Tuesday, February 17th. 7:45 PM. The Den.
Millwall vs. West Bromwich Albion.
Some stadiums intimidate because of their size, but The Den is different. It feels tight, hostile, and loud in a personal way.
"They will try to rattle you," Volkan Demir warned Ethan in the tunnel. "Don't react. Play the ball. Ignore the noise."
Ethan nodded, jumping up and down to keep warm. He felt good. He felt valuable. The new contract had settled his mind. He wasn't playing for his future anymore; he was playing for the title.
West Brom was on a roll. They had three wins in a row. They were two points behind Leeds. Automatic promotion was within reach.
Kickoff.
Millwall played just as expected: long balls, elbows, and late tackles.
In the 10th minute, Ethan received a pass and immediately got clattered from behind. "Get up, soft lad!" a fan shouted from the front row.
Ethan got up. He didn't smile. He dusted himself off and demanded the ball again.
25th Minute.
West Brom took the lead. Ethan started the move. He intercepted a loose pass, drove through midfield, and played a sharp one-two with Danny Hayes. Instead of shooting, he slid the ball wide to the winger, who crossed for Remi Cole. GOAL. 0-1 West Brom.
Ethan pumped his fist. He was controlling the game in one of the most challenging stadiums in the country. He felt unbeatable.
38th Minute.
The ball broke loose in the center circle. It was a 50/50.
Ethan saw it. He noticed the Millwall midfielder, a heavy-set enforcer, sprinting toward it.
Vance: I want the arrogance.
Ethan didn't hold back. He accelerated. He reached the ball just a split second early. He poked it past the midfielder.
He planted his right foot to pivot and chase the ball.
At that moment, the Millwall player arrived. He didn't mean to hurt Ethan. He was just late. His momentum carried his 90 kg frame straight into the side of Ethan's planted knee.
There was a sound. A sickening pop, louder than the crowd.
Ethan's knee buckled inward.
He didn't scream at first. He hit the ground, rolling and clutching his leg. Then the pain hit. It wasn't just an ache. It was a sharp bolt of lightning shooting up his thigh and down to his ankle.
"AAAAHH!"
The scream pierced the night air.
Volkan Demir was there instantly. He saw Ethan's face—pale, eyes wide with fear—and waved frantically at the bench. "Medic! Now! NOW!"
The referee blew the whistle, stopping play. The Millwall player stood over Ethan, hands on his head, looking horrified. "I slipped. I swear I slipped."
Liam Thorne ran over. He looked at Ethan's leg, then looked away, grimacing.
Ethan tried to move his leg. He couldn't. It felt disconnected. "My knee," Ethan gasped, tears streaming down his face and mixing with the mud. "Volkan, my knee."
"Don't look at it," Demir said, kneeling beside him and blocking his view. "Look at me. Breathe. Squeeze my hand."
Ethan squeezed. He held on so tightly his knuckles turned white. "It popped," Ethan sobbed. "I heard it pop."
The physios arrived. They didn't spray a magic sponge. They didn't ask him to stand. They signaled for the stretcher.
The Den fell silent. Even the Millwall fans, known for their ruthlessness, went quiet. They recognized a serious injury when they saw one.
They lifted Ethan onto the stretcher. He strapped his head down and covered his eyes with his hands.
As he was carried off, a ripple of applause spread around the stadium. Ethan didn't hear it. All he could hear was the sound of the pop replaying in his head.
9:30 PM. St. Thomas' Hospital, London.
The waiting room smelled of antiseptic and coffee.
Gary Matthews sat in a plastic chair, staring at the floor. He still wore his West Brom scarf. Rick Sterling paced the corridor, talking on the phone.
"I don't care what the scan says yet," Rick hissed into his AirPods. "Cancel the Adidas shoot. Cancel the podcast. Just clear the schedule."
Julian Vance walked in, still wearing his club tracksuit, soaked from the rain on the touchline. He had come straight from the coach.
"Gary," Vance said softly.
"Did we win?" Gary looked up.
"2-1," Vance said. "We held on. But that doesn't matter."
A doctor emerged from the double doors. He looked tired.
"Family of Ethan Matthews?"
Gary stood up. Rick hung up the phone. Vance stepped forward.
"I'm his father," Gary said.
"Ethan is comfortable," the doctor said. "We've given him strong pain relief. The MRI confirms what we suspected on the pitch."
The doctor took a breath.
"It's a complete rupture of the anterior cruciate ligament. There is also some damage to the meniscus."
Gary closed his eyes.
"How long?" Rick asked sharply.
"He will need reconstructive surgery," the doctor explained. "Once the swelling goes down. Likely next week. Recovery time for an elite athlete..."
The doctor looked at Vance.
"...Nine to twelve months."
Vance nodded slowly. He understood. "His season is over," Vance said.
"Yes," the doctor replied. "And the start of the next one."
10:00 PM. Ethan's Room.
Ethan lay in bed, his leg elevated and encased in a heavy brace. He looked small. The "First Team arrogance" was gone. He looked like a 17-year-old boy who wanted his mom.
Vance walked in first.
"Boss," Ethan croaked. "Did we win?"
"We won," Vance said. He stood at the end of the bed. He didn't offer false comfort. "It is the ACL, Ethan."
Ethan stared at the ceiling tiles. "Nine months?"
"Maybe less. Maybe more. It doesn't matter. The calendar is not your enemy right now. Your knee is."
Vance gripped the end of the bedrail.
"You have a contract. You have the best medical team in the country. You are a West Bromwich Albion player. We do not leave our wounded behind. You will come back."
"I was flying," Ethan whispered, a tear escaping his eye. "I was finally flying."
"And you will fly again," Vance said fiercely. "But first, you must heal. I will see you back in Birmingham."
Vance left.
Gary walked in. He sat on the edge of the bed and hugged his son. Ethan finally let go. He cried into his dad's shoulder, the pain of the injury mixing with the heartbreak of lost dreams.
Wednesday Morning. 09:00 AM. The Group Chat.
Ethan woke up in the hospital room. His leg throbbed. He picked up his phone. It had 40 messages.
He ignored the ones from fans and distant relatives. He opened the chat.
Ethan: ACL. Ruptured. Out for the year.
He watched the typing bubbles appear instantly.
Callum: No. No way.
Mason: I'm so sorry, Eth. I felt sick watching it on the app.
Ethan: They're operating next week. Vance says 9 months.
Callum: We're coming to see you. As soon as you're back in Eastfield.
Mason: It's just a setback, Eth. A big one, but just a setback. You've got the contract. You've got the time.
Ethan: West Brom are going to the Premier League without me.
That thought hurt the most. He had helped them get there. He had scored the winner against Sheffield United. He had won the derby. But when they lifted the trophy in May, he would be watching from the stands on crutches.
Rick Sterling (Private Message): Spoke to the club. The contract is fully insured. Wages continue at 100%. Focus on rehab. We build the "Comeback King" narrative starting today.
Ethan put the phone down. He didn't care about the narrative.
He looked at his leg. Yesterday, it had been a finely tuned instrument worth millions. Today, it was a broken object.
He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, praying that when he woke up, he hadn't heard the pop.