Saturday, August 15th. 2:15. The Riverton Arena.
The changing room was cramped. It smelled of wet wool and overpowering masculinity.
Ethan sat in the corner, tying his boots. His Number 14 shirt was a size too big, hanging loosely off his shoulders. He pulled his socks up high, covering the custom titanium shin pads Mason had given him.
"Listen up!" Mick Harrigan kicked a laundry basket into the center of the room. It hit the concrete floor hard, silencing the chatter.
Harrigan didn't use a magnetic board or an iPad. He relied on his voice.
"Barnet," Harrigan said with a sneer. "They think they're special. Just because they're at the top of the league, they think they can come here and play football. We won't let them play."
Harrigan walked around the room, making eye contact with each player. He stopped at Ethan.
"You," Harrigan said, his tone low. "West Brom. You sit in the hole. If the ball comes to you, look for the channels. Do not—repeat—do not try to dribble out of trouble. If you lose it in the middle, I will pull you off so fast you'll be dizzy."
"Got it," Ethan replied.
"And put in a challenge," Harrigan added, leaning closer. "The fans think you're a show pony. Show them you're a warrior."
2:55. The Tunnel.
The tunnel at Riverton felt like a cage. Chain-link fencing separated the players from the fans as they walked out.
"Waste of money!" a fan yelled through the wire, inches from Ethan's face. "Get stuck in, loanee!"
Ethan kept his eyes straight ahead. The Barnet players looked huge. Their center-backs were built like tanks.
He glanced down at his left knee. He tapped it twice.
Trust the graft. Trust the work.
They walked out. The pitch was uneven. The grass was long in the corners and patchy in the center circle.
Kickoff.
The game didn't start with a pass but with a long ball. The Riverton striker blasted the ball high into the grey sky toward the Barnet box.
"SQUEEZE!" Harrigan yelled from the sidelines.
Ethan ran. He felt disoriented. At West Brom, the game flowed. Pass, move, scan. Here, the ball was a hot potato. Nobody wanted to hold it. They just wanted it as far away from their goal as possible.
10th Minute.
The ball fell from the sky. Ethan controlled it on his chest.
He had space.
He put his foot on the ball. He looked up.
"GET RID OF IT!" the crowd shouted.
Ethan ignored them. He spotted a pass. A slide-rule ball to the winger.
He played it.
It was a good pass. But the winger wasn't ready. He was expecting a long kick. The ball rolled harmlessly out for a throw-in.
"Matthews!" Harrigan yelled. "Wake up!"
22nd Minute.
Barnet took the lead.
A corner kick. A scramble. A short poke into the net.
0-1.
Suddenly, the atmosphere turned sour.
"Sack the board!"
"You're useless, Harrigan!"
Ethan stood in the center circle. He felt small and part of a failing team.
35th Minute.
Ethan received a bouncing pass from his center-back. It was a "hospital pass"—slow and short.
Ethan sprinted to reach it.
From his side, he saw a Barnet midfielder, a guy named Henderson who looked tough.
Henderson wasn't slowing down. He was gearing up for a tackle.
This is it, Ethan thought. The test.
Ethan didn't back off. He didn't jump.
He planted his left leg—the rebuilt leg—and swung through the ball.
CRUNCH.
Henderson hit him a split second after the ball. It was a rough tackle. Shin on shin. Body on body.
Ethan went flying. He spun in the air and landed hard on his shoulder.
The crowd fell silent. Harrigan winced.
Ethan lay in the mud. He braced for pain. He braced for the pop.
He felt a throbbing in his shin. He felt the bruise forming on his hip.
But the knee?
The knee was quiet.
Ethan sat up. He flexed the joint. It held firm.
"Ref! That's a foul!" Ethan shouted as he scrambled to his feet.
Henderson jogged by, smirking. "Welcome to the league, kid."
Ethan glared at Henderson. Then he checked his knee.
A smile crept across his face. A wild, adrenaline-fueled smile.
It works.
Halftime.
Riverton 0 - 1 Barnet.
Harrigan was furious.
"No passion! No fight! You're letting them push you around!"
He turned to Ethan.
"And you! Stop playing pretty. Get stuck in!"
Ethan wiped mud from his eye. "I'm trying to pass, boss. Nobody is moving."
"Make them move!" Harrigan shouted. "Grab them by the neck!"
55th Minute.
Ethan returned with a different mindset.
The fear was gone. Henderson had hit him with his best shot, and the knee had come through.
Ethan got the ball deep. Henderson came for him again.
This time, Ethan didn't pass.
He waited. He dropped his shoulder.
As Henderson lunged, Ethan rolled the ball through his legs—a slick nutmeg on a muddy pitch.
The crowd gasped.
Ethan didn't pause to admire it. He surged forward.
He bypassed the midfield. He saw Riverton's striker, a big guy named Baz, standing at the edge of the box.
Ethan didn't chip it. He drilled a low, hard pass into Baz's feet.
"Hold it!" Ethan shouted.
Baz held it. He laid it off.
Ethan continued his run. He was after the loose ball.
He was 20 yards out.
Shoot.
Ethan swung his left leg.
He caught it perfectly.
The ball zipped through the crowded box. It deflected off a defender's knee and wrong-footed the keeper.
It trickled into the bottom corner.
GOAL.
1-1.
Ethan didn't run to the corner flag. He turned around and shouted at his defenders.
"Push up! Don't fall back! We go for the win!"
For a moment, the Riverton players looked scared of him. Then Baz ran over and ruffled his hair.
"Go on then, West Brom. Go on."
88th Minute.
It felt like a siege. Barnet were pushing for the winner.
A high ball came into the Riverton box.
Ethan was marking a player six inches taller than him.
He used his size to his advantage.
He nudged the player in the back just as he jumped. Just enough to throw him off.
The header went wide.
"Good lad!" the Riverton keeper yelled. "Savvy! I love it!"
Full Time.
Riverton 1 - 1 Barnet.
It wasn't a win, but it stopped the losing streak.
The whistle blew. Ethan collapsed to his knees. He was drained. Every muscle ached. He was covered in grey mud from head to toe.
Harrigan walked onto the pitch. He shook hands with the Barnet manager.
Then he walked past Ethan.
He didn't hug him or smile.
He just slapped Ethan hard on the back.
"You'll do," Harrigan grunted. "See you Tuesday."
Ethan stood up. He limped toward the tunnel. The fans weren't chanting his name anymore, but they weren't jeering either. They offered polite applause.
He entered the changing room. It was quiet, but lighter.
He sat down and took off the custom shin pads. There was a deep scratch on the left one, right through the West Brom crest.
He traced the scratch with his finger.
Armor.
He picked up his phone.
Ethan: 1-1. Scored. Took a hit. Knee is fine.
Mason: Survival. That's point number one.
Callum: Did you nutmeg anyone? Please tell me you nutmegged someone.
Ethan: Maybe one.
He tossed the phone in his bag.
He had made it through Game 1.