Wednesday, July 22nd. 7:30 PM. SoFi Stadium, Los Angeles.
Pre-Season Friendly.
West Bromwich Albion vs. MLS All-Stars.
American soccer didn't just have a match; they put on a show. The seventy-thousand-seat stadium was a stunning sight, a vast canopy of glass and steel glowing in the California sunset. Fireworks burst as the teams walked onto the field, with smoke drifting over the immaculate, hybrid-grass pitch.
Ethan Matthews stood in the center circle. The heat had lessened, but the humidity inside the stadium was still intense.
Next to him stood Lorenzo Rossi. The Italian veteran seemed completely unfazed by the noise, the fireworks, or the heat. He was casually adjusting his captain's armband, which Vance had given him for the first half to establish leadership in the midfield.
"They will run fast," Rossi said quietly, his heavy accent cutting through the stadium announcer's loud voice. "They want to make a show for television. Let them run. We walk."
Ethan nodded, wiping a bead of sweat from his temple. Let them run. This went against everything his body had learned over the last two years.
Kickoff.
The MLS All-Stars were exactly what Rossi forecasted: athletic, aggressive, and eager to prove themselves against Premier League competition. Led by a quick American attacking midfielder named Tyler Hayes, they pressed hard.
12th Minute.
Ethan received a pass from his center-back. Hayes was immediately on his back, applying intense pressure.
Ethan's instinct kicked in. He dropped his shoulder, getting ready to spin and leave Hayes behind. He tensed, ready to sprint.
"You are a Ferrari. Do not drive in first gear across the continent." Julian Vance's voice echoed in his mind.
Ethan stopped the spin. He didn't turn into space. Instead, he took one touch to shield the ball, keeping his back to Hayes, and made a simple, five-yard pass backward to Rossi.
Rossi didn't even stop the ball. He let it run across his body and, with one touch, sent a thirty-yard diagonal pass out to the West Brom winger, completely bypassing Hayes.
The pressure was gone. No sprinting necessary.
Hayes cursed under his breath, jogging back into position.
"Good," Rossi called out to Ethan, pointing two fingers at his own eyes. "Vision. Not legs."
35th Minute.
The game's rhythm was captivating. West Brom played a style Ethan had never seen before. It wasn't the frantic, end-to-end counter-attacking of the Championship, nor the desperate defending seen at Anfield.
It was a slow, suffocating grip.
Rossi controlled the pace. Pass, move, wait. Pass, move, wait. Ethan was adjusting. He stopped chasing the ball and started seeking open space.
He realized that every time Rossi looked up, he wasn't gazing at the player he would pass to next. He was looking at the player he would pass to after that.
42nd Minute.
The MLS All-Stars were frustrated by their lack of touches. Hayes tried to force things, lunging out of position to intercept a pass meant for Ethan.
Ethan saw the lunge coming. Instead of taking a touch to control the ball, he used the pace of the pass. He opened his right foot and redirected the ball with a gentle, first-time flick around the corner.
He didn't need to look to know Rossi was there. Rossi had stepped into the space Hayes had just left.
Rossi received the ball, took one touch to set himself, and precisely sent a ground-level through-ball into the penalty area.
Armando, the striker, ran onto it and chipped the American goalkeeper.
GOAL.
West Brom 1 - 0 MLS All-Stars.
The American crowd, appreciating the elegance of the play, responded with a gentle ripple of applause.
Rossi jogged over to Ethan, offering a high-five. "You see?" the Italian smiled. "We walk, they chase. We score."
Ethan smiled back. He wasn't out of breath. For the first time in his career, he had set up a goal without his heart rate skyrocketing.
Halftime.
West Brom 1 - 0 MLS All-Stars.
The dressing room felt freezing from the air conditioning.
Julian Vance stood by the whiteboard, looking very pleased. "Control," Vance said, scanning the room. "That is what European football looks like. You do not let the opponent dictate the pace of the game. Ethan. Lorenzo. Excellent. You rest now. The second unit is going on."
Ethan took off his sweat-soaked shirt and grabbed an ice towel. He had only played forty-five minutes, but his mind felt more worn out than his legs. The mental focus needed to constantly scan and resist the urge to sprint was exhausting in an entirely new way.
Full Time.
West Brom 2 - 1 MLS All-Stars.
The second unit conceded late but managed to scrape together a winning goal. A successful night under the Hollywood lights.
As the players showered and boarded the luxury coach back to Beverly Hills, Ethan sat next to Liam Thorne.
"You looked different out there today, kid," the captain remarked, sipping a recovery shake. "You and Rossi played like you've been teammates for years. Eerie."
"It's tough," Ethan admitted, leaning his head against the cool glass of the window. "I want to run at them. It feels wrong to just stand there and pass sideways."
"It's called growing up," Thorne chuckled. "You'll thank him when we're in a knockout match in February, and your hamstrings aren't screaming."
11:00 PM. The Beverly Hills Hotel.
Ethan lay in bed, the lights off, watching the headlights of cars sweeping across the ceiling. He picked up his phone. It was morning in England.
Group Chat: The Eastfield Boys
Ethan: Just finished the LA game. Played 45 minutes. Barely broke a sweat.
Callum: Must be nice. I just woke up and my calves are cramping so badly my toes are curling. Pre-season is torture.
Mason: You played Rossi's game, then?
Ethan: Yeah. It's strange, Mase. It feels like cheating. You just move the ball and watch them run until they mess up.
Mason: It's not cheating, it's efficient. Keep soaking it in. We play Stourbridge tomorrow in our first friendly. Callum is starting.
Ethan sat up slightly.
Ethan: Starting? First game back? How are you feeling, Cal?
There was a long pause before the three typing dots appeared.
Callum: Terrified. I'm playing the 10 role. If a non-league center-half decides to hit me hard, I don't know if my leg will hold up.
Mason: He won't hit you hard. Because if he does, he has to deal with me.
Ethan: Listen to the captain, Cal. Just feel the grass. Make the simple passes. Let the ball do the work.
Callum: Thanks, Galactico. I'll try to channel my inner Italian maestro.
Ethan put down his phone. He was 5,000 miles away, learning how to be a top European player, but his heart was suddenly with Callum in a muddy non-league stadium in the West Midlands. Tomorrow, Callum Reid would finally step back onto the field.