Monday, January 12th. 09:00 AM. Julian Vance's Office.
The transfer window was open, and rumors were swirling. West Brom was linked to a loan deal for a Chelsea midfielder. Ethan tried to tune it out, but the silence from Vance over the past week felt overwhelming.
"Sit down," Vance instructed, not looking up from his laptop.
Ethan sat and felt small in the leather chair.
Vance turned his screen around. It displayed a heat map of Ethan's performance against Swansea. A neat cluster of red dots sat right in front of the center-backs.
"What do you see?" Vance asked.
"I kept my shape," Ethan said defensively. "I covered the space."
"I see a security guard," Vance replied. "You watch the building, but you don't enter it. You're playing it safe, Ethan. You're afraid of making mistakes."
"I'm just trying to stay on the team, boss."
"And that's exactly why you're leaving it," Vance said.
A cold sensation dropped in Ethan's stomach. "Am I being loaned out?"
"No," Vance said, standing up. "But for the next three weeks, you will not be a First Team player. You're going back to the U21s."
"The U21s?" Ethan couldn't hide his disappointment. It felt like a demotion and a failure.
"Don't look at me like I just shot your dog," Vance snapped. "Listen. In the Championship, you're surviving. You're a 6 out of 10. That's fine for a debutant but useless for a promotion push."
Vance walked around his desk and leaned against it, crossing his arms.
"I don't want a passenger, Ethan. I want the kid who nutmegged Danny Hayes in the rondo. I want the kid who made that blind pass against Ipswich. You've lost your confidence. You've lost your magic because you're too busy being reliable."
Vance pointed to the door.
"Go back to the U21s. The game is slower, the players are weaker. I want you to go there and dominate. Don't just play well. Be the best player on the pitch by far. Remind yourself that you're better than them. Then, come back to me."
Monday, January 19th. 13:00 PM. The Palm Training Ground.
Premier League 2: West Brom U21 vs. Leicester City U21.
It was a cold, grey afternoon. There were no fans, just a few scouts and the parents of the U18s. The glamour of The Hawthorns felt far away.
Ethan stood in the tunnel. He wasn't wearing number 48. He was wearing number 8.
The U21 captain, a center-back named Jordan, nudged him. "Good to have you back, Eth. We've missed your quality."
Ethan nodded. He felt strange. A month ago, he was on the same level as these boys. Now, they looked at him differently. He was the "First Team drop-down," and they expected him to win the game for them.
Dominate, Vance had said.
Kickoff.
The game started, and the first thing Ethan noticed was the time. He had so much time.
In the Championship, when he received the ball, a 30-year-old man would be breathing down his neck immediately. Here, the Leicester midfielder gave him two yards of space.
For the first ten minutes, Ethan played simply. Ping. Ping. Ping. It was too easy. And it was boring.
I see a security guard, Vance's voice echoed in his mind.
Ethan received the ball deep. The Leicester press was coming—a keen 18-year-old sprinting toward him.
Normally, Ethan would pass back to the keeper. Safe. Not today.
Ethan waited. He baited the press. At the last second, he rolled his studs over the ball, spun 180 degrees, and nutmegged the pressing player.
"Oh!" the West Brom bench gasped.
Ethan drove forward. A second midfielder came across. He dropped his shoulder, feinted left, and accelerated right. The midfielder slipped.
Ethan found open space. He looked up, not for a safe pass, but to make an impact.
He saw the West Brom striker making a run. Instead of playing the simple through ball, he chipped it—a delicate, cheeky panenka pass over the defensive line.
The striker volleyed it, but the keeper saved it.
Ethan clapped his hands. "Better! Keep moving!"
A spark ignited in his chest. He was no longer afraid of losing the ball. He was better than these players, and he knew it.
42nd Minute.
West Brom won a free kick, 25 yards out.
Usually, the U21 set-piece specialist would take it. But Ethan walked over and picked up the ball. The specialist didn't argue and stepped aside.
Ethan placed the ball and looked at the wall. It seemed small.
He stepped back, breathed, and focused—not on Vance or the tactical shape, but on the top corner.
He ran up and struck it.
It wasn't a power shot, but a whip. The ball curled over the wall, dipped sharply, and kissed the inside of the post before nestling in the net.
GOAL. 1-0 West Brom.
Ethan didn't celebrate wildly. He jogged back to the center circle, high-fiving Jordan.
"Too good for this level, mate," Jordan laughed.
Ethan smiled. Vance was right. He needed this. He had to remember what it felt like to be the predator, not the prey.
60th Minute.
The Leicester coach changed tactics. He put a man-marker on Ethan, a tall, aggressive midfielder whose job was to stop him.
Ethan loved it.
Every time the marker got close, Ethan used his "First Team body." He leaned into the kid, using the strength he had gained from battling Volkan Demir and Mitch Evans. He dropped his hip and bounced him off.
In the 65th minute, Ethan received the ball with his back to goal. The marker slammed into him, but Ethan didn't move. He absorbed the contact, spun around him, and left the marker on the ground.
He drove into the box and squared the ball to the winger for an easy tap-in.
GOAL. 2-0.
Shaun Beale, the U21 manager, looked at his assistant and grinned. "He's grown up."
Full Time. West Brom U21 2 - 0 Leicester City U21.
Ethan walked off the pitch. He didn't feel exhausted like after a Championship game. He felt energized.
He grabbed his phone in the dressing room.
To: Julian Vance (WhatsApp) 2-0 win. 1 Goal. 1 Assist. Man of the Match.
He didn't expect a reply. But three minutes later, his phone buzzed.
Vance: Good. Do it again next week against Southampton. Then we talk.
19:00 PM. The Matthews Kitchen.
Ethan was having dinner with his dad.
"You looked like a man among boys today," Gary said, buttering a roll. "It almost felt unfair."
"It felt slower, Dad," Ethan said, tapping his fork. "Like... I could see everything happening before it happened."
"That's the level, son," Gary nodded. "You've been swimming with sharks. Going back to the goldfish bowl is easy."
"Vance wants me to do it again next week," Ethan said. "He says I need to find my arrogance."
"He's right," Gary said. "You're a nice lad, Ethan. But nice lads don't dictate games in the Championship. You need a bit of spite."
Ethan's phone pinged. A FaceTime call from Mason.
"How was the return of the King?" Mason asked, his face covered in mud from training.
"Scored a free kick," Ethan admitted. "And an assist. It was... fun. Actually fun."
"Good," Mason said. "Because we're miserable down here. We drew 0-0 with Solihull. It was a terrible match. I headed the ball 40 times."
"How's the relegation fight?"
"Grim," Mason replied. "We're 19th now. We need wins. But I'm glad you're enjoying yourself, 'Mr. Too Good for the U21s.'"
"I'm not too good," Ethan said. "I just needed to remember I can actually play football, not just tackle."
"Confidence is currency," Mason quoted, likely from Sully. "Bank it. Because when you go back to Vance, you'll need to spend it."
Ethan hung up and looked at the highlights of his goal on the club app. The dip, the curl.
He watched it three times.
I am an artist, he thought. Not a security guard.
He turned off his phone. Next week: Southampton. He was going to destroy them, too.