The winter break had been short, but the world had changed for Ethan. As the bus rolled toward their first game of the second half, the mood felt different. The news of his scholarship with West Brom had settled over the team, creating a new, unspoken tension. They were no longer just league leaders; they were the team with the player who had officially made it.
Their opponent was Linton, known for being a tough away game. Their pitch was a muddy battleground, and their fans were unfriendly. As the Crestwood players stepped off the bus, they immediately heard the whispers from the small home crowd.
"That's him! The one who signed for West Brom!" "Think you're too good for us now, lad?" "Break his legs!"
Ethan tried to ignore it, but he could feel their eyes on him. In the cramped, cold changing room, Coach Shaw's pre-match speech was brief and harsh.
"You are top of the league. You are the target," he said, pacing the room. "And you," he said, pointing a finger at Ethan, "are his target." He indicated a name on the whiteboard. "Their number six, their captain. He doesn't care about your West Brom contract, except it gives him a reason to try and take you down. This is your new reality, Matthews. You're not just a talented kid anymore; you're a trophy. Don't let them take you out of the game."
The warning was clear. From the moment the whistle blew, it was evident that Linton's entire game plan focused on one goal: stop Ethan Matthews, by any means necessary.
Every time Ethan even looked at the ball, Linton's holding midfielder was right there, tackling late, pulling his shirt, and whispering nasty comments. If Ethan managed to turn, a second defender would come crashing in. It was a rotating, cynical, and brutally effective form of harassment.
In the 32nd minute, after a particularly harsh tackle left Ethan wincing on the muddy ground, Linton launched a long ball forward. Crestwood's defense, rattled by the constant aggression, fell apart. Linton's striker won the second ball and pushed it past the keeper. 1-0.
The home crowd erupted, jeering at Ethan as he limped back into position. He felt frustrated, angry, and, for the first time, completely ineffective. His teammates were forcing passes to him, trying to involve their star player, but that only helped Linton.
At halftime, the team sat in stunned silence. "They're not playing football," Callum said angrily, tearing off his jersey. "They're just kicking him!" "And it's working!" Coach Shaw shouted, slamming the door. "Because you're letting it! You," he pointed to the rest of the team, "are standing around waiting for Ethan to work a miracle while he's being attacked. And you," he turned to Ethan, "are letting them get in your head. You're being bullied. We are not 'Ethan Matthews FC.' We are Crestwood! Find another way to win!"
Ethan met his coach's gaze. The message was clear. He had to change, or they would lose.
He walked out for the second half with a new plan. He wasn't going to try to beat his marker. He was going to use him.
For the next twenty minutes, Ethan became a decoy. He stopped coming back to get the ball. Instead, he made exhausting runs that seemed pointless, dragging his marker along with him. He ran to the wing, and his marker followed, leaving a big gap in the midfield. He ran in behind, forcing the center-back to drop, breaking the defensive line.
It was hard, thankless work. He barely touched the ball. But the pitch was opening up.
In the 68th minute, it paid off. Ethan made a sharp diagonal run from the center to the right touchline. His marker, loyal to a fault, followed him, messing up the defensive shape. Jake, the captain, saw the space that had opened up. He drove into it and made a solid, precise pass to Mason. Mason, now unmarked in the area Ethan had just left, had time to look up. He spotted Callum's run and made a perfect through ball. Callum finished, 1-1.
Callum didn't run to Ethan; he just pointed at him, a clear acknowledgment. The tide had turned.
Linton's players, their one-dimensional game plan now useless, were exhausted. In the 85th minute, Ethan made another decoy run, pulling two players with him. He passed back to Mason, who was now wide open 25 yards from goal. Mason took a touch, looked up, and hit a powerful shot that flew into the top corner.
2-1 Crestwood. The final whistle blew on a bruising, muddy, and significant victory.
Ethan walked off the pitch, his legs aching and his ankle throbbing. He had no goals, no assists, and would get none of the glory in the local paper. But as he limped toward the tunnel, Mason put a heavy arm over his shoulder. "That," Mason said, his voice rough with exhaustion and respect, "is how you play when you have a target on your back. Well done, Eastfield."