Friday, August 14th. 09:00 AM. Julian Vance's Office.
The transfer window was open, but Vance's desk phone didn't ring for Ethan.
Ethan sat in the chair, his left leg twitching. He was in shape and medically cleared. He barely passed the beep test yesterday.
"So," Ethan said, breaking the silence. "Port Vale? Walsall?"
Vance didn't look up from his papers. "No."
"Newport, then? Callum said they have a nice bridge."
Vance took off his glasses, looking tired. The failure to gain promotion showed on him. "We offered you to every club in League One," he said slowly. "They said no. Too much risk."
Ethan's heart sank. "Okay. So League Two. That was the plan, right?"
"We offered you to sixteen clubs in League Two," Vance continued. "They all said the same thing. 'He's a kid with a reconstructed knee who hasn't played in six months. We can't waste a loan slot on a gamble.'"
Ethan felt cold. "So... what? I stay here? Play U21s?"
"No," Vance said. "One club called us. One club is desperate enough to take you."
Vance slid a piece of paper across the desk. Ethan looked at the crest. It wasn't a team he recognized from the highlights show.
RIVERTON FC.
"Riverton?" Ethan frowned. "Where are they?"
"They are in the National League," Vance said.
Ethan stared at him. "National League? Boss, that's non-league. That's... where Crestwood plays."
"Riverton were in League Two last season," Vance explained. "They were relegated on the final day. They are a club in crisis. Their fans are rioting. Their manager is under pressure. They have no money. But they need a midfielder, and they are willing to pay 50% of your wages."
Ethan stood up. "I can't go to the National League. I'm a Championship player! I make £3,500 a week!"
"You are a player with no match fitness and a scar on your knee," Vance snapped. "You are not too good for the National League. Right now, you are lucky to be playing football at all."
Vance pointed at the paper.
"It is a six-month loan. You go there, help them stop the bleeding, play hard, and show me—and everyone else—that you can handle it."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you sit in the reserves for a year," Vance said simply. "Your contract runs down. You become a 'what if' story."
Ethan looked at the crest. A blue shield with a river on it. It felt like falling off a cliff.
"Fine," Ethan whispered. "I'll go."
2:00 PM. The Riverton Arena.
Riverton was a town that time—and the economy—had forgotten. It was an hour north of Birmingham, filled with grey concrete and closed factories.
The Riverton Arena was a crumbling relic from the 1980s. The paint on the turnstiles was peeling. A graffiti tag on the main gate read: SACK THE BOARD.
Ethan parked his Ford Focus next to a rusty skip. He grabbed his kit bag and walked into the reception. A bored-looking woman chewed gum behind a glass partition.
"Delivery?" she asked. "No. I'm... the new loan signing. Ethan Matthews."
She looked him up and down. "You look about twelve. The manager's office is down the corridor, second left. Knock loudly. He's probably shouting."
Ethan walked down the corridor. It smelled of damp carpet and deep heat. He heard shouting before he reached the door.
"I don't care if his hamstring is hanging off! Tape it up!"
Ethan knocked.
"WHAT?"
Ethan opened the door. The office was chaos. Papers everywhere. Half-drunk mugs of tea. Behind the desk sat Mick "The Brick" Harrigan. He was a legend of the lower leagues. A terrifying man with a nose that had been broken three times and a voice like a cement mixer.
Harrigan looked up and squinted at Ethan.
"You the West Brom kid?"
"Yes, boss. Ethan Matthews."
Harrigan stood up and walked around the desk, poking Ethan in the chest. Hard. "You're skinny."
"I've been in rehab, boss. Focused on cardio."
"Rehab," Harrigan spat the word like it was poison. "Listen to me, son. I didn't want you. The Chairman wanted you because you're 'cheap' and 'technical.' I wanted a 6 ft 4 in guy who eats bricks."
Ethan stood his ground. "I can handle myself."
"Can you?" Harrigan leaned in. "We lost our first two games. The fans want to burn this stadium down. We are the 'big team' in this league, which means every plumber and electrician we face wants to take a scalp. They will target you. They will try to break that fancy knee of yours."
Harrigan walked back to his chair.
"Training starts in 10 minutes. If you pull out of a tackle, you're on the bench. If you complain about the pitch, you're on the bench. If you mention West Bromwich Albion, you're on the bench. Do we understand each other?"
"Yes, boss."
"Get changed. You're Number 14."
6:00 PM. The Group Chat.
Ethan sat in his car, covered in mud. Training had been brutal—mostly running laps and practicing headers. No tactical setup. Just survival.
He pulled out his phone. He had to tell them.
Ethan: Loan is sorted.
Callum: Finally! Where to? Walsall? Crewe?
Ethan: Riverton.
The typing bubbles appeared and disappeared for a long time.
Mason: Riverton? As in the Riverton we play in October?
Ethan: Yeah. National League.
Callum: NO WAY. You're coming down to the mud??
Ethan: Nobody else would insure the knee. It was this or the reserves.
Mason: Riverton are a mess, Eth. They just got relegated. Their fans are toxic.
Ethan: Tell me about it. The manager looks like he wants to kill me.
Callum: This is insane. We're going to play against you. I'm going to have to tackle you.
Ethan: You can try.
Mason: Welcome to the National League, superstar. No heated seats here. Just us.
Ethan looked at the message. Just us.
He glanced up at the crumbling stadium. He wasn't a Premier League prospect anymore. He wasn't a Championship winner. He was a National League midfielder fighting for a team that hated him, under a manager who didn't want him.
He started the car. "The grind," he whispered to himself. "This is the grind."
He put the car in gear. Game 1 was on Saturday. Riverton vs. Barnet. He had three days to learn how to survive.