Saturday, December 26th. Boxing Day. 10:00 AM. The Riverton Arena.
The ground was hard, not just firm but solid. The frost covers had been on all night, and the temperature was down to -4°C. The referee stood in the center circle, bouncing a ball. It made a sharp, high-pitched ping instead of a thud.
Ethan was in the tunnel, wrapped in his training parka. His phone buzzed.
Ben Garner (West Brom): Call me. Now.
Ethan entered the empty medical room and dialed.
"Ethan," Garner's voice was short. "I see the weather report for Riverton. It's freezing."
"The ref says it's playable, Ben. Just about."
"Playable for a tractor, maybe," Garner snapped. "Listen. The recall paperwork is on Vance's desk. It gets signed January 1st. You are five days away from being a West Bromwich Albion starter again."
There was a pause.
"Do not play today, Ethan. That pitch is a knee-killer. We are sitting 9th in the Championship. We are five points off the playoffs. Vance is under pressure. He needs you fit for the Leeds game on January 3rd. If you twist on a frozen patch or slip, our season is done."
"Riverton are chasing the playoffs too, Ben. We have four starters out with the flu. If I don't play, they start a 16-year-old from the academy against Solihull Moors."
"Not your problem," Garner said coldly. "Your problem is helping us get out of this league, not helping Riverton get out of theirs. Be smart. Be the Asset."
The line went dead.
10:30 AM. The Manager's Office.
Mick Harrigan looked like he hadn't slept in a week. He was scratching names off a whiteboard.
"Baz is out. Fever," Harrigan muttered. "Jenkins is out. Ankle. That leaves me with... God help me... Little Timmy up front."
He glanced at Ethan.
"How are you?"
Ethan felt the weight of Garner's words: Be the Asset. He looked at Harrigan, the man who had taken a chance on him when others thought he was broken. The man who had cried when they beat Peterborough.
If Ethan sat out, Riverton would get crushed. Their playoff push would die in the frost.
Ethan touched his left knee. "I'm fit, boss."
Harrigan squinted at him. "Garner called me. He told me to bench you. Said you're too valuable for the Championship promotion push to risk on a frozen cabbage patch."
"Garner isn't here," Ethan said, zipping up his jacket. "I am."
Harrigan stared at him for a long moment. Then he nodded. "Don't break, son. Please don't break."
3:00 PM. Kickoff.
Riverton vs. Solihull Moors.
The pitch was dangerous. In shaded areas near the South Stand, the grass crunched underfoot. In the sun, it turned to greasy mud.
Solihull Moors were massive. They were a team of giants built for set pieces. They knew the conditions and knew about Ethan's knee.
10th Minute.
Ethan received the ball. He turned, but his studs didn't grip. He slipped. A collective gasp went around the stadium. Ethan scrambled up before the Solihull midfielder could crunch him.
He adjusted his game. No sharp turns. Play linear. One touch.
40th Minute.
Solihull took the lead. A corner, a slip by the Riverton keeper, a tap-in. 0-1.
The cold seemed to seep into everyone's bones. The Riverton players looked defeated. They were tired, sick, and freezing.
Ethan clapped his hands. The sound echoed in the cold air. "Head up! We're not losing on Boxing Day! Not in front of them!"
65th Minute.
Ethan took control. He stopped worrying about the ice. He entered the "flow state."
He picked the ball up deep and drove at the Solihull defense. A defender slid in—a long, dangerous slide on the slick surface.
Ethan leaped over the tackle. He landed on his left leg. It held.
He kept running. He sent a pass through to "Little Timmy" (the 16-year-old debutant). Timmy panicked and scuffed the shot. But the Solihull keeper spilled it.
Timmy poked the rebound in.
GOAL. 1-1.
Ethan grabbed Timmy and lifted him into the air. "That's it! Keep running!"
89th Minute.
The game was tied, and the tension was unbearable. Solihull Moors launched a long ball, clearing the Riverton defense.
Their striker—a fast, powerful forward—was through on goal. It was a one-on-one. If he scored, Riverton would lose.
Ethan was the furthest man back, covering for his center-back. He sprinted.
He was gaining on the striker, but he was running out of pitch as they entered the box.
The striker pulled his leg back to shoot.
Ethan had a split second to decide. Option A: Let him shoot, lose the game, stay safe, and go back to the Championship in one piece. Option B: The Tackle.
It was the exact same angle as Millwall, the exact same scenario. A chase. A desperate lunge. A planted leg.
The String Don't Break.
Ethan didn't think. He slid, throwing his body across the slick turf. His left leg hooked around the ball.
CRUNCH.
The striker kicked Ethan's shin pad instead of the ball. The force was immense.
Ethan spun on the ice and slammed into the advertising hoardings. The striker fell over him.
The ball rolled harmlessly out for a corner.
The stadium went silent. Harrigan covered his eyes. Ben Garner, watching a stream in Birmingham, stopped breathing.
Ethan lay in the mud. He felt the spot on his shin throb. He waited for the knee pain, the deep, sickening ache of a tear.
It didn't come. Just the sting of a bruise.
Ethan sat up and checked the titanium shin pad. It was dented but intact.
He stood up and shook his legs out. He looked at the Solihull striker, who was staring at him with wide eyes. "Good tackle," the striker muttered.
Ethan roared, letting out a guttural scream of survival.
Full Time. Riverton 1 - 1 Solihull Moors.
The point kept Riverton in the playoff hunt.
Ethan walked off the pitch. He limped slightly from a dead leg but was walking.
Harrigan waited at the tunnel. He didn't say anything but unzipped his coat and handed Ethan a letter.
"This came by courier an hour ago," Harrigan said.
Ethan opened it with freezing fingers. It was on West Bromwich Albion headed paper.
NOTICE OF RECALL.
Effective Date: January 1st, 2027.
Player: Ethan Matthews.
Instruction: Report to The Hawthorns for Championship First Team Training.
Ethan looked up. "It's over?"
"It's over," Harrigan said with a sad smile. "You survived, kid. You survived the ice. You survived the mud. You're ready."
Ethan looked back at the pitch, the empty stands, and the frozen mud. He had hated it here in August. Now, looking at the dent in his shin pad, he realized this place had made him.
"Thanks, boss," Ethan said. "For taking the risk."
"Thank you," Harrigan replied. "For playing Boxing Day. Now get out of here before I change my mind and chain you to the radiator."
December 31st. New Year's Eve.
Ethan was packing his bag in his bedroom. The Riverton kit was washed and folded, ready to return. The West Brom kit—Number 48—was hanging on his wardrobe door.
His phone pinged.
Mason: Saw the tackle on the highlights. You have a death wish.
Ethan: Had to be done. Saved the point.
Callum: You're officially a Championship player again tomorrow. Don't forget us.
Ethan: Never. Crestwood survive?
Mason: We won 1-0. Deano scored with his backside. Ugly.
Ethan: Ugly is good. See you soon.
Ethan zipped up the bag and looked in the mirror. The fear was gone. The "What If" was gone. He was Ethan Matthews. He was 18. He had a metal plate in his knee and a dent in his shin pad.
And tomorrow, he was going to help Julian Vance save his job.