Thursday, October 22nd. 8:45 PM. Stadio Olimpico, Rome.
UEFA Europa League. League Phase. Matchday 3. AS Roma vs. West Bromwich Albion.
The Stadio Olimpico does not feel like a modern football stadium. It feels like an ancient arena. The sweeping bowl, the running track separating the fans from the pitch, the sheer, monolithic scale of the architecture—it is designed to make visiting teams feel small, like sacrifices thrown to the lions.
In the tunnel, the noise from the Curva Sud was a continuous, rhythmic chanting that shook the concrete under Ethan's studs.
Lorenzo Rossi stood beside him, his eyes closed, breathing in the scent of cut grass and flare smoke. He looked completely at peace. "Ah, Roma," Rossi murmured, a slight smile on his face. "In England, football is a war. In Turkey, it is a riot. But in Italy, Ethan... in Italy, it is religion."
Rossi opened his eyes and looked at the imposing line of Roma players across the tunnel. They were dressed in their iconic deep crimson and gold. "And tonight," Rossi whispered, "we are the heretics."
Julian Vance walked down the line, clapping his hands once, sharply. "Heart and brain, Ethan," Vance said as he passed. "Be the engine."
8:55 PM. The Away End, Distinti Nord Est.
High up in the away section, surrounded by three thousand traveling West Brom fans, sat a very conspicuous figure.
He was wearing a heavy black winter coat with the collar popped up, a black beanie, and a pair of dark sunglasses despite the fact that the sun had set hours ago. Wrapped securely around his lower face, obscuring his jawline, was a navy and white West Bromwich Albion scarf.
Mason Turner took a sip of his Peroni, wincing slightly as he shifted his weight. His "dead leg" from the Stevenage game was throbbing, but it had served its purpose perfectly. Terry the physio had mandated three days of complete rest, explicitly forbidding him from training.
He hadn't forbidden him from catching a Ryanair flight from Birmingham to Rome.
Mason looked down at the pitch, his eyes locking onto the Number 8 in the white away kit. "Come on, you Galactico idiot," Mason muttered into his scarf. "I didn't commit gross professional misconduct to watch a 0-0 draw."
Kickoff.
Italian football is famous for Catenaccio—the door-bolt. While modern Roma played with flair, their defensive DNA was ancient and unbreakable.
They didn't press like Newcastle or Galatasaray. They sat in a structured, impenetrable mid-block, daring West Brom to try and pass through them.
25th Minute.
Vance's game plan hit a massive roadblock. Roma's manager had clearly done his homework. He had deployed an aggressive, man-marking defensive midfielder named Matteo Vieri exclusively to shadow Lorenzo Rossi.
Every time Rossi moved, Vieri was in his shadow, legally but forcefully bumping the Italian veteran off his rhythm. The "Rossi Method" relies on having a split-second of space to scan and pass. Vieri was suffocating that space.
With Rossi neutralized, West Brom's possession became sterile. They passed the ball side to side across the backline, completely unable to penetrate the crimson wall.
Ethan received the ball near the halfway line. He looked for Rossi. Vieri was instantly draped all over him.
"In those moments, I do not need the European playmaker. I need the kid from the lower leagues." Ethan remembered Vance's words. He put his foot on the ball and looked straight at the Roma defensive line.
If they wouldn't give Rossi the space to pick the lock, Ethan was going to have to kick the door down.
41st Minute.
Ethan received a bouncing pass from Liam Thorne. Instead of looking for a safe sideways pass, Ethan dropped his shoulder and drove straight at the heart of the Roma midfield.
It was a shock to the system. For a month, Ethan had been playing with restraint. Now, the Ferrari was redlining.
He burst past the first midfielder with raw, explosive pace. A Roma center-back, alarmed by the sudden directness, stepped out of the defensive line to confront him.
Ethan didn't try to pass around him. He went straight into the 50/50 challenge.
CRACK.
It was a thunderous, old-school collision. The Stadio Olimpico gasped. Ethan took the brunt of the hit, but his Eastfield conditioning kicked in. He didn't dive, and he didn't roll. He bounced off the massive Italian defender, kept his feet, and toe-poked the loose ball out to the wing before hitting the turf.
The referee waved play on. Rossi, freed momentarily from Vieri's grip by the chaos, looked at Ethan on the grass with raised eyebrows. The kid was back.
Halftime. Roma 0 - 0 West Brom.
"They are locking Lorenzo down," Vance said in the dressing room, pacing the tactical board. "Ethan, you are the spare man. When you receive it, you must carry it. Force them to commit to you. Draw the fouls. Break their shape."
Ethan nodded, wiping his face with an ice-cold towel. His ribs ached from the collision, but the fog of the PR crisis and the benching was completely gone. He was in his element.
The Second Half.
68th Minute.
The game had turned into a grueling, physical battle of attrition. Ethan was everywhere. He was tackling, carrying, and absorbing hits from the frustrated Roma players. He was single-handedly dragging the tempo of the game out of the Italian comfort zone and into a chaotic English dogfight.
Up in the stands, Mason was out of his seat, the sunglasses abandoned, screaming tactical advice that no one could hear.
Ethan picked up the ball thirty-five yards from goal. He accelerated instantly. Vieri, realizing Ethan was now the primary threat, abandoned Rossi and lunged into a desperate sliding tackle.
Ethan anticipated it. He dragged the ball back with the sole of his boot, spinning 180 degrees, leaving the Italian sliding violently into empty space.
Ethan was past the midfield. The Roma defense was backpedaling frantically.
He had Jaden Kalu to his left and Armando to his right. He looked left, dropping his shoulder slightly to sell the pass. The Roma center-back shifted his weight to intercept.
But Ethan didn't pass.
With a sudden, vicious snap of his right leg, he unleashed a low, driven shot from twenty-five yards out. He didn't try to curl it. He hit it with pure, unadulterated venom—the same knuckleball technique he had used to score against Sheffield United a year ago.
The ball stayed perfectly flat, screaming through the night air, before dipping viciously right in front of the Roma goalkeeper.
The keeper dove, getting a desperate fingertip to the leather. It wasn't enough. The ball smashed into the inside of the post and careened into the back of the net.
GOAL. Roma 0 - 1 West Brom.
The Stadio Olimpico was silenced, save for a massive, euphoric roar erupting from the Distinti Nord Est.
Ethan didn't do a choreographed celebration. He sprinted toward the away end, sliding on his knees, screaming into the Roman night, beating the West Brom badge on his chest.
He looked up at the three thousand traveling fans. And there, standing in the front row, wearing a West Brom scarf and a maniacal grin, was a six-foot-four center-back from Eastfield.
Ethan pointed directly at Mason. Mason pointed back, miming raising a pint glass.
89th Minute.
Roma threw everything they had at the West Brom goal, but the door-bolt had been transferred. Liam Thorne organized the defense with military precision, and Ethan sat right in front of them, sweeping up loose balls and breaking up attacks with ruthless efficiency.
Whistle. Whistle. Whistle.
Full Time. AS Roma 0 - 1 West Bromwich Albion.
A historic victory. West Brom had marched into the Eternal City and conquered it.
As the players celebrated on the pitch, Rossi threw an arm around Ethan's shoulders, pulling him close. "You see?" Rossi shouted over the noise. "Sometimes, the brain must rest, and the street dog must bite. Beautiful goal, my friend."
11:30 PM. The Player's Entrance, Stadio Olimpico.
Ethan stood by the team bus, a heavy coat zipped up to his chin. He was waiting.
A figure detached itself from the lingering crowd of fans and walked past the security barrier. Mason pulled down the scarf and took off the beanie.
"You absolute idiot," Ethan laughed, pulling Mason into a massive hug. "If the tabloids get a photo of you here, Terry will murder you."
"Terry is currently asleep in Eastfield thinking I'm elevating my leg," Mason grinned, hugging him back. "Besides, I couldn't miss it. You scored a thirty-yard knuckleball in the Stadio Olimpico, Eth. Do you understand how insane that is?"
"It felt good," Ethan admitted, the adrenaline still buzzing in his veins.
"It looked good," Mason corrected him. "You played like you. Not like Rossi. Not like the £65m man. You played like the kid who used to snap my ankles behind the cinema."
"Vance told me to," Ethan smiled.
Mason looked at his watch. "Right, I have to go. My flight back to Birmingham leaves at 6:00 AM, and I have to be in the physio room at 10:00 AM pretending my leg still hurts."
"You flew all the way here just for the ninety minutes?" Ethan asked, shaking his head in disbelief.
"The string don't break, Galactico," Mason said softly, punching Ethan lightly on the shoulder. "Now get on your luxury bus. I have to go find a hostel that charges by the hour."
Mason turned and walked away into the Roman night, pulling his scarf back up over his face.
Ethan watched him go, a profound sense of peace settling over him. He pulled out his phone as he stepped onto the team coach.
Group Chat: The Eastfield Boys
Ethan: Cal, did you see who was in the front row of the away end?
Callum: I saw a massive idiot in sunglasses. Tell me he actually faked an injury to go to Rome.
Ethan: He flew RyanAir just to watch me score.
Callum: Legend. Absolute legend. Enjoy the win, Eth. The Eastfield boys are international now.
Ethan locked his phone. He had survived the PR crisis. He had survived the bench. And he had conquered Rome.