The long drive home was a quiet time for reflection. The fast-paced world of the national camp faded in the rearview mirror, replaced by the familiar rhythm of the motorway. Ethan shared his week with his mum, not as a series of events but as a mix of feelings: the initial fear, the shock of the speed, the small victory of that clever first pass, and the deep exhaustion after the final whistle. She listened patiently, offering no praise or judgment, just allowing him to process everything.
Returning to Eastfield felt like stepping back in time. Everything seemed smaller and slower. The whispers at school were now a blend of awe and endless questions. "Did you make it? What were the Premier League kids like? Are you going to play for England?" He shrugged and replied simply, "I don't know yet." That phrase quickly became his mantra.
He met Callum and Mason at their usual spot by the Crestwood training ground, which now appeared small compared to the large facilities he had just left.
"So," Callum asked, barely hiding his curiosity. "Tell me. Were the strikers any good? Better than me?"
"They were quick," Ethan admitted. "Clinical. But no one's got a finish like you when you're on it."
Callum puffed out his chest, pleased with the answer.
Mason was more straightforward. "Did you hold your own? Did they respect you by the end?"
"I think so," Ethan replied, recalling Marcus's final nod. "It was tough. Everyone was strong and fast. You had to think faster than them. That was the only way to compete."
He spent the following days in a strange limbo. He went to school, did his homework, and kicked a ball in the garden with Sarah, but his mind was elsewhere. His entire world focused on one moment in the near future: the sound of the letterbox.
Monday passed. Nothing.
On Tuesday, he raced to the door when he heard the mail drop, his heart racing, only to find a bunch of circulars and a bill.
By Wednesday, the wait had become unbearable. He could hardly focus in class, his leg bouncing with nervous energy under the desk. He felt like his entire season, the goals, the assists, and the championship, had been packed into a single, sealed envelope that was somewhere in the postal system.
On Thursday afternoon, he sat at the kitchen table, staring blankly at a math textbook, when he heard it. The familiar clatter of the letterbox.
He jumped from his chair, his heart racing. On the doormat lay three letters. Two plain white envelopes. The third was thick, cream-colored, and displayed the official three-lion crest of the national team in the corner.
His breath caught. His hands shook as he picked it up. It felt impossibly heavy.
"Is that it?" his mum asked softly, standing next to him.
Ethan couldn't speak. He just nodded, his eyes fixed on his name printed neatly beneath the crest. He carefully tore open the seal, his fingers fumbling a bit. He pulled out the folded letter, the paper crisp and official.
He unfolded it, took a deep breath, and began to read.
Dear Ethan Matthews,
Following the recent U14 National selection camp, we would like to…