The changing room of the Crestwood Senior Squad did not smell like the academy.
The academy smelled of expensive deodorant, hair gel, and freshly washed synthetic fabric. The Senior changing room smelled of Deep Heat, damp mold, unwashed towels, and overwhelming masculinity.
Callum and Mason sat in a corner, squeezed onto a wooden bench that was losing its paint. They were the only ones wearing the official training kit correctly. Everyone else, men in their late twenties and thirties, wore a mix of cut-off socks, faded undershirts, and boots that looked like they had seen better days.
"Look at the nursery," a booming voice said.
A giant of a man walked in. He was shirtless, showing off a torso covered in scars and tattoos. This was "Sully," Steve Sullivan. He was 34, had played 200 games in League One, and was now the club captain and center-back. His thighs were as thick as tree trunks.
"You two," Sully grunted, pointing with a finger wrapped in tape. "You're sitting in my spot."
Callum jumped up right away. "Sorry. Sorry, mate."
"Sir," Sully corrected, deadpan. Then he grinned, revealing a missing molar. "I'm kidding. Sit down. Just don't take my shampoo."
Mason didn't jump. He just shifted slightly to the left and met Sully's gaze. "We were told to sit here by the kit man."
Sully assessed Mason, noting his jawline, broad shoulders, and lack of fear. "Fair enough," Sully muttered. "You're the center half, right? The one who likes to tackle?"
"I don't mind one," Mason replied.
"Good." Sully slapped him on the shoulder, hard enough to sting. "Because tonight, you'll be marking Deano. And Deano had a fight with his girlfriend this morning. He's angry."
Training started under the floodlights. The National League standard was a shock. It wasn't the technical perfection of Ethan's world; it was about quick thinking and tough contact.
They began with a rondo.
In the academy, a rondo was about keeping possession. Here, it was about humiliation. If you lost the ball, you went to the middle. If you were in the middle, the circle closed in, the passes got sharper, and the insults got louder.
"Faster, Bieber!" a midfielder shouted as Callum chased the ball. "My grandma moves quicker than that!"
Callum lunged for an interception. The veteran midfielder didn't pass; he rolled his foot over the ball, nutmegged Callum, and laughed as Callum slipped on the wet grass.
"Get him a map!" someone yelled.
Callum scrambled to his feet, face burning red. He glanced at Mason, who was wrestling with a striker holding him off with one arm like he was a child.
Next came the practice match. First XI vs. Reserves/Trialists.
Callum and Mason were on the Reserves team (the "bibs").
"Right," The Gaffer shouted from the touchline with a cup of tea. "11 v 11. Full pitch. Winner stays on for Saturday. Loser runs sprints."
The whistle blew.
Callum lined up at right wing. His opponent was the left-back, a guy named Gaz who had calves like cannonballs.
Callum received the ball wide. He saw Gaz approaching. In the U18s, he would drop a shoulder, do a step-over, and go past.
He tried it. He dropped the shoulder.
Gaz didn't buy it. He didn't even slow down. He stepped across, planted his forearm into Callum's chest, and ran right through him.
Callum went flying. He hit the ground hard, winded. The ball rolled away.
"Foul!" Callum gasped, looking at The Gaffer.
"Get up!" The Gaffer screamed. "This isn't school! He won the ball!"
Callum lay there for a moment, his ribs throbbing. He realized then that speed didn't matter if you weren't strong enough to stay on your feet.
Meanwhile, Mason was in trouble.
He was marking Deano. Deano was 31, slow, and cynical. Every time the ball came near, Deano did something the referee couldn't see. He pinched Mason's arm, stepped on his toes, and dug his elbow into Mason's solar plexus.
"You're soft," Deano whispered in Mason's ear as a cross came in. "You're just a little boy."
The ball floated over. Mason jumped to clear it. Deano didn't go for the ball; he nudged Mason in the air, just enough to throw him off balance.
Mason landed awkwardly. Deano controlled the ball and blasted it into the net.
"Too easy," Deano laughed, jogging back.
Mason stood up, wiping mud off his face. His eyes darkened. The "Heavy Metal" enforcer from the academy was waking up.
Five minutes later, the ball came to Deano's feet. He had his back to goal, ready to hold it.
Mason didn't wait. He didn't jockey. He charged.
As Deano took a touch, Mason hit him. He went through the back of the striker, winning the ball with his studs but taking the man with his momentum.
CRUNCH.
It was the sound of shin-pad on shin-pad, bone on bone.
Deano hit the ground like a sack of potatoes. The training session stopped, and silence fell over the pitch.
The Gaffer blew the whistle.
Sully walked over. He looked down at Deano, who was rolling around clutching his ankle, then at Mason.
Mason held his ground, chest heaving. "I won the ball."
Sully stared at him for a tense moment. Then a slow grin spread across his face.
"He did," Sully announced to the group. "Clean as a whistle. Get up, Deano, you soft tart."
Sully clapped Mason on the back. "That's it, son. Welcome to the National League."
On the wing, Callum had learned his lesson.
The ball came to him again. Gaz was charging, ready to body-check him again.
This time, Callum didn't try to dribble. He knew he couldn't win the physical battle. He had to win the speed battle.
He waited until Gaz was two yards away. Then, instead of controlling the ball, he flicked it first-time past the defender and sprinted around him, running off the pitch to avoid the body check.
Gaz slammed on the brakes, turning like an oil tanker, but Callum was gone.
Callum collected the ball on the byline. He looked up and saw Mason making a late run into the box (totally out of position, but full of adrenaline).
Callum whipped in a low, hard cross—the "picnic sandwich" precision Ethan had taught him.
The Reserve striker met it. Goal.
"Yes!" Callum shouted, punching the air.
Gaz jogged past him, breathing heavily. He didn't smile, but he nodded. "Better," the defender said. "Much better."
The session ended with sprints. The First XI won 3-1, so the "bibs" (including Callum and Mason) had to run.
They ran until they felt sick. The National League fitness levels were insane. These men weren't just strong; they had engines built over fifteen years of pre-seasons.
When they finally stumbled into the showers, Callum leaned his head against the tiled wall, letting the cold water wash over his bruised ribs.
"I think I broke a rib," Callum wheezed. "I think I broke Deano," Mason replied, wincing as he washed a cut on his knee.
"Did you see Sully's face?" Callum asked. "When you hit him?"
"Yeah," Mason smiled through the pain. "I think he likes me."
They got dressed in silence, putting on their hoodies and jeans. They looked at the older players cracking open beers (it was a Tuesday, but they didn't care) and discussing work shifts for tomorrow.
"See you Saturday, lads," The Gaffer said as they walked out. "Bus leaves at 9:00 AM. Don't be late. And bring cards for the back of the bus. You're going to lose your wages."
They stepped out into the cool night air. The car park was muddy.
"Ethan is probably in an ice bath right now," Callum said, limping toward the car. "Listening to classical music."
"Ethan is sleeping on 600-thread count sheets," Mason corrected.
They got into Callum's mum's car. It smelled of wet dog and stale chips.
"We survived," Callum said, turning the key. "We did," Mason nodded.
They drove out of the car park. They were sore, tired, and the youngest, smallest players in the league. But as they pulled onto the main road, heading back to Eastfield, they both knew one thing:
They were men now. And on Saturday, they were going to Barnet to prove it.