July 1st, 8:00 AM.
The air at the training ground was thick with summer humidity, clinging to the skin before anyone had kicked a ball.
Ethan stepped out of his mum's car, kit bag slung over his shoulder. He looked different from the boy who had arrived a year ago. He was taller, his jawline was sharper, and his legs were defined from countless squats and lunges in the "Red Plan."
But the biggest change was in his eyes. The earlier wide-eyed wonder was gone. Instead, there was a focused, almost cynical look as he took in his surroundings.
He walked into the building. The security guard, who used to ask for his ID every morning, just nodded. "Morning, Ethan."
"Morning, Steve."
The changing room was already half-full. The hierarchy had shifted. The third-years (the U19s) had either moved to the U23 building or been released. Ethan's group—the class of '07—was now the seniors in the U18 dressing room.
And then there were the new faces. The first-year scholars looked incredibly young. They sat quietly on the benches, lacing their boots with shaking hands, staring at Ethan and Tyrell like they were idols.
"Fresh meat," Tyrell whispered as he sat next to Ethan. Tyrell looked like he had been carved from stone over the summer. His newly secured contract gave him an air of untouchability.
"Don't be mean," Ethan replied, opening his locker. "That was us twelve months ago."
"I was never that small," Tyrell scoffed.
"Heads up," Harvey murmured, leaning in. "Look who just walked in."
Ethan turned to the door. Gareth had come in, followed by a boy Ethan didn't recognize. He was tall, athletic and wore a plain, unbranded training kit.
"Listen up," Gareth said, and the room fell silent. "Welcome back. This is Kofi. He spent five years at Chelsea. He's joining us on a six-week trial. He plays central midfield."
Ethan felt a chill in his stomach. Central midfield. A trialist from Chelsea. This wasn't just competition; it was a threat.
Kofi appeared calm. He looked like a player who had been trained at Cobham—skilled, polished, and ready to take someone's job. He sat down two spots away from Ethan and nodded, but it wasn't a friendly nod; it felt transactional.
"Boots on," Gareth instructed. "Pitch 4. The Yoyo Test."
The Yoyo Intermittent Recovery Test is the tough sibling of the Beep Test.
Unlike the Beep Test's continuous running, the Yoyo allows a 10-second rest between shuttles. This may sound generous, but it lets runners go faster for longer, pushing their heart rates to the max before allowing a slight drop and then spiking again. It's designed to mimic game demands and can make you vomit.
Twenty-four players lined up at the cones. The speakers crackled. "Level 16.1... Beep."
They ran.
The first few levels were a jog. The new first-years sprinted nervously, wasting energy. Ethan ran efficiently, hitting the line exactly on the beep and saving every bit of energy.
"Level 18.5... Beep."
The pack began to thin. Two first-years dropped out, gasping for air, followed by a heavy-set center-back.
"Level 20.1... Beep."
Now, the pace was a sprint. Ethan's lungs burned, and he tasted blood in his throat. He glanced to his left. Tyrell was still there, pushing through. Harvey had dropped out.
And Kofi was there too. The Chelsea boy ran easily, his form perfect.
"Level 21.5... Beep."
It was down to three—Ethan, Tyrell, and Kofi.
The rest of the squad watched from the sidelines, hands on knees, cheering them on. "Come on, Eth! Dig in!" Harvey shouted.
Ethan's legs screamed. The "Red Plan" had built muscle, but carrying it at high speed felt like agony. He hit the line, turned, and waited for the beep.
"Level 22.1... Beep."
Tyrell dropped out, missing the line by an inch. He collapsed onto the grass, gasping.
It was just Ethan and Kofi.
Ethan looked at Kofi. Although Kofi appeared tired, sweat running down his face, his eyes were locked on the cone. He was fighting for a contract. He was fighting for his spot.
I'm not letting him beat me, Ethan thought. Not on Day 1.
"Level 22.2... Beep."
They both sprinted. Ethan thrust his chest over the line. Safe. Kofi was safe as well.
"Level 22.3... Beep."
Ethan turned. His vision blurred. His legs felt heavy, like they were moving through concrete. He pushed. He drove.
He missed the line.
The buzzer went off. Failure.
He turned to see Kofi had made it. Just barely.
The Chelsea boy ran one more shuttle to make a point, then stepped off and fell to his knees.
Gareth walked over to his clipboard and wrote something down. He didn't congratulate Kofi. He didn't console Ethan. He just noted the data.
"Water break," Gareth said. "Then ball work."
Ethan walked to the water station, his heart pounding like a trapped bird. Kofi was there, splashing water on his face.
"Good running," Kofi said, gasping for breath.
"You too," Ethan replied.
It was polite. But a line had been drawn. This boy wasn't here to make friends. He was here to take Ethan's spot.
The rest of the session flew by in a haze of technical drills. The standard was higher than last year. The ball moved faster. The tackles were sharper.
By the time Ethan returned to the changing room, he felt exhausted. He checked his phone.
He had a message from Rick Sterling.
Heard training started today. Hope you smashed the fitness. I've got a package coming to your house tomorrow. Let's get the paperwork sorted, Ethan. The club will be watching closely.
Ethan looked across the room. He saw Kofi chatting with Gareth, laughing at something the manager had said. He noticed the empty lockers where his friends from last year used to sit.
He realized then that talent wasn't enough. Hard work wasn't enough. He needed an edge. He needed protection.
He texted his mum.
Is the contract ready?
A minute later, she replied. I've marked a few changes. But if you're sure, yes. We can sign it tonight.
Ethan typed back immediately. I'm sure.
He put the phone away and glanced at Kofi again. The trialist was good. Very good. But Ethan had something Kofi didn't yet have. He had a track record. And starting tomorrow, he would have an agent.
He grabbed his towel and headed for the showers. The "Red Plan" was done. Operation "Professional Contract" had begun. And the first step was to make sure he didn't get overshadowed by the new competitor in the midfield.