Tuesday, September 22nd. 7:30 PM. The Home Dressing Room, Crestwood Park.
Carabao Cup. Second Round.
Crestwood United vs. Sheffield Wednesday.
While Ethan Matthews recovered in a hyperbaric oxygen chamber at a fancy training complex, Callum Reid sat on a wooden bench, doing some quick calculations in his head.
Appearance fee: £400.
Win bonus: £250.
Assist bonus: £150.
Callum wrapped a thick layer of tape over his socks. If he played tonight and Crestwood won, he could fix the alternator on his Ford Fiesta and pay his share of the rent for next month. If his hamstring tightened up during warm-up and he had to pull out, he would earn nothing.
It was a terrifying yet enlightening way to play professional football.
The dressing room buzzed with nervous energy. Playing a Championship team under the floodlights was the closest Crestwood United came to glamour.
Mason Turner stood up and clapped his large hands together.
"Right! Listen up!" Mason shouted, quieting the room. "They are two leagues above us. They make ten times what we do. They think they're coming here for an easy match on a Tuesday night. Let's make them regret it!"
The Gaffer nodded. "We defend deep. We frustrate them. Callum, when we win the ball, you're the exit valve. Hold it, buy us time, and find Toby."
Callum nodded, his stomach flipping. He stood up and tested his weight on his left leg. It felt tight from the weekend's game against Mansfield, but it held.
7:45 PM. Kickoff.
The rain came down in sheets, turning the Crestwood pitch into a slippery sponge.
Sheffield Wednesday was a big, athletic team. They moved the ball with a sharpness that League Two teams just didn't have. For the first thirty minutes, Crestwood was pinned in their own half, defending for their lives.
Mason was a giant. He threw himself in front of shots, won towering headers, and barked orders to keep the backline organized.
38th Minute.
Callum was starved for the ball. Playing as a Number 10 with only 20% possession required extreme patience.
Finally, Deano intercepted a loose pass in midfield and poked it forward.
Callum dropped back to receive it. Suddenly, a huge Sheffield Wednesday center-back stepped out of his line to tackle him.
The old Callum would have tried to touch the ball past him and start a race. But the new Callum—the one who spent his evenings watching Lorenzo Rossi's highlights on a cracked laptop—didn't panic.
He felt the defender's breath on his neck. Callum didn't take a touch. He simply opened his hips and let the ball run through his legs.
The defender lunged forward, grabbing only empty air. He lost his balance and slipped on the wet grass.
Callum spun away, leaving the giant on the ground. He had ten yards of space. He looked up.
Toby was making a fast run down the right.
Callum played a well-weighted, curving pass that went past the retreating full-back and landed perfectly in Toby's stride.
Toby entered the box, but his shot was well saved by the goalkeeper, resulting in a corner.
The Crestwood crowd roared its approval.
Callum jogged toward the penalty area, breathing heavily. He glanced at the bench. The Gaffer pointed at his head, smiling widely.
Vision over legs. It was working.
Halftime.
Crestwood 0 - 0 Sheffield Wednesday.
The dressing room smelled of mud and wet grass.
"Brilliant, boys. Absolutely brilliant," the Gaffer said, moving among the tired players. "They're getting frustrated. They'll overcommit in the second half. We just need one chance."
He stopped in front of Callum. "How's the leg?"
Callum wiped rain and sweat from his eyes. "Tight. But I can go another thirty."
"Give me twenty," the Gaffer said. "I won't risk your season for a cup run."
Callum didn't argue. Twenty minutes. He needed to make them count.
The Second Half.
62nd Minute.
The Championship side poured men forward, desperate to avoid the humiliation of extra time or penalties against a League Two team.
Mason executed a brutal, well-timed sliding tackle on the edge of the Crestwood box, sending the ball flying to the left flank.
Callum was there. He controlled the wet ball instantly.
He looked up. The entire Sheffield Wednesday team was caught upfield.
Toby was sprinting.
Callum didn't hesitate. He swung his left leg, striking through the center of the ball to launch a forty-yard diagonal pass.
As he hit it, he felt a sharp twang deep in his left hamstring.
It wasn't the violent, excruciating pop of a tendon snapping like last year. But it was a clear warning. The muscle had reached its limit.
Callum fell to the grass, clutching the back of his thigh.
Down the pitch, the pass was spot on. Toby brought it down, cut inside the last defender, and smashed the ball into the roof of the net.
GOAL.
Crestwood 1 - 0 Sheffield Wednesday.
The stadium erupted in joy.
But Mason Turner didn't celebrate with Toby. The captain turned and sprinted back toward his half, wide-eyed with panic as he saw Callum on the ground.
Mason slid to his knees beside him. "Cal! Cal, talk to me! Did it go?"
Callum gritted his teeth, pressing his hand hard against his leg. He took a deep, shaky breath, waiting for the burning sensation to spread.
It didn't. It was just a severe cramp—a warning cramp.
"No," Callum gasped, letting his head fall back against the wet grass. "It didn't snap. It's just... I'm done. Done for tonight."
Mason let out a breath he felt he had been holding for years. He raised his hand, signaling for a substitution to the bench.
"Get the stretcher!" Mason yelled to the medical staff.
"I don't need a stretcher, you fool," Callum grunted, swatting at Mason's arm. "Help me up."
Mason helped him to his feet, wrapping Callum's arm around his broad shoulders. He essentially carried his best friend to the touchline as the home crowd rose to give a massive, deafening standing ovation for the Number 10.
88th Minute. The Dugout.
Callum sat on the bench, wrapped in a large winter coat, with an ice pack strapped tightly to his leg.
He watched in agony as Sheffield Wednesday threw everything, including their goalkeeper, forward for a late corner.
Mason rose majestically above the crowd, heading the ball clear just as the referee blew the final whistle.
Full Time.
Crestwood United 1 - 0 Sheffield Wednesday.
A major cup upset.
The players on the bench rushed the pitch. Callum remained seated, a huge grin on his face.
The Gaffer walked over and clapped him on the shoulder.
"That pass was beautiful, son. Absolutely beautiful. Ice that leg. I want you in the physio room at 8:00 AM tomorrow."
"Will do, boss," Callum smiled.
11:00 PM. Callum's Flat, Eastfield.
Callum lay on the sofa, his leg elevated on three pillows. He was eating a celebratory bowl of cheap instant noodles.
Mia sat at the small dining table, tapping on her laptop.
"Okay," she said, looking up with a smile. "Appearance fee plus the assist bonus, plus the cup upset win bonus... the rent is covered, the car is fixed, and we have enough left for a proper grocery shop tomorrow."
Callum sighed happily, resting his head back. "I'm buying the good orange juice. The one with the bits."
His phone buzzed on the coffee table.
Group Chat: The Eastfield Boys
Ethan: Just saw the score on Sky Sports News. A huge upset. And an assist for C. Reid. You okay? The report said you went off injured.
Mason: He's fine. He cramped up because he's got the stamina of an asthmatic chain-smoker. But the pass for the goal was pure Galactico stuff.
Callum: It was a tactical substitution. I needed to protect my financial investments. How are your legs, Eth? You playing in the cup tomorrow?
Ethan: Vance is resting me and Rossi. We're not even in the squad. I'm literally going to spend Wednesday on the sofa playing FIFA.
Mason: Disgusting. I'm going to have bruises for three weeks from tonight. Enjoy your vacation, prima donna.
Ethan: I will. Great job tonight, Cal. Take the ice off after twenty minutes.
Callum smiled, checking the time. He reached down and unstrapped the ice pack. The muscle was sore, but the worry was slowly fading. He was surviving the gamble.