Saturday, May 30th. 2:55 PM. The Tunnel, Wembley Stadium.
The FA Cup Final.
Manchester City vs. West Bromwich Albion.
The silver trophy sat on a pedestal just outside the tunnel, shining in the bright May sun. It had sky-blue ribbons on one handle and navy-and-white stripes on the other.
Ethan Matthews stared at it as he walked out of the tunnel. It was so close he could have reached out and touched the cool metal.
The roar of 90,000 fans crashed over the players like a wave. Wembley was perfectly divided: a sea of sky blue on the west side, a wall of navy and white on the east.
Up in block 104, row M, Mason Turner sat uncomfortably in a tight West Bromwich Albion shirt. He crossed his arms over his chest and tried to ignore the smirks from Callum and Mia beside him.
Down on the pitch, Julian Vance stood in his technical area. He didn't look nervous at all. He looked like a man who knew he was outmatched but was ready to fight anyway.
Opposite Ethan stood the Manchester City lineup. Joao Mendes adjusted his socks, looking as relaxed as if he were about to play a casual game in the park. At the front was Lars Nilsson, the Nordic striker who seemed less like a footballer and more like a giant made of stone.
"We stick to the plan," Liam Thorne shouted over the noise, clapping his hands. "No fear! We've earned this!"
Kickoff.
From the first whistle, the gap in talent became painfully obvious.
In the Semi-Final, West Brom had dragged Chelsea into a tough match. But Manchester City didn't play like that. They operated on a completely different level. The pitch felt impossibly wide when City had the ball, and suffocatingly small when West Brom tried to reclaim it.
14th Minute.
Ethan spent the first fifteen minutes chasing shadows. Every time he tried to press Joao Mendes, the ball was already gone—flicked away with a single touch to a wing-back or perfectly placed into space.
City probed patiently, their passing rhythm both hypnotic and lethal. Mendes received the ball thirty yards out. He didn't look up. He curled a first-time, lofted pass over Liam Thorne.
It was a pass of stunning precision.
Lars Nilsson didn't even need to break stride. He chested the ball down, let it bounce once on the pristine Wembley turf, and smashed a right-footed volley past the goalkeeper.
GOAL.
Manchester City 1 - 0 West Brom.
Half of Wembley erupted in sky-blue flares.
Ethan dropped his hands to his knees. He looked at Thorne, who just shook his head. You couldn't defend against a pass you didn't see coming.
38th Minute.
West Brom survived on adrenaline and sheer desperation. Ethan led the charge, throwing himself into tackles, trying to drag his team forward by willpower alone.
He managed to intercept a rare sloppy pass from a City midfielder.
"Go!" Ethan shouted, driving forward, looking for the counter-attack that had brought down Manchester United and Chelsea.
But City's counter-press was immediate and ruthless. Three sky-blue shirts closed in on him within seconds. Ethan tried to spin away while protecting the ball, but a City defender stepped across his body and cleanly took it from him.
Seconds later, the ball was at Mendes' feet inside the penalty area. Mendes faked a shot, sending a West Brom defender sliding into the grass, and calmly rolled it sideways to a completely unmarked winger, who tapped it into the empty net.
GOAL.
Manchester City 2 - 0 West Brom.
The mountain had just turned into Everest.
Halftime.
Man City 2 - 0 West Brom.
The dressing room was in shock. The fairytale was colliding with a harsh reality.
Vance didn't shout. He stood in the center of the room, his suit jacket off.
"They're the best team in the world," Vance said quietly. "There's no shame in being outplayed by them. But there is shame in giving up. We have forty-five minutes left in the season. Don't let this become a humiliation. Win your individual battles. Play with pride."
Ethan stared at his boots. His legs felt heavy. The winter transfer drama, the push for Europe, the deep cup runs—it had drained him.
75th Minute.
The second half turned into an exercise in damage control. City were happy to maintain 80% possession, moving the ball side to side and draining both the clock and West Brom's spirit.
Ethan finally had a moment to breathe when the ball went out for a throw-in near the touchline.
He looked up into the stands. It was a blur of faces, but he knew exactly where his friends were sitting. He thought about Mason wrapping his head in bandages to draw 0-0 in Carlisle. He thought about Callum enduring the pain of a resistance band on the living room floor.
The string doesn't break.
Ethan wiped the sweat from his eyes. He wasn't going to walk around Wembley.
He sprinted back into position. When Mendes received the ball again, Ethan didn't hesitate. He flew in, executing a fierce, clean slide tackle that sent the ball out for a corner and left Mendes on the ground.
The West Brom fans roared, desperate for anything to cheer for. Mendes got up, brushed the grass off his shorts, and offered Ethan a hand.
"You won't stop, will you?" Mendes smiled wryly.
"Not until the whistle," Ethan grunted, taking the hand.
90+2 Minutes.
West Brom managed a consolation goal. A scrappy corner led to a scramble, and Liam Thorne managed to force the ball over the line with his knee.
Man City 2 - 1 West Brom.
But there was no time for a miracle. City quickly kicked off, kept the ball near the corner flag, and let the clock run down.
Whistle. Whistle. Whistle.
Full Time.
Manchester City 2 - 1 West Bromwich Albion.
Manchester City wins the FA Cup.
Ethan dropped to the turf. He didn't cry. He felt completely empty.
The sky-blue confetti burst into the London sky. Queen's We Are The Champions blared from the stadium speakers. It was a sound he would remember forever, mainly because it wasn't for him.
He forced himself to stand up. He shook hands with Nilsson. He swapped shirts with Mendes.
Then came the hardest part, the long walk up the Wembley steps to collect the loser's medal.
Julian Vance stood at the bottom of the steps, patting each player on the back.
"You gave everything, Ethan," Vance said firmly as Ethan walked past. "Remember this feeling. Use it."
Ethan climbed the stairs. He accepted the small silver medal, quickly took it off his neck, and held it tightly in his fist.
8:00 PM. The Wembley Concourse.
Ethan walked out of the dressing room wearing his club suit. The stadium was mostly empty now, with cleaning crews moving through the aisles.
Waiting for him by the player exit were Mason, Callum, and Mia.
Mason was back in his own jacket, thankful to hide the West Brom shirt. Callum leaned heavily on a single crutch, looking exhausted from navigating the large stadium crowd.
Ethan approached them. He felt like he should apologize.
"We got crushed," Ethan said quietly.
"You lost 2-1 to a team that cost a billion pounds to build," Mason said, pulling Ethan into a rough hug. "You played ninety minutes in an FA Cup Final, Eth. Hold your head high."
"I hated watching them lift it," Ethan admitted, pulling back.
"Good," Callum said, offering a fist bump. "That means you actually care. You're allowed to feel crushed. But tomorrow, you'll wake up and realize you're playing in the Europa League next year."
Mia smiled, handing Ethan a bottle of water. "You made Eastfield proud today, Ethan. Truly."
Ethan looked at his friends. The season had been a grueling challenge. They had almost broken physically and mentally. Callum had lost his leg to surgery. Mason had nearly sacrificed his career to avoid relegation. Ethan had faced the intense scrutiny of the Premier League and Spanish media.
But they were all standing in Wembley Stadium.
"Come on," Ethan said, the tightness in his chest finally starting to ease. "I know a pub near the hotel. I'm buying."
"You better be," Mason grunted, turning to walk toward the exit. "I had to wear navy blue for three hours. You owe me a pint."
Ethan laughed. The season was officially over. It was time to go home.