May in the world of football feels like a strange pause. The grass is starting to grow back, the goalposts are coming down for a fresh coat of paint, and the training grounds are quiet again.
For Ethan, the season ended not with excitement, but with a spreadsheet.
He sat in the glass-walled office of the Academy Director for his End of Season Review. This was the same room where he had received the "Red Plan" six months earlier.
Mark, the Head of Recruitment, and Gareth, the U18 Manager, sat across from him. The familiar spider chart was on the screen.
"Look at the difference," Mark said, clicking a button.
A faint grey line displayed Ethan's stats from September, showing high technical skills but poor physical fitness. A bright blue line showed his May stats. The physical improvements—Duel Success, Sprint Distance, Core Strength—had nearly matched the technical ones.
"You came in as an extra player," Gareth said, leaning back in his chair. "You finished the season as a central midfielder. You played 22 games, scoring 4 goals and providing 9 assists. You played at Old Trafford, The Hawthorns, and St. Mary's."
Gareth paused, his expression serious. "You made it through, Ethan. We released five boys this morning. You are not one of them. You'll stay for the second year of your scholarship."
Ethan exhaled. He knew this news was likely, but hearing it confirmed felt like a weight lifting.
"But," Mark interjected, leaning forward. "The second year is different. The excitement wears off. Next season, you are competing for a professional contract. Only three spots are available for your age group. You are currently in the top three. But if you let up this summer, you will fall out. Do you get that?"
"I understand," Ethan replied.
"Good," Gareth said with a smile, finally relaxing. "Take two weeks off. No running, no gym. Enjoy a pizza. Be a kid. Then check your email for the pre-season packet. It's going to be tough."
Ethan took the train home to Eastfield that afternoon. Instead of his kit bag, he carried a suitcase. He would be home for six weeks.
The town looked the same, but it felt different. The "Crestwood buzz" that had filled the place for two years—the sense of invincibility—had vanished.
He found Callum in his back garden.
Callum wasn't playing football. He sat in a deckchair, wearing sunglasses and staring at the fence. A half-eaten bag of crisps rested on his lap.
"The exile returns," Callum remarked, not moving. "How's the pro life? Did they give you a gold watch?"
"They warned me about next season and told me to enjoy a pizza," Ethan replied, dropping his suitcase onto the grass. He pulled up a second deckchair. "How are you?"
Callum sighed dramatically. "I'm retired. I've hung up my boots. I'm going to play golf. Less running, less heartbreak."
"It's been four days, Cal."
"Four days of mourning," Callum shot back. "I keep seeing that bobble, Ethan. Every time I close my eyes. Bobble. Shin. Over the bar."
The back gate creaked open. Mason walked in, looking disgusted to see them lounging around.
"Get up," Mason demanded, kicking Callum's deckchair.
"I'm mourning," Callum protested.
"You're sulking," Mason shot back. "And you," he pointed at Ethan, "are supposed to set an example. Get up."
"What for?" Ethan asked.
Mason reached behind his back and pulled out a football. It wasn't a match ball. It was a cheap, plastic "fly-away" ball from a supermarket, the kind that swerved wildly in the wind.
"We're going to the park," Mason said. "We're playing 'Heads and Volleys.' The loser buys the ice creams."
Callum groaned but stood up. "Fine. But if the wind takes it, I'm not chasing it."
They walked to the local park—the same patch of grass where this journey had begun years ago. The goalposts were rusty, and the grass was overgrown.
They played for hours.
It wasn't serious. It wasn't "heavy metal" football, nor was it "academy structure." It was pure chaos. The plastic ball moved like it had a mind of its own. Ethan tried a volley but sent it into a bush. Callum aimed for a header, but the wind blew it onto his nose. Mason, trying to play the enforcer, slipped on a dandelion and fell flat on his back.
They laughed until their sides hurt, releasing the memories of Riverton and Southampton with every bad kick.
As the sun set, casting long shadows across the park, they collapsed onto the grass.
"You know," Callum said, staring up at the clouds, "Riverton can keep the trophy. It's probably cheap plastic anyway."
"It was definitely cheap," Mason agreed. "I saw the handle wobble."
Ethan rolled onto his elbows. "So, what's the plan for next season?"
Callum picked at a blade of grass as his bravado faded. "Coach Shaw is staying. Most of the boys are staying. We're moving up to U18s. It's a new league with bigger teams."
He looked at Ethan. "I'm not retiring," Callum admitted quietly.
"That's the spirit," Mason grunted.
"And you?" Callum asked Ethan. "Year Two?"
"Year Two," Ethan nodded. "I'm fighting for that pro contract. Gareth says it's going to be tough."
"Good," Callum grinned, his energy returning. "You play better when you're scared. Remember the penalty?"
"I'll never forget the penalty," Ethan smiled.
They sat there a little longer, watching the sky turn purple. The season of heartbreak and near misses was officially over. The trophies hadn't been won, but looking at his two best friends—Callum with grass stains on his knees, Mason looking steady and reliable—Ethan realized they had achieved something else.
They had made it through. They were still here. They were still a team.
"Alright," Mason said, standing up and brushing off his trousers. "Ethan lost. He owes us Magnum ice creams."
"I did not lose!" Ethan argued. "Callum handballed it!"
"Referee's decision is final," Mason said, walking away. "Double chocolate for me."
Callum jumped up and ran after him. "I want white chocolate! Come on, Pro! Open your wallet!"
Ethan shook his head, grabbed the plastic ball, and chased after them. Summer had begun. For the first time in months, he didn't have to worry about a schedule. He just had to buy the ice cream.