Sunday, February 22nd 11:00 AM. St. Thomas' Hospital, London.
The room was silent, except for the rhythmic whoosh-click of the compression machine around Ethan's left leg.
Ethan stared at the London skyline through the rain-streaked window. The view was expensive—the Shard, the Thames—but he hated it. It was too grey. Too still.
He checked his phone. West Brom vs. Coventry. Kickoff in two hours. The team sheet was out. Mitch Evans was back in the starting lineup. Ethan's name wasn't there. It wouldn't be there for a year.
There was a knock at the door—a rhythmic shave-and-a-haircut knock.
The door swung open.
"Room service!" Callum's voice boomed.
Ethan turned. A genuine smile broke through the fog of painkillers for the first time in five days.
Callum walked in, carrying a large brown paper bag that smelled unmistakably of peri-peri chicken. He wore a tracksuit that looked like he'd slept in it.
Behind him walked Mason. The Crestwood captain looked tired—deep bags under his eyes—but he moved with that familiar, steady presence. He carried a folded Crestwood shirt.
"You look terrible," Callum announced, dumping the bag on the bedside table. "Like a Victorian ghost."
"Thanks, Cal," Ethan croaked. "Good to see you too."
Mason walked to the side of the bed. He looked at the heavy brace, the wires, and the swelling. He winced slightly, then looked Ethan in the eye and gripped his hand.
"How is it, really?" Mason asked.
"It hurts," Ethan admitted, shifting slightly. "The meds take the edge off, but... I can feel it throbbing. It feels like someone put a grenade in my knee."
"Well," Callum said, pulling a chair up and sitting on it backward. "We brought medicine. Extra hot wings. And chips. The unlimited chicken promise, remember? I figured you couldn't go to Nando's, so we brought Nando's to the cripple."
Ethan laughed. It hurt his ribs, but he laughed. "You're an idiot."
"I'm a loyal idiot," Callum corrected, tearing open the bag. "Eat. You're losing mass. You look like a cyclist."
11:30 AM.
They ate in the room. The smell of spicy chicken masked the antiseptic hospital odor.
"So," Ethan asked, wiping sauce from his lip. "What's happening in the real world? I've been in this bubble for four days."
"The real world is mud," Mason sighed, leaning back in the armchair. "We played Maidenhead on Tuesday. 0-0. The pitch was basically a swamp. I lost a boot in the six-yard box. Had to play two minutes in my sock."
"And the ref booked him for 'improper equipment,'" Callum added, waving a chicken wing bone. "Can you believe that? National League refs are a different breed. They hate joy."
"We're 17th," Mason said. "Five points clear. But Sully is back in training next week. So I might finally get a rest."
Ethan looked at them. "I miss it," he whispered. "I miss the mud. I miss the bad refs."
"You don't miss the bus journeys," Callum said. "Six hours to Gateshead with Deano snoring? No thanks. You're living the high life here. Look at this TV. Is that 4K?"
"I'd trade it," Ethan said, his voice dropping. "I'd trade the 4K TV and the contract and the money. I just want to run."
The room went quiet. The compression machine hissed.
Mason leaned forward. "We saw the injury, Eth. On the stream."
Ethan looked away. "Don't."
"It was a freak accident," Mason said firmly. "You went for the ball. You won the ball. It wasn't a mistake. It was just... football."
"Vance said I was flying," Ethan said, staring at his knee. "And now... West Brom is going to go up. They're going to the Premier League. And I'm going to be the guy who used to play for them. They'll buy someone new in the summer. Someone with working knees."
"Stop," Mason said. The 'Captain Voice' came out.
Ethan looked up.
"You're seventeen," Mason said. "You're not 35. Your body heals. You think West Brom gave you a four-year deal because they like your haircut? They know you're an asset. You're an investment."
Mason picked up the folded shirt he'd brought in. He handed it to Ethan.
It was a Crestwood home shirt. Cheap polyester. On the front, in black marker pen, were signatures. Every player. The Gaffer. Even the tea lady.
And in the middle, in big block capitals: THE STRING DOESN'T BREAK. GET WELL SOON.
"The Gaffer made us sign it before training," Mason smiled. "He said, 'Tell the lad if he gets bored of the heated seats, there's always a spot on the bench at Eastfield.'"
Ethan ran his finger over the signatures. Tears pricked his eyes again. "Tell him I might take him up on it."
"Don't you dare," Callum said. "I've told everyone I know a Championship player. Don't make me a liar."
12:30 PM.
A nurse walked in. "Visiting hours are ending soon, gentlemen. And Ethan needs his pre-op checks."
Mason stood up. He stretched his back—a distinct crack echoed. "We have to get back," Mason said. "Training tomorrow. We're prepping for Chesterfield. They're top of the league. It's going to be a massacre."
"You'll smash them," Ethan said.
"We'll kick them," Mason corrected. "That's the plan."
Callum grabbed the last chip. "When's the surgery?"
"Tomorrow morning," Ethan said. "Reconstruction. Then... rehab."
"We'll be back," Callum promised. "Once you're home. We'll bring the PlayStation. I will destroy you on FIFA with one hand."
Mason put a hand on Ethan's shoulder. "Head up, Eth. The season is over. The career isn't. You grind. That's what we do. We grind."
"Yeah," Ethan nodded. "We grind."
They left. The room felt suddenly empty and quiet again.
Ethan looked at the Crestwood shirt. He placed it on the bedside table, next to the half-eaten Nando's.
He turned on the TV. The West Brom game was starting. He saw Mitch Evans walking out of the tunnel, wearing the Number 8 shirt.
Ethan watched. He didn't turn it off. Watch him, he told himself. Watch him play. And remember that you took his spot once. And you'll take it again.
He pressed the button on the morphine pump. Tomorrow, they would cut him open. Tomorrow, the comeback starts.