking over him. "That pass at the end? You nearly gave me a heart attack. But it worked."
Ethan stood up. His legs felt like jelly.
Volkan Demir walked past without stopping but pointed at Ethan. "Good structure," Demir said.
Ethan headed toward the tunnel. Fans applauded the players off.
He looked up at the West Stand, knowing his dad was there.
He entered the tunnel. Julian Vance was waiting, shaking hands with the players.
When Ethan reached him, Vance didn't shake his hand. He grabbed his arm.
"You blocked the shot," Vance said intensely. "Yes, boss." "And you made the pass." "Yes, boss."
Vance let go. "See you on Monday. Don't be late."
Ethan walked into the dressing room and sat down at his locker. He pulled out his phone.
Gary: I'm crying in the stand. You did it.
Callum: THE BLOCK! THE PASS! YOU'RE A LEGEND!
Mason: You looked like you belonged. Welcome to the show, Eth.
Ethan snapped a photo of his grass-stained knees and his debut shirt.
He typed back to the group: 10 minutes. 1 block. 1 assist. 3 points.
He hit send.
He was a professional footballer.