The pen felt heavy in Ethan's hand.
It wasn't a cheap pen; it was a Montblanc that Rick Sterling had slid across the kitchen table. The contract lay open on the floral tablecloth, the crisp white paper looking out of place against the homey background.
"Page four, sign at the bottom. Page seven, initial the clause about image rights," Rick instructed, his voice low and practiced.
Ethan's mom watched from the stove, arms crossed. She had spent three nights reviewing the document with a highlighter. She wasn't thrilled, but she felt better knowing she had made some progress. The shark had been defanged or, at least, muzzled.
Ethan signed his name. Ethan Matthews.
"Welcome to the family," Rick said with a smile. He took back the pen and tucked the document into a leather folder. "Now, for the fun part."
He reached into a bag by his feet and pulled out a plain white shoebox with no branding on the outside.
"Adidas sent these over this morning. They're the Predator prototypes for next season. Unreleased. Blackout colorway."
Ethan opened the box. The boots were sleek, menacing, and completely black. No stripes, no logos—just pure, engineered design. In the world of academy football, wearing blackout prototypes was the ultimate status symbol. It meant you weren't just buying boots; you were important enough to test them.
"Wear them tomorrow," Rick said, rising to his feet. "Let the Chelsea boy see them. Psychological warfare, Ethan. It starts before you even kick the ball."
Day 2: Pre-Season.
The changing room buzzed with nervous energy from sore muscles. The Yoyo test the day before had left everyone walking stiffly.
Ethan walked in. He sat down at his locker and took out the white box.
He didn't say anything. He just pulled out the blackout boots and started lacing them up.
The chatter stopped.
Harvey, sitting next to him, nudged his arm. "Are those... are those the ones meant to come out in November?"
"Maybe," Ethan replied, keeping his face neutral.
Across the room, Kofi, the Chelsea trialist, glanced over. His eyes narrowed. He wore standard-issue Nike Mercurials—good boots, expensive boots, but boots anyone could buy in a store.
Ethan noticed the look. He recognized the glint of calculation. Rick was right, he thought. The war has started.
"Ball work!" Gareth shouted, blowing his whistle. "Possession grids. 4v4 plus 2 floaters. High tempo. If you lose the ball, you hunt it back. I want dogs, not ornaments!"
Ethan joined a grid with Tyrell, Harvey, and a second-year defender. Kofi was on the opposing team.
The ball moved quickly. The pitch was livelier than the day before, the grass trimmed short.
Kofi was good. Annoyingly good. He had that Chelsea academy polish—the skill to manipulate the ball with his foot, the clever passes, and the confidence of someone who had grown up winning everything.
"Ole!" Kofi shouted as he rolled the ball through the legs of the second-year defender, spinning away to keep possession. "Too slow, mate!"
Gareth didn't stop it. He watched with his arms folded, eager to see who would bite.
The ball came to Ethan. He controlled it smoothly with the blackout boots. The touch felt sharp, electric.
Kofi pressed him.
This was the moment. The trialist versus the scholar. The technician versus the brawler.
Kofi came in fast, trying to poke the ball away, expecting Ethan to turn.
Ethan didn't turn. He waited. He saw Kofi's weight shift onto his front foot.
Trap set.
Ethan dropped his shoulder, feinting a pass to Tyrell. Kofi lunged to intercept.
Ethan pulled the ball back, shielding it with his body. Then, using the explosive power Mike had drilled into him all winter, he shoved his shoulder into Kofi's chest.
It was a legal shoulder charge, but it was brutal.
Kofi, expecting a technical duel, wasn't prepared for the impact. He flew backward, stumbling over his own feet and landing hard on the ground.
Ethan didn't stop. He sprinted away, leaving the trialist on the floor, and delivered a crisp pass to Harvey.
"Play on!" Gareth shouted, a hint of approval in his voice.
Ethan jogged into space to receive the return pass. He glanced down at Kofi, who was scrambling to his feet, face flushed, grass stains on his shiny kit.
"Welcome to the Midlands," Tyrell laughed, jogging past Kofi. "We hit harder up here."
The session wrapped up with small-sided games. Ethan dominated. He didn't try to outskill Kofi; he outworked him and outmuscled him. Every time Kofi tried a fancy flick, Ethan was there to intercept it. Every time Kofi lingered on the ball, Ethan was snapping at his ankles.
By the time they left the pitch, Kofi looked defeated. The swagger was gone.
In the changing room, Ethan meticulously cleaned the mud off his blackout boots.
"You bullied him," Harvey whispered with a grin. "You actually bullied him."
"He's a good player," Ethan said calmly, putting the boots back in the box. "But he wants my contract. I can't let him have it."
He checked his phone. A message from Rick.
The Adidas rep called. They saw the training photos the club photographer uploaded. You looked sharp in the blackouts. The contract offer is being drafted. Told you. Be the Wolf.
Ethan closed his locker. He looked at his hands. They were the same hands that had made sandwiches for Callum's anniversary date on Sunday. But here, inside these walls, they felt different.
He walked out to the car park. His mom was waiting. "How was it?" she asked.
"Good," Ethan said, tossing his bag in the boot. "I think the boots work."
He got in the car. He felt a strange mix of pride and guilt. He had physically dominated another boy today—a boy who wanted the same dream he did. But as the car pulled away, watching the training ground fade, the guilt eased.
It was Year Two. The funnel was narrowing. And Ethan Matthews wasn't going to be the one pushed out.