March in the academy is known as "The Cull."
The winter mud dries up, the sun stays out longer, and the fun comes to a complete halt. For second-year scholars like Tyrell and Harvey, this was the endgame. In a few weeks, they would be called into the director's office one by one.
They would walk out with two possible outcomes: a professional contract or a release letter.
The tension in the West Brom dressing room was intense. The playful banter had vanished. Training tackles were a bit harder and a bit higher. Each player viewed his teammate not as a friend but as another competitor for a job.
Tyrell, usually the loudest in the group, had gone quiet. He sat in the corner before training with headphones on, staring at the floor. Rumors were circulating that the club was only offering two pro contracts to midfielders this year, and there were four of them in the running.
"He's stressing," Harvey whispered to Ethan as they warmed up on the bikes. "His agent told him he needs goals. He's going to shoot from the halfway line today."
"We're playing Liverpool," Ethan replied, watching Tyrell stretch his hamstrings aggressively. "If he shoots from the halfway line, Gareth will sub him off in ten minutes."
Saturday. WBA U18 vs. LIVERPOOL U18.
It was a beautiful spring morning at the training ground, but the atmosphere felt tense. Liverpool was in 3rd place, pushing for the title. They played smoothly, quickly, and without the desperation that the West Brom players felt.
From the first whistle, Tyrell played like a person on fire—but not in a good way.
He chased every ball, sprinting thirty yards to press a goalkeeper who simply passed around him. When he got the ball, he didn't look up. He kept his head down and charged into traffic, trying to outmaneuver three defenders to score the goal that could save his career.
He lost possession. Liverpool countered. Ethan had to sprint back fifty yards to make a tactical foul, earning a yellow card for the team.
"Tyrell!" Ethan shouted as he helped him up. "Stop forcing it! Play the pass!"
"Shut up, first-year!" Tyrell snapped, his eyes wild. "You don't know what's on the line!"
By halftime, it was 0-0, but West Brom was barely hanging on. In the changing room, Gareth didn't yell. He looked at Tyrell with a cool, pitying expression.
"You are playing for yourself," Gareth said softly. "And because of that, you look terrible. Scouts don't want to see a hero. They want to see a professional. Trust your teammates. Trust Ethan."
Tyrell didn't respond. He just stared at his boots, breathing heavily.
The second half began.
In the 60th minute, Liverpool scored. A smooth passing move, a cutback, and a finish made it 1-0.
Tyrell's shoulders dropped. You could see his confidence draining away. The professional contract was slipping from his grasp.
In the 75th minute, Ethan gained possession in the center circle. He felt a Liverpool midfielder pressuring him from behind. He planted his feet, used his strength to bounce the player off, and turned.
The pitch opened up.
Ethan pushed forward. He saw the goal and had space to shoot. He had scored from this spot against United before. The glory was right in front of him.
But then he noticed Tyrell.
The big midfielder had made an incredible run into the left channel. He wasn't yelling for the ball; he was just running, desperate but hopeful.
Ethan didn't shoot. He didn't take the credit for himself.
He hesitated, drawing the center-back toward him, waiting until the last possible moment to slip a perfectly weighted pass into Tyrell's path.
It was a gift, a "thank you" for the support in his early days.
Tyrell didn't need to break stride. He took one touch to settle himself, looked up, and hammered the ball across the keeper into the far corner.
GOAL.
1-1.
Tyrell didn't run to the corner flag. He turned and sprinted straight at Ethan. He crashed into him, wrapping him in a bear hug that nearly crushed Ethan's ribs.
"You beauty!" Tyrell shouted into his ear, his voice trembling with emotion. "You saved me! You actually saved me!"
The game ended 1-1. A solid point against a title contender.
But the real drama occurred on Monday.
Ethan was eating lunch when the door to the canteen swung open. Tyrell walked in. He wasn't in his training kit. Instead, he wore a tracksuit and held a piece of paper.
The room fell silent.
Tyrell walked over to the table where the second-years sat. He looked around, building suspense.
Then he slammed the paper onto the table.
"Two years!" Tyrell shouted. "Professional terms! I'm staying!"
The table erupted. Harvey jumped up, cheering.
Ethan watched from the next table, smiling. Tyrell scanned the crowd of high-fives. He locked eyes with Ethan.
He mouthed one word: Thanks.
Ethan nodded and returned to his pasta. He realized that being a playmaker wasn't just about assists and goals. Sometimes, it meant knowing who needed the ball the most.
That evening, Ethan called home.
"Tyrell got his contract," Ethan told Callum and Mason. "Two years."
"Decent," Callum replied. "Did you tell him he owes you 10% of his wages?"
"I'm playing the long game," Ethan laughed. "I'll ask for a loan when he buys his first Range Rover."
"Speaking of contracts," Mason said, his voice serious. "We have one to consider as well."
"What do you mean?"
"The league," Mason explained. "Three games left. We play Riverton on the final day. If we both keep winning, the title will be decided in a winner-takes-all match."
"Riverton away," Callum added ominously. "The last day of the season. It's going to feel like a movie."
"Just keep winning," Ethan urged. "Don't drop points before then."
"We're trying," Callum sighed. "But my legs are shot. I need a break."
"You need a vacation," Ethan replied. "Keep going, guys. Almost there."
He hung up. The season was reaching its peak. In West Bromwich, careers were on the line. In Eastfield, legends were being created. And Ethan, standing in the middle of it all, felt ready for whatever came next.