Wednesday, September 29th. 7:45 PM. The Tunnel, The Hawthorns.
UEFA Champions League. Group Stage. Matchday 2.
West Bromwich Albion vs. Real Madrid.
The Hawthorns had hosted football for over a century, but it had never sounded like this.
The roar that echoed through the concrete walls of the tunnel wasn't the usual aggressive noise of a Premier League Saturday. It was a massive, sustained wave of pure euphoria. The Champions League had come to the Black Country.
Ethan Matthews stood near the front of the line. The bruised ego from Munich had healed, replaced by cold, hardened focus.
He looked to his right. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him were the kings of the competition. The famous all-white kits of Real Madrid gleamed under the stadium lights. These were the players the tabloids said Ethan was destined to join.
Julian Vance walked down the line, stopping briefly in front of Ethan.
"They expect you to be intimidated," Vance said quietly over the noise. "They watched the tape from Munich. They think you are a boy who shrinks in deep water. Drown them."
The referee picked up the match ball.
As they walked out of the tunnel, the iconic swell of the Champions League anthem began to play. But nobody could hear it. The twenty-six thousand West Brom fans drowned it out, roaring so loudly the ground shook.
Kickoff.
Real Madrid did not play like Bayern Munich. They didn't try to suffocate West Brom with heavy pressing. They played with a haunting patience. They kept the ball, moving it with fluid precision, waiting for the English side to make a mistake.
But West Brom had learned their lesson.
14th Minute. The Ambush.
Ethan didn't chase shadows this time. He sat deep, organizing the defensive block, his eyes locked on the hips of the Madrid midfielder, a veteran Brazilian named Silva.
Madrid tried to execute a slick combination through the center. Silva dropped his shoulder, setting up for a no-look pass to his winger.
It was the same move the Arsenal playmaker had tried on Ethan at St. George's Park.
Ethan didn't hesitate. He anticipated the pass a split second before it was made. He burst out of the line, intercepting the ball before the Madrid winger could react.
The Hawthorns took a collective, sharp breath.
Ethan was in open space. He pushed the gas.
The transition was devastating. Madrid, caught off-guard by the sudden shift in momentum, scrambled to recover.
Ethan drove at the retreating Spanish defenders. He drew them both in, eyes on the goal, faking a long-range shot.
At the last possible moment, he slipped a delicate pass into the path of Jaden Kalu.
Kalu took one touch to steady himself and fired a rocket past the Madrid goalkeeper, the ball clipping the underside of the crossbar and smashing into the net.
GOAL.
West Brom 1 - 0 Real Madrid.
The stadium erupted into chaos.
Ethan sprinted to the corner flag, sliding on his knees, yelling into the night sky as Kalu and Armando piled on top of him. It wasn't just a goal; it was a statement. They weren't tourists. They were a threat.
35th Minute.
The lead changed everything. West Brom, fueled by adrenaline and the disbelief of leading the fourteen-time champions, played with abandon.
Ethan was everywhere. He was the boss Vance had demanded. He broke up attacks, shielded the back four, and launched quick counter-attacks. He was outplaying the Madrid midfield, his ground-level grit enhancing his elite vision.
But Real Madrid didn't panic. They never panicked.
Halftime.
West Brom 1 - 0 Real Madrid.
The dressing room buzzed. Liam Thorne paced, slapping his hands together. "Forty-five minutes! We keep our shape! We do not give them an inch!"
"They will turn up the pressure now," Vance warned, his voice cutting through the excitement. "They were feeling us out. Now, they will try to break us. Ethan, they are going to isolate you. Do not hold the ball. Keep it moving."
The Second Half. The Grind.
60th Minute.
Vance was right. Real Madrid emerged from the tunnel with unsettling intensity. They increased their passing tempo. It doesn't sound like much, but at this level, it is the difference between survival and defeat.
West Brom were pushed deeper into their own half. The game became a desperate, exhausting defensive effort.
Ethan's lungs burned. The physical strain of chasing the ball against a team that never misplaced a pass was immense. He made desperate clearances, throwing his body in front of shots.
78th Minute.
The pressure was overwhelming. West Brom couldn't escape their final third.
Madrid won a corner. Thorne cleared it, but it fell straight to a Madrid full-back waiting at the edge of the box.
Instead of shooting through the crowd, the full-back delivered a perfect cross to the back post.
The Madrid striker, a player who had cost eighty million pounds, rose effortlessly above the tired West Brom defender. He didn't power it; he simply guided a perfectly placed header across the goal.
The West Brom goalkeeper scrambled but was rooted to the spot. The ball nestled gently into the side netting.
GOAL.
West Brom 1 - 1 Real Madrid.
The away end, filled with traveling Spanish fans, erupted.
Ethan put his hands on his knees, dripping with sweat. The inevitability of the goal felt crushing. You could hold back the tide for an hour, but eventually, the water breaks through.
88th Minute.
Real Madrid smelled blood. They wanted the winner.
Ethan received the ball deep in his own half. He was surrounded by three white shirts. His legs screamed. His lungs were empty.
"Swallow your ego. Just survive." Vance's words from Munich echoed in his head.
Ethan didn't dribble out of trouble. He didn't play a hero pass. He just kicked the ball sixty yards out of play, killing the momentum and giving his defense a few seconds to breathe.
It was ugly. It wasn't the "Real Madrid way." But it kept them alive.
90+4 Minutes.
Whistle. Whistle. Whistle.
Full Time.
West Bromwich Albion 1 - 1 Real Madrid.
The Hawthorns erupted in a thunderous standing ovation. It wasn't a win, but it felt like a triumph. They had stood toe-to-toe with the kings of Europe and survived.
Ethan collapsed onto his back on the field. He was completely spent.
A shadow fell over him. He opened his eyes.
Silva, the veteran Madrid midfielder he had dispossessed for the opening goal, stood over him. The Brazilian extended a hand.
Ethan took it, and Silva pulled him to his feet.
"You run hard, English," Silva said, a small smile of genuine respect on his face. He tapped Ethan's chest. "Next time, in Madrid... we do not let you run."
Ethan managed a tired smile. "Looking forward to it."
11:15 PM. Penthouse Apartment, Birmingham.
Ethan dropped his bags at the door. He was bruised, exhausted, but the crushing anxiety from the Munich game was gone. He had shown he belonged on the pitch.
His phone was buzzing.
Group Chat: The Eastfield Boys
Mason: Now THAT is how you respond to a battering. You looked like a beast in the first half, Eth. The assist was pure class.
Callum: I thought my heart would give out in the last ten minutes. They just kept coming. But a point against Real Madrid? That's historic. The group is wide open.
Ethan: I am physically broken. I don't think I can walk up the stairs to my bedroom. But it felt incredible. I actually tackled Silva.
Mason: Don't get a big head. You still booted it into Row Z in the 88th minute like a Sunday League center-back.
Ethan: Game management, skip. Game management.
Callum: Get some sleep, General. You passed the second audition. Arthur Hayes definitely saw that.
Ethan locked his phone, leaning against the kitchen counter. The World Cup dream was alive, the Champions League campaign was back on track, and the Eastfield boys were right there with him.