Tuesday, June 15th. 2:00 PM Private Villa, Marbella, Spain.
The Summer Break.
The infinity pool looked as if it dropped straight into the sparkling, blue Mediterranean Sea. The villa, perched high in the Andalusian hills, was a stunning mix of glass and white concrete. Renting it for two weeks cost more than most people in Eastfield earned in a decade.
Ethan Matthews was footing the bill. He hadn't asked for anyone's input; he just booked the flights, sent the itinerary to the group chat, and ignored any objections.
Ethan was currently stretched out on a huge, comfortable sun lounger, wearing designer sunglasses and holding a glass of ice water. He hadn't moved an inch in forty-five minutes. His body, worn out from a fifty-seven-game season, was finally in recovery mode.
A loud splash broke the quiet, sending a wave of chlorinated water over the edge of the pool.
Mason Turner surfaced, clearing water from his eyes. His chest and ribs were marked with fading yellow and purple bruises. The pink scar above his eyebrow was healing, a lasting reminder from Wembley Stadium.
"The water is fantastic!" Mason shouted, treading water. "Come on, Galactico. You can't just sleep for two weeks."
"Watch me," Ethan muttered, barely moving his lips. "I am photosynthesizing. Do not disturb."
Sitting under a large canvas umbrella a few yards from the splash zone was Callum Reid.
Callum was not in vacation mode. He was sweating. His left leg was secured in a rigid, mechanical brace. A thick red resistance band looped from the leg of his sun lounger to his good ankle as he pushed through slow, painful isometric holds.
"Tell the hippo to stop splashing," Callum grunted, his face tight with effort. "If my electronics get wet, the brace locks up, and I have to sleep outside."
Mason laughed as he swam to the pool's edge near Callum. He leaned on the wet tiles, looking up at his Number 10.
"You're on holiday, Wonderkid," Mason said gently. "Take a break from the bands."
"Terry gave me a schedule," Callum replied, releasing the tension on the band with a heavy sigh. "If I fall behind on my atrophy prevention, I'll lose muscle. I can't start League One with one leg smaller than the other."
Ethan finally sat up, pushing his sunglasses into his hair. He looked at his two best friends.
The difference was striking. They were in a multi-million-pound Spanish villa, yet they looked and acted just like they did sitting on the curb behind the cinema in Eastfield.
"How's the new contract looking?" Ethan asked, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.
Callum paused his workout and a slow, genuine smile spread across his face. He grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
"Signed it yesterday," Callum said softly. "Emailed the PDF back to the club. Three years. Fully guaranteed. No appearance clauses. No win bonuses needed to pay the rent. If my leg falls off tomorrow, I still get paid."
Mason let out a loud cheer, splashing the surface of the water.
Ethan smiled widely, raising his glass of water in a toast. "To financial security. And to never having to think about the cost of a car repair while trying to take a corner kick."
"Amen to that," Callum laughed, leaning back in his chair.
9:00 PM The Terrace.
The sun had set, turning the Spanish sky deep shades of purple and orange. The day's heat had finally faded into a warm coastal breeze.
The three of them sat around a large outdoor fire pit. The private chef Ethan had hired had left long ago, leaving them alone with the gentle hum of cicadas.
A bottle of expensive red wine was open on the table, but they were drinking heavily iced sodas. The season's alcohol bans had lifted, but the habits of professional athletes were hard to shake.
"I still can't believe it," Mason said quietly, staring at the flickering flames. "League One. When I joined Crestwood, we were fighting not to go down to the National League. Now we get to play Sunderland, Bolton, Sheffield Wednesday."
"You got them there, skip," Callum said, his leg resting on a padded stool. "You literally broke your own ribs to do it."
"I did what I had to do," Mason said, shrugging off the compliment. He glanced at Ethan. "What about you? We saw the rumors yesterday. Sky Sports is linking you with Madrid again."
Ethan sighed as he traced the condensation on his glass. The Champions League qualification had only made the rumors about his future louder.
"David Richards is taking calls," Ethan admitted. "But I told him to shut them down. I'm not leaving West Brom. Vance built this team around me. We have Champions League nights at The Hawthorns next season. I'm not walking away from that just to sit on a bench at the Bernabéu and sell shirts."
Mason nodded approvingly. "Good. Stay grounded. The grass isn't always greener. Except at Wembley. The grass there was perfect."
Callum chuckled, shifting his weight. "We're going to get crushed next year, you know that, right? The jump from League Two to League One is huge. The strikers are faster, and the center-backs are tougher."
"Let them be tough," Mason growled, a familiar competitive fire lighting up his eyes. "They think they're hard just because they have bigger stadiums? I'll show them what a Tuesday night in Eastfield does to a man."
Ethan looked at both of them. They were battered and scarred, facing an enormous challenge next season, but they were completely fearless.
His phone buzzed on the glass table.
It was a message.
Message from: Lorenzo Rossi
Enjoy the sun, English. But rest the engine. The Champions League requires a full tank, and I will not run for both of us next year. Ciao.
Ethan smiled and turned his screen so Mason and Callum could read it.
"He's right," Ethan said, locking the phone. "The holiday is nice. The villa is incredible. But I'm already missing the mud."
"Give it three weeks," Callum groaned, glancing at his metal brace. "By day two of pre-season, when we're running hill sprints until we throw up, you'll be begging to come back to Marbella."
"Probably," Mason laughed, standing up and stretching his large, bruised body. "But until then, I'm going back in the pool. Wonderkid, grab your stopwatch. I want to see how long I can hold my breath."
Ethan watched Mason dive back into the water while Callum picked up his phone to time him, immediately shouting at Mason that he was cheating by keeping his mouth above the waterline.
The pressure of the media, the tough rehab, the daunting reality of the upcoming season—all of it faded into the warm Spanish night. For the next two weeks, they weren't elite athletes or local heroes. They were just the Eastfield boys.