Thursday, October 15th. 08:00 AM. Penthouse Apartment, Birmingham.
The view of the Birmingham skyline was impressive, but Ethan Matthews wasn't paying attention to it. He was looking at the marble kitchen island, his head resting in his hands.
David Richards, his agent, was pacing the open living room, his phone pressed to his ear. Richards looked stressed, which was alarming since he was paid a hefty amount to never appear stressed.
"Yes, I understand," Richards said into the phone, his voice smooth yet strained. "We are drafting an apology. No, he will not do an exclusive sit-down interview to explain himself. That's media suicide. Just hold the club statement until noon."
Richards hung up and tossed his phone onto the leather sofa. He turned to Ethan. "Four point two million views, Ethan. On TikTok alone. It's the number one trending topic in the UK."
Ethan groaned, rubbing his temples. "David, he shoved the camera literally an inch from my face. He was blinding me with the flash, and he stepped on my bad knee. I just pushed the phone away."
"I know that," Richards said with a sigh, leaning against the glass dining table. "But the video doesn't show him stepping on your knee. The video shows a £65-million Premier League superstar, wearing a four-thousand-pound watch, angrily slapping the phone out of a fan's hand outside a posh nightclub at two in the morning."
Richards pulled out a tablet and slammed it onto the marble island. The headline from a notorious tabloid stared back at Ethan in large, bold letters: THE NUEVO EGO: MATTHEWS MELTDOWN.
"The narrative is changing, Ethan," Richards warned. "Last year, you were the underdog from the lower leagues. This year, you are the overpaid, arrogant player who has let money and the Real Madrid rumors go to his head. The British press loves to build you up just to tear you down."
"What does Vance say?" Ethan asked quietly.
"Vance is furious. Not about the incident but about the timing. Two in the morning on a Wednesday. You have a game against Newcastle on Saturday. He expects you in his office at nine."
Ethan closed his eyes. The exhausting grind from Thursday to Sunday was one thing; this constant, suffocating off-pitch scrutiny was entirely different. He felt trapped.
09:15 AM. The Manager's Office, West Bromwich Albion.
Julian Vance didn't yell. That was the worst part.
When Ethan walked in, Vance simply pointed to the chair across from his desk. The manager was going over a scouting report on Newcastle United. He didn't look up for a full two minutes.
When he finally did, his dark eyes were icy.
"You are a public figure, Ethan," Vance said, his voice disturbingly calm. "When you wear the badge, when you cash the checks, you give up your right to anonymity. You give up your right to lose your temper in public."
"He invaded my personal space, boss. He physically hit my knee."
"I do not care," Vance replied immediately. "If someone spits on your shoes in the street, you smile, you sign their shirt, and you walk away. Because if you react, you create a circus. And I do not manage a circus; I manage a football club."
Vance closed the scouting folder. "You are not starting against Newcastle on Saturday. You will sit on the bench. You will smile for the cameras. You will show the media that no player is bigger than the discipline of this squad."
Ethan swallowed the heavy lump of injustice in his throat. "Yes, boss."
"Go to the gym," Vance dismissed him. "Stay off your phone."
2:00 PM. The M5 Motorway, Southbound.
Ethan didn't go back to his penthouse after training. He couldn't bear the silence or looking at David Richards' frantic text messages.
He drove his Audi straight down the M5, watching the sleek glass towers of Birmingham disappear into the grey, industrial spread of the West Midlands.
He parked outside a familiar, cramped block of flats in Eastfield.
Feeling paranoid for the first time in his life about who might be watching him in his hometown, he pulled up his hood and jogged up the concrete stairs to Door 2B.
Mia opened the door. She was in her nursing scrubs, holding a mug of tea. She took one look at Ethan's pale, stressed face and sighed. "They're in the living room," she said sympathetically, stepping aside. "Don't let them get to you too much. They've been watching Sky Sports News all morning."
Ethan walked into the small living room.
Mason was sprawled in the armchair, icing his ankle. Callum was on the floor, stretching his hamstrings with a foam roller.
They both looked up as Ethan entered.
A long silence followed.
Then, Mason slowly lifted his hands and began to imitate a mock-paparazzi camera flash with his fingers. "Oh my god, it's Ethan Matthews! Please, sir, can I have an autograph? Or are you going to smash my phone?"
Callum burst out laughing, collapsing onto the foam roller.
Ethan dropped his duffel bag onto the floor with a heavy thud. "Not funny, Mase. My agent is having a heart attack, and Vance benched me for the Newcastle game."
"Good," Mason said, dropping his hands. The humor vanished from his voice, replaced by the serious tone of a captain. "You deserved it."
Ethan glared at him. "You didn't see what happened. He stepped on my bad knee. The one with the titanium in it."
"I don't care if he stepped on your throat," Mason shot back. "What were you doing outside a club in Brindleyplace at two in the morning on a Wednesday, Eth?"
Ethan opened his mouth to defend himself, but the words stuck in his throat.
Callum sat up, resting his arms on his knees. "He's right, mate. You're playing in the Europa League. You're exhausted. You've been complaining all month about the Thursday-Sunday grind. And you're out at 2 AM at a VIP launch party?"
"It was a sponsor event," Ethan replied defensively. "David said I had to make an appearance."
"David Richards is an agent. He works for you," Mason said, pointing a scarred finger at Ethan. "You need to tell him no. You're acting like you've made it. You're acting like the £65m price tag is real."
"It's not real?" Ethan asked, frustration creeping into his voice.
"No, it's not," Callum said softly. "It's just math. What matters is the grass. What matters is the system Vance built. If you start believing you're a celebrity instead of a footballer, you'll lose the edge that got you out of this town in the first place."
Ethan scanned the cramped flat. The peeling wallpaper. The medical tape on the coffee table. The harsh reality of League Two survival that his best friends faced every day.
He had let the Birmingham skyline blind him. He had let the VIP ropes make him feel untouchable.
Ethan sank onto the worn fabric of Callum's sofa and put his head in his hands.
"I messed up," Ethan whispered. "I lost my head."
"Yeah, you did," Mason said, leaning forward. "But it's Thursday. The news cycle moves fast. Tomorrow, some other Premier League idiot will buy a gold-plated Ferrari and crash it into a lamppost, and they'll forget all about you slapping a phone."
Callum tossed a bottle of water at Ethan. Ethan caught it.
"You take your benching on Saturday," Callum said. "Don't sulk. Cheer for the boys. And when Vance puts you back on the pitch, don't play like a celebrity. Play like a street dog."
Ethan looked at the water bottle. The suffocating anxiety that had weighed on him all morning finally began to lift. The PR crisis didn't matter. The tabloids didn't matter.
He had his support.
"Thanks, boys," Ethan said quietly.
"Don't mention it," Mason grunted, standing up and grabbing his coat. "Now get off the sofa. We're going to the recreation ground behind the cinema. We need a fourth man for a kickabout with Toby and Deano. And if you try any of that fancy European passing, I'm going to snap you in half."
Ethan smiled, a genuine grin spreading across his face. "Try it, skip."