3:00 PM. The Hive Stadium.
The whistle blew, and for the first ten minutes, Mason didn't play football. He was caught up in a wrestling match.
Akinola, the Barnet striker, was skilled at playing dirty. He didn't run into spaces; instead, he backed into Mason. He used his 6'3" height to pin Mason down, leaning his weight against the 17-year-old before spinning away.
In the 5th minute, a long ball came over the top. Mason jumped early and won the header cleanly.
As he landed, Akinola stepped on his toe. Hard.
"Oops," the striker said, jogging away.
Mason gritted his teeth and limped for a moment before forcing himself to run it off. The crowd was unforgiving. Every time a Crestwood player touched the ball, a wave of boos came from the Amber Stand. It was a hostile, suffocating atmosphere that made the Riverton games feel like a walk in the park.
Crestwood was struggling. They couldn't escape their half. The National League's pace was frantic—not the strategic play from the academy, but chaotic, high-pressure pinball.
In the 22nd minute, the pressure showed.
Barnet won a corner. A quick delivery went to the near post. Sully, the Crestwood captain, jumped to clear it but got blocked by a clever pick from a Barnet midfielder.
The ball sailed over Sully's head. Akinola was waiting. He rose above Mason—who was being held by his shirt, unnoticed by the referee—and powered a header into the bottom corner.
GOAL.
1-0 Barnet.
The stadium exploded. The noise was physical, reverberating in Mason's chest.
"Wake up!" Sully yelled, pushing Mason in the chest. "You're too nice! Hit him back!"
Mason looked at Akinola, who celebrated in front of the home fans. He wiped sweat from his eyes. Too nice.
The game resumed. When the ball came to Akinola again, Mason didn't jump for it. He jumped through the man. He drove his forearm into Akinola's back, won the header, and sent the striker sprawling into the mud.
The referee blew the whistle. Foul.
Mason offered a hand to Akinola. Akinola slapped it away, standing up and getting in Mason's face. "You want a war, kid?" Akinola spat.
"I'm just playing the game," Mason replied, refusing to back down.
4:15 PM. 65th Minute.
The score was still 1-0. Crestwood was hanging on, their legs heavy. The Barnet left-back, a veteran named Clarke, had spent the last hour overlapping and causing trouble. But now, his runs were slowing down. He was breathing hard, hands on his knees during stoppages.
The Gaffer turned to the bench.
"Callum! Get your shirt off!"
Callum tore off his training top. His heart raced so fast he thought it might crack a rib.
"You see Clarke?" The Gaffer said, pointing. "He's tired. He's 34 years old and has played sixty minutes on a heavy pitch. You are 17. You are fresh. Run him into the ground."
The board went up. Number 12 ON. Number 7 OFF.
Callum stepped onto the pitch. The grass felt thick and spongy compared to the academy surfaces. The noise was deafening.
His first touch was a disaster. A pass from midfield hit his heel and bounced out of play. A cheer of mockery rose from the Barnet fans. "Who is this kid? Has he finished his homework?" someone shouted.
Callum's ears burned. Don't panic. Just run.
In the 72nd minute, Mason won a tackle on the edge of his own box. He looked up. Instead of playing it safe, he saw Callum waiting on the halfway line.
Mason smashed a clearance into the space behind Clarke.
"Go!" Mason yelled.
Callum took off.
His speed was shocking. One second he was still; the next, he was a red blur. Clarke turned to chase, but it was like a tractor racing a Ferrari. Callum closed the distance quickly, reaching the ball five yards ahead of the defender.
He was in the final third. The crowd noise shifted from mocking to a sharp intake of breath.
Callum drove into the box. He didn't have the angle to shoot, so he cut the ball back, searching for a teammate.
A Barnet defender, panicked by the speed, slid to block the cross. The ball hit his hand.
Whistle.
PENALTY.
The Crestwood players surrounded Callum, ruffling his hair. "Pace, lad! That's the pace!" Sully shouted.
Callum took a step back, breathing hard. He looked at the spot. Usually, he took the penalties. But this was the National League.
Sully picked up the ball. The captain. The veteran.
He placed it on the spot. He stared down the keeper. He took a short run-up and blasted it straight down the middle.
GOAL.
1-1.
The small pocket of Crestwood fans in the away end went wild.
The final fifteen minutes felt like a siege. Barnet threw everything at them. Mason made three goal-saving headers. Callum chased every lost cause, pressing the defenders until they panicked and kicked it out of play.
4:55 PM. Full Time.
Barnet 1 - 1 Crestwood.
It was over. A point away from home against a promotion favorite.
Mason collapsed to the ground, his socks rolled down, his legs muddy and bruised. Callum walked over and sat down beside him.
"We did it," Callum panted. "We actually got a point." "You were fast," Mason grunted, closing his eyes. "You made that old man look silly." "You took care of Akinola," Callum replied. "I saw his face. He didn't want to know in the last ten minutes."
Sully walked over. He looked like he'd been through a car crash, but he was grinning. "Not bad for the nursery," the captain said. "Beers on the bus. You two earned them."
5:30 PM. The Team Coach.
The atmosphere on the bus was lively. The point felt like a win.
Callum and Mason sat at the back table again. They were too tired to play cards. They just sat there, sipping bottles of Lucozade (they were still 17, after all), scrolling through their phones.
Ethan was FaceTiming them.
"1-1!" Ethan's face appeared, smiling. "I saw the score update. Sully penalty?"
"Won by me," Callum said, pointing to himself. "I destroyed their left-back. He's retiring tomorrow."
"And Mason?" Ethan asked.
"Mason is currently icing his whole body," Callum laughed, turning the camera to show Mason, who was slumped against the window with ice packs on both knees.
"Tough day at the office?" Ethan asked.
"Akinola," Mason murmured. "He's a beast. But he didn't score in the second half."
"We're unbeaten," Callum said. "Joint 8th in the league. We're staying up, lads."
"I won 1-0," Ethan said. "Free kick. Top bins."
"Of course you did," Mason said, opening one eye. "Orange boots?"
"Orange boots."
"Show-off," Mason smiled.
The bus rumbled onto the motorway, heading north. In London, the stadium lights faded. In Birmingham, Ethan packed his bag for the next day's recovery session.
They were in different leagues, different cities, and different worlds. But as the sun set on the first Saturday of the season, the scoreboard read the same for all of them.
Undefeated.