Wednesday morning arrived suddenly and rudely.
Ethan sat in the Education Suite at 9:00 AM, staring at a diagram of the human respiratory system. His legs ached, forcing him to stretch them out under the desk. His ankle throbbed in sync with the flickering fluorescent light.
"Gas exchange happens in the alveoli," Mrs. Clarke said from the front of the room.
It felt like a harsh change. Just twelve hours earlier, he had been sliding on his knees in front of three thousand cheering fans at The Hawthorns. Now, he was expected to calculate oxygen uptake.
"Matthews," Mrs. Clarke said, pulling him back to reality. "Are you paying attention, or are you still imagining free kicks?"
Laughter rippled through the classroom. Harvey, sitting next to him, nudged his ribs. "He's still signing autographs in his head, Miss."
"Focus," she said, though her tone was gentler than usual. "You can't pass a BTEC with a viral video."
The clip truly went viral. By lunchtime, it had racked up ten thousand views on a popular fan account. In the canteen, the atmosphere changed. The first-years looked at him in awe, while the second-years, including Tyrell, accepted him. He was no longer the new kid. He was the one who knocked out Arsenal.
But Gareth, as promised, wasn't letting anyone lose focus.
"Saturday," the manager announced while Ethan was eating his third chicken breast. "Sunderland. Away. That means a four-hour coach trip leaving at 6:00 AM. It will be freezing and windy, and nobody there cares about your free kick. If you show up thinking you're superstars, they will run right over you."
Saturday morning felt less like a football match and more like an expedition. The coach headed north, the landscape growing greyer and colder with each mile.
Sunderland's Academy of Light was an impressive place, but the wind from the North Sea sliced through their training tops.
WBA U18 vs. SUNDERLAND U18
This was the test of the "hangover." After the excitement, reality sets in.
Sunderland was a big, physical side, much like Stoke but with better skill. From the kickoff, they aimed to shake West Brom's confidence, diving into tackles and pressing hard.
Ethan felt the fatigue in his legs from Tuesday night. His first touch was heavy and bounced away from him. A Sunderland midfielder collided with him.
"Welcome to the North, lad!" the player taunted.
Ethan lay on the cold grass for a moment, thinking about the warmth of The Hawthorns dressing room. Then he thought about the "Red Plan" and Mason playing on muddy pitches for fun.
He stood up. He didn't complain.
For the next eighty minutes, Ethan played a different kind of game. He abandoned flashy passes and wild shots. He kept his head down and worked hard.
He fought for second balls. He tracked runners. He used his body to shield the ball, drawing fouls to disrupt Sunderland's rhythm. He played simple, effective football.
In the 65th minute, the score was stuck at 0-0. West Brom earned a throw-in deep in Sunderland's territory.
Ethan got the ball. He held off his defender, pivoted, and passed it to Tyrell. Tyrell took a touch and fired a shot from 25 yards. It deflected and went in.
It wasn't pretty. It wasn't viral. But it was a goal.
West Brom won 1-0.
"Professional," Gareth said in the changing room, nodding at Ethan. "You played the conditions, not the occasion. That was a mature performance."
Meanwhile, three hours to the south, Crestwood faced their own challenge.
They were away at Ashbourne, the team they had beaten with Mason's miracle pass last season. Ashbourne sought revenge, and the pitch was a muddy mess.
Callum, the team captain, struggled. The Ashbourne defenders sat deep, blocking him from finding space to run behind.
"They're smothering us!" Ryan shouted, frustrated after losing the ball again.
Callum looked at Mason. "We need to switch it up."
Mason nodded. "Go long. I'll fight for the second ball. You take a risk."
It was pure "Heavy Metal." Crestwood stopped trying to pass through midfield. They launched high balls toward the Ashbourne box. It was ugly and chaotic.
But in the 88th minute, chaos worked in their favor.
Mason charged into the box for a long throw-in. He didn't win the header, but his presence made the Ashbourne keeper fumble. The ball fell loose in the mud.
Callum didn't hesitate. He slid in, mud flying everywhere, and poked the ball over the line.
GOAL.
1-0 Crestwood.
Back on the West Brom coach, Ethan's phone buzzed.
Callum: 1-0. 89th-minute winner. Ugly as sin. We love it.
Ethan smiled and typed back. 1-0. Deflected goal. Freezing cold. Three points.
He looked out the window at the dark motorway. The glamour of the Arsenal game faded away, replaced by the grind of the league. But reading the text from his friends and feeling the ache in his legs, Ethan realized that winning ugly felt almost as good as winning pretty. Almost.
Monday was coming. The Fourth Round draw. In the quiet of the coach, Ethan allowed himself to dream of another home game, another night under the lights. But he knew that in this sport, you rarely got what you wanted twice in a row.