Wednesday, June 10th. 07:00 AM. West Bromwich Albion Medical Centre.
The gym was quiet, except for the steady whirring of the Biodex machine.
Ethan sat strapped into the chair, sweat stinging his eyes. His left leg was secured to a robotic arm.
"Push," Mark, the lead physio, said in a flat tone. There was no sympathy left in his voice. "Push. Push. Push."
Ethan clenched his teeth. He pressed his heel down, struggling against the machine's resistance. His quad, which had finally started to recover after months of looking like a deflated balloon, trembled violently.
On the screen, two lines plotted a graph. The Green Line (Right Leg). The Red Line (Left Leg).
The Red Line was still 20% lower.
"Relax," Mark instructed.
The machine stopped. Ethan slumped back, gasping for air. The scar running down the front of his knee was an angry pink line, a permanent reminder of his injury.
"82% symmetry," Mark read off the screen. "Better, but still not enough."
"It feels strong," Ethan lied, wiping his face with his shirt.
"It feels stable," Mark corrected. "Strength is different. If I put you in a tackle right now, that knee will buckle. We go again. Three sets."
Ethan closed his eyes. Outside, the sun was shining. It was the off-season. His teammates were in Mykonos, Dubai, and Vegas. They were posting pictures of pool parties and cocktails.
Ethan was stuck in a windowless room in the West Midlands, battling a robot.
Friday, July 3rd. 14:00 PM. The Pitch.
Step 4 of the Protocol: Return to Run.
Ethan stood on the sideline of the training pitch. The grass was freshly cut, giving off a summer scent.
He looked down at his boots. He hadn't worn studs in five months. They felt strange on his feet.
"Straight lines only," Mark warned, stopwatch in hand. "50% speed. No turns. No twists. If you feel even a hint of pain, you stop."
Ethan nodded, took a breath, and pushed off.
Left. Right. Left. Right.
The movement was shaky at first. His mind screamed at him to protect his leg. Don't land hard. Don't trust it.
But slowly, muscle memory kicked in. His stride lengthened. The wind hit his face.
For ten seconds, he wasn't a patient. He was a footballer.
He reached the penalty box and slowed to a walk. He turned around.
He spotted Julian Vance watching from the balcony of his office.
Ethan stood taller. He wanted to sprint. He wanted to show Vance he wasn't broken. He wanted to shout, Look at me! I'm ready!
But then he saw who was with Vance.
A tall, athletic man in a suit was shaking Vance's hand. Next to him was a player holding a West Brom shirt. A new signing. A central midfielder.
Ethan recognized him. He was a 26-year-old from the Belgian league. A powerhouse.
Ethan felt a chill in his stomach. That was his replacement. That was the "guarantee" Vance had talked about.
"Eyes on me, Ethan!" Mark shouted. "Focus on the run. Forget the office."
Ethan turned back to the grass. He jogged back, but his feet felt heavy again.
Saturday, July 18th. 19:00 PM. Ethan's Garage.
The garage door was open. The summer rain pounded against the driveway.
Ethan lay on the floor doing a plank. His core trembled.
A car pulled up. The doors slammed.
"Oi! Rocky Balboa!"
Ethan collapsed onto the mat. He looked up to see Mason and Callum in the doorway. They were tanned, peeling slightly, and wearing matching neon sunglasses they had definitely bought from a beach vendor.
"You look terrible," Callum said cheerfully, stepping over a kettlebell. "And you smell like a wet dog."
"Welcome back," Ethan panted, sitting up. "How was Magaluf?"
"Blurry," Mason said, handing Ethan a duty-free bag. "We brought you a Toblerone and a shirt that says, 'I survived the Magaluf Strip.'"
"Thanks," Ethan said, cracking a smile. "Just what I needed."
They sat on the weight benches. The dynamic had shifted again. Mason and Callum looked refreshed and relaxed. Ethan looked wired, pale, and intense.
"So," Callum asked, spinning a dumbbell. "We saw the video of you running. Looking good. Back for pre-season?"
"Running in straight lines," Ethan corrected. "I'm still months away from contact."
"But you'll be ready for the winter?" Mason asked.
Ethan looked at his friends. He hadn't told them the truth. He had been keeping the secret, pretending he was still part of the Premier League dream.
"I won't be in the Championship," Ethan said quietly.
"Why?" Callum frowned. "Setback?"
"No," Ethan said, picking at the callus on his hand. "Vance is loaning me out."
The silence in the garage was louder than the rain.
"Loaning you?" Mason repeated. "But... you signed the deal. You're the 'Wonderkid.'"
"I'm the 'damaged goods,'" Ethan said bitterly. "He told me before the break. He can't trust the knee for the fight to get promoted to the Premier League. He's bringing in experience."
"League One?" Callum looked confused. "Like... Shrewsbury?"
"Maybe. Or Lincoln. Or Bristol Rovers. Who knows?" Ethan threw the Toblerone onto the bench. "I worked my whole life to get here. And now I'm being sent back down to the mud."
Mason stood up. He walked to the open garage door and looked out at the rain.
"Good," Mason said.
Ethan stared at him. "Good?"
"Yeah. Good," Mason said as he turned around. "You sit on the bench, play 10 minutes, and act like a celebrity. League One? That's real. That's 46 games. That's Tuesday nights in January."
Mason pointed at Ethan's scar.
"You need to know if that knee works. You won't find out playing rondo at West Brom. You'll find out when a 30-year-old center-back tries to snap you in half at Port Vale."
"Mason's right," Callum chimed in, though he looked less certain. "Plus, League One is closer to us. We can actually come watch you. We won't be priced out by tourists."
Ethan looked at them. They were trying to spin it. They were trying to make the demotion sound like an opportunity.
"It feels like failure," Ethan admitted.
"It's not failure," Mason said, picking up the kettlebell. "It's a detour. You go out, smash the league, and prove Vance wrong. You make him beg you to come back."
Mason handed the kettlebell to Ethan.
"Now, are you going to finish your set, or are you going to cry about it?"
Ethan took the weight. He felt a spark of the old anger. The anger that made him tackle Norwood. The anger that Vance wanted.
"I'm going to finish the set," Ethan said.
He got back into the plank position. Mason and Callum sat on the bench, eating the Toblerone and critiquing his form.
For the first time all summer, Ethan didn't feel lonely. He was going to League One. And he was determined to dominate it.