Tuesday, July 14th. 4:00 PM. The Matthews Garden.
Ethan sat on a garden chair, resting his left leg on a pouffe.
It was his 18th birthday.
This was the day he officially became a man. For most people, it meant having his first legal drink, a night out at a club, and a hangover lasting two days. For him, it meant a protein shake, two hours of rehab exercises, and checking the West Bromwich Albion roster to see who they were signing to take his place.
"Happy Birthday to you..."
Gary walked out the back door with a cake. It was a Victoria Sponge, Ethan's favorite, with eighteen candles flickering in the summer breeze.
"Make a wish," Gary said, smiling as he set it on the patio table.
Ethan leaned forward and focused on the flames. I wish I hadn't made that tackle against Millwall. I wish we had won at Wembley.
He blew out the candles. "Thanks, Dad."
"I didn't write 'Wonderkid' on the icing," Gary joked while slicing the cake. "Thought that might be too much for the occasion."
"Asset," Ethan corrected dryly. "You should have put 'Distressed Asset.'"
"Cut it out," Gary said gently. "You're 18. You're a professional footballer. You have a job. Just eat the cake."
4:30 PM. The Arrival.
A car horn blared in the driveway. It beeped in an annoying rhythm.
"Oh no," Ethan smiled despite himself.
The side gate swung open. Callum walked in first, wearing a party hat and carrying a huge silver balloon shaped like the number '1'. Mason followed, holding the number '8' and a crate of Lucozade Sport.
"THE MAN! THE MYTH! THE LEGAL ADULT!" Callum shouted, letting the balloon go so it bumped against the pergola. "Happy Birthday, Grandpa!"
Mason approached and shook Ethan's hand before pulling him in for a careful hug. "Happy 18th, Eth. Welcome to adulthood. It's mostly taxes, knee pain, and disappointment."
"I already have two of those," Ethan replied.
"Then you're ahead of the game," Mason grinned.
They set up chairs. "We brought gifts," Callum announced. "But first, a toast."
He opened an Orange Lucozade and handed it to Ethan. "To the comeback."
"To the comeback," they all cheered.
5:00 PM. The Gifts.
"Open mine first," Callum insisted, sliding a poorly wrapped box across the table.
Ethan ripped off the paper. Inside was a framed photo from three years ago. It showed the three of them on the muddy pitch at Eastfield, covered in grime, looking about twelve, holding a cheap plastic trophy they'd won at a summer tournament.
Ethan stared at it. He looked so small. His knees looked so sturdy.
"Look at that hair," Ethan laughed, tapping the glass. "I look like a mushroom."
"It's a reminder," Callum said seriously. "That was before the academies. Before the contracts. Just playing."
"Thanks, Cal," Ethan said sincerely. "I love it."
"My turn," Mason said, handing over a small, heavy bag.
Ethan opened it. Inside were shin pads. But they weren't the usual carbon fiber type. These were custom. The left pad had the Crestwood crest. The right pad showed the West Brom crest. And printed on the inside foam: The String Don't Break.
"Custom mold," Mason explained. "I know a guy who knows a guy. They're reinforced. Titanium core."
Ethan ran his thumb over the crests. "These are... wow. Thanks, Mase."
"You'll need them," Mason said, his voice quieter. "Especially if the rumors I heard are true."
Ethan looked up. "Rumors?"
Mason leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I talked to a scout at the Solihull game. He knows Vance's assistant. He said you're on the Loan List."
"I know," Ethan sighed, setting the shin pads down. "Vance told me. He wants me in League One. He wants me to get 40 games."
Mason shook his head slowly. "Not League One, Eth. The scout said Vance thinks League One is too technical. Too much actual football."
Ethan frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I heard he's trying to send you to League Two."
Ethan froze. "League Two?" The Fourth Tier. The bottom of the Football League. It was only one step above where Mason and Callum played in the National League. It was known for bad pitches, long balls, and defenders who looked like bouncers.
"That's... that's insulting," Ethan whispered. "I was winning derbies in the Championship. I scored against Sheffield United. And he wants to send me to... where? Accrington Stanley? Newport County?"
"Hey, don't knock Newport," Callum chimed in. "Nice bridge."
"It's not an insult," Mason said firmly. "It's a test."
"It feels like a punishment," Ethan snapped. "League Two is a graveyard. It's where Premier League careers go to die."
"No," Mason corrected him. "It's where they go to toughen up. Think about it, Eth. In the Championship, you get time. In League Two? You take a forearm to the throat. Vance doesn't want to see if you can pass. He knows you can pass. He wants to see if you can survive."
Mason pointed to the titanium shin pads.
"That's why I got you those. League Two is a war zone. If you go there and play 40 games and come back in one piece, West Brom will put you right in the team. Because they'll know you're unbreakable."
Ethan glanced at his dad. Gary looked worried. "League Two is rough, son," Gary murmured. "Very rough."
Ethan turned back to Mason. "Do you know which club?"
"No names yet," Mason replied. "But the scout mentioned 'somewhere cold.'"
Ethan laughed bitterly. "Great. Somewhere cold in League Two. Happy Birthday to me."
6:30 PM. The Kickabout.
The sun was setting, casting long golden shadows across the grass.
"Okay," Callum stood up. "Stop sulking. Time for rehab. Get up."
"Cal, I can't play," Ethan replied.
"Who said anything about playing?" Callum picked up a football. "Statue challenge. You stand there. I try to hit the crossbar (the washing line pole). If I miss, you get to throw a wet sponge at me."
Ethan laughed. "Deal."
For the next hour, they avoided talking about contracts, or ACLs, or the terrifying idea of League Two defenders. They just messed around. Callum missed the pole five times in a row and got soaked. Mason attempted a 'Panenka' with a grapefruit from the fruit bowl and smashed it against the fence. Gary came out and tried to do keepy-uppies, managing three before pulling a hamstring slightly.
Ethan stood in the middle of it all, leaning on his good leg, laughing until his ribs hurt.
For a moment, the heavy brace on his leg didn't feel like a prison. It just felt like armor.
9:00 PM. The End of the Night.
The boys were leaving now. The air felt cool.
"Happy Birthday, Eth," Mason said at the gate. "18. Big year."
"Yeah," Ethan replied. "League Two. I can't believe it."
"Look on the bright side," Callum grinned. "If you end up with a Midlands team like Walsall or Port Vale... we're only an hour away. We can come heckle you."
"I'd like that," Ethan smiled.
Mason squeezed his hand. "Prove him wrong, Eth. Go down there, be the best player the Fourth Tier has ever seen, and force your way back. That's the grind."
"That's the grind," Ethan repeated.
He watched them walk down the street before going back inside. He picked up the custom shin pads.
The String Don't Break.
He went over to the calendar on the wall. August 8th. Season Starts.
League Two. Mud. Rain. Violence. If that was his path back to the top, then he would take it.
He grabbed a marker pen and wrote on the date: SURVIVE.