Monday, May 25th. 4:55 PM. Wembley Stadium.
The Championship Playoff Final. West Bromwich Albion 0 - 1 Southampton.
The final whistle didn't sound like a whistle. In the vast bowl of Wembley, it sounded like a guillotine dropping.
Ethan sat in the Royal Box, wearing his club suit, with his crutches resting against his good leg.
Below him, the Southampton players rushed towards their fans, disappearing into a cloud of red smoke. They were heading to the Premier League. The £180 million game was theirs.
On the field, the West Brom players collapsed. Mitch Evans lay face down in the center circle. Liam Thorne, the captain, stood with his hands on his hips, staring off into space, watching the Southampton players celebrate with champagne.
Ethan felt a wave of sickness. If he hadn't injured his knee, would he have been there? If he had been playing, would he have made that tackle in the 88th minute to prevent the goal?
"Come on," a steward said quietly. "We need to clear the box."
Ethan grabbed his crutches and pushed himself up. He looked down one last time. He saw Julian Vance by the dugout. The manager wasn't moving. He looked like a statue made of grey stone.
They had finished 3rd. They had missed automatic promotion by one point. And now, they had lost everything.
West Bromwich Albion were still a Championship club.
Wednesday, May 27th. 09:00 AM. Julian Vance's Office.
The training ground felt dead. The car park was empty; most players had already left for Dubai or Ibiza to escape their disappointment.
Ethan hobbled down the corridor. The cleaning staff kept their eyes down. The failure hung in the air like damp rot.
Ethan knocked on the door.
"Enter."
Vance was packing a box. Books. Tactical folders. A framed photo of the team.
"Are... are you leaving, boss?" Ethan asked, panic rising in his chest.
Vance looked up. He appeared ten years older than in February. His eyes were bloodshot.
"No. I'm staying. The board has given me one more year. But I'm getting rid of the failure. I don't want to look at memories of this season."
Vance pointed to a chair. "Sit."
Ethan sat down. His leg brace squeaked against the leather.
"How is the knee?" Vance asked.
"Good. Dr. Patel says I'm ahead of schedule with the flexion. I'll be running by August. Contact by October."
Vance nodded. He paused packing and leaned against the desk.
"Ethan, we need to talk about next season."
"I'll be ready," Ethan said quickly. "October. I can be like a new signing for the winter push."
Vance raised a hand. "Stop."
Silence filled the room.
"Next season," Vance began, his voice flat, "is not a football season. It's a fight for survival. The club gambled on promotion. We lost. The parachute payments are smaller. The budget will be cut. We have to sell players."
Vance looked Ethan in the eye.
"I can't carry passengers. And I can't carry rehab projects."
Ethan felt a chill. "I'm not a passenger."
"You are a 17-year-old with a reconstructed knee who hasn't played football in six months," Vance said bluntly. "I can't put the pressure of a promotion chase on you. If I play you and you get hurt, your career could be over. If I play you when you're rusty, I lose my job."
Vance sighed.
"When you're fit... I'm sending you on loan."
Ethan blinked. The words hit him harder than a tackle at Millwall. "Loan? But... I signed the contract. You said I was the future."
"You are the future," Vance insisted. "But that future isn't next season. I need guarantees. I need players who can handle 46 games of tough football."
Vance walked around the desk.
"I've talked to the Loan Manager. We're looking at League One. Maybe a top League Two side. Somewhere physical. Somewhere you can play every Tuesday and Saturday."
"League One?" Ethan's voice cracked. "I was winning derbies in the Championship."
"That was before the injury," Vance said gently. "Now, you have to prove the knee works. You have to show you're not afraid of the tackle. You can't do that here, sitting on my bench, playing just 10 minutes here and there."
Vance placed a hand on Ethan's shoulder.
"Go away. Get fit. Go to a club where you can be the main man again. Play 40 games. Get knocked down. Get back up. Show me you're ready."
"And if I do?"
"Then you come back," Vance said. "And you take the Number 8 shirt for real. But not before."
11:00 AM. The Car Park.
Gary was waiting in the car. He saw Ethan's face as he hobbled out of the building.
"What did he say?" Gary asked, opening the door. "Did he wish you a good summer?"
Ethan tossed his crutches into the back seat. He sat down and stared at the dashboard.
"He's loaning me out," Ethan whispered.
"What?"
"League One. Maybe League Two. He says he can't trust the knee for the promotion push."
Gary gripped the steering wheel. "But you're their best prospect! You just signed a four-year deal!"
"Doesn't matter," Ethan said, bitterness seeping into his voice. "We didn't go up. The panic button has been pressed. I'm just an asset now, Dad. An asset that needs to be tested."
Ethan looked back at the training ground, the place he had dreamed of conquering.
"I thought I'd made it," Ethan said. "I thought I was a West Brom player."
"You are," Gary said firmly.
"No," Ethan shook his head. "Next season, I'm going to be playing for... I don't know. Shrewsbury? Port Vale? While West Brom try to reach the Premier League without me."
He pulled out his phone. Mason: Gutted about Wembley, Eth. How's the mood?
Ethan typed a reply, hesitating over the screen.
Wembley was bad. This is worse. I'm being exiled.
He deleted it. He couldn't tell them yet. It made it too real.
"Just drive, Dad," Ethan said. "I want to go home."