Ethan woke up on Sunday morning feeling like he had been hit by a bus. A deep bruise was spreading across his left ankle, and his ribs ached where Linton's midfielder had elbowed him repeatedly. He limped down the stairs, the cost of his new "target" status clear.
The win felt good, but the bruises reminded him that every game would be a physical fight, a test of endurance as much as skill.
Later that afternoon, he met Callum and Mason at a small café in town. Mason, nursing a sore knee, just nodded in greeting. Callum, though, was excited.
"I've been thinking about it all night," Callum said, stirring his hot chocolate so intensely it almost spilled. "That was fantastic, Ethan. Seriously." Ethan raised an eyebrow. "Fantastic? I got kicked for 90 minutes while you and Mason scored the goals." "Exactly!" Callum exclaimed, his eyes shining. "They were so focused on stopping you that they completely forgot about the rest of us! That number six was following you around like a lost puppy. It left the whole midfield wide open for Mason. And that run you made for my goal? You pulled the entire defense to the right. It was like you were a magnet. It was... smart!"
Mason allowed a small, serious smile. "He's right. It's simple math. They put two men on you, leaving nine to cover the other ten of us. It's an advantage. A painful one," he added, glancing at Ethan's limp, "but still an advantage."
Ethan hadn't thought of it that way. He had just been trying to survive. But they were right. His new status, his contract with West Brom, wasn't just a burden; it was a weapon. His presence on the pitch, his ability to draw players toward him just by being there, was as valuable as his passing skills.
When they showed up for training on Tuesday, it was clear Coach Shaw had come to the same realization. The atmosphere was tense and focused. The whiteboard was full of tactical diagrams.
"Alright, listen up," Shaw commanded, and the team gathered. "Linton showed every team in this league how to play us, put two men on Matthews and try to kick him out of the game. It's cynical, it's ugly, and it's what every team will try from now until the end of the season."
He looked at the squad. "And it won't work. Because we'll use it against them."
He pointed to a new drill he had set up. "We're running overload patterns. Ethan," he said, and everyone turned to him. "Your job isn't just to find the pass anymore. You're the decoy. I want you to make runs even when you know you won't get the ball. Drag those two markers into useless areas of the field. Create the space."
Next, he pointed to Callum, Mason, and Jake. "And you three. The moment you see that space open up, you attack it. I want it to be natural. We are no longer a team that relies on one player to create. We are a team that uses our most marked player as a tactical weapon. Got it?"
They ran the drill for an hour. It was some of the toughest, most thankless running Ethan had ever done. He sprinted to the corner flag, pulling two defenders with him, only to watch Mason and Callum combine in the space he left behind. He was a decoy, a shadow, a tool.
But as he stood there, hands on his knees, gasping for breath, he saw Callum score his fourth "goal" of the drill, a simple tap-in into an empty net. Callum didn't celebrate; he just pointed at Ethan, gratitude on his face.
Ethan smiled, a new understanding settling over him. This was the next step in his growth. He didn't need the ball at his feet to be the most dangerous player on the pitch.