Wednesday, March 10th. 7:45 PM. The Home Dressing Room, The Hawthorns.
UEFA Champions League. Round of 16. Second Leg.
West Bromwich Albion vs. Paris SG.
(Aggregate: 1-1)
The away goal rule is a psychological torture device.
West Bromwich Albion didn't need to win tonight to reach the quarter-finals of the Champions League. Thanks to Ethan's incredible assist in Paris, a 0-0 draw would let the Premier League underdogs advance and send the French billionaires home.
Julian Vance stood in the center of the dressing room, the roar of twenty-six thousand fans outside shaking the heavy wooden doors.
"They are coming to our house, and they are desperate," Vance warned, cutting through the nervous tension. "They will not underestimate us this time. They will not play into our hands. They will stretch the pitch until we break. Hold your nerve. Control the space."
Ethan Matthews strapped on the captain's armband—Liam Thorne had pulled a hamstring in training the day before, leaving the ultimate leadership responsibility to the nineteen-year-old. Ethan didn't feel the burden. He just felt a cold, hard focus on the battle ahead.
8:00 PM. Kickoff.
The Hawthorns erupted with noise. Every tackle, every clearance, every touch met with a deafening roar.
But Paris Saint-Germain had studied the first leg. Their elite manager saw that trying to come through the center against Ethan Matthews was a losing strategy.
So, they ignored him completely.
14th Minute.
Paris spread their wingers so wide that their boots were almost touching the touchlines. They expanded the pitch to its maximum.
The Paris center-back collected the ball. Ethan moved up, ready to intercept a pass through the middle.
The pass never came.
Instead, the center-back launched a breathtaking, sixty-yard diagonal ball over Ethan's head and right to the chest of the French left-winger.
The West Brom right-back instantly faced a terrifying one-on-one.
The winger didn't perform a complex trick. He dropped his shoulder, tapped the ball past the defender, and exploded into a run. The athletic superiority was obvious.
He reached the byline and sent a vicious, low cross back into the penalty area.
The Parisian striker—a man who had scored forty goals a season for the last five years—stepped in front of Lucas Vega and guided the ball into the roof of the net with ease.
GOAL.
West Brom 0 - 1 Paris SG.
(Aggregate: 1-2)
The Hawthorns fell silent. The away goal advantage vanished in fourteen minutes.
Ethan clapped his hands, yelling at his defense to keep their heads up, but a cold knot of realization twisted in his stomach. Paris hadn't just beaten them; they had dismantled the tactical game plan.
35th Minute.
West Brom had to chase the game now. A 0-1 loss meant elimination. They needed a goal.
Ethan tried to direct the press, pushing his midfield line higher. But as West Brom expanded their shape to attack, the trap shut.
Paris wasn't playing possession football anymore. They were executing a ruthless counter-attack.
Ethan received the ball near the center circle. He aimed to pass to Jaden Kalu, but the Paris defensive midfielder—a huge, physical enforcer who had been invisible in the first leg—stepped in and tackled Ethan hard, sending him to the ground.
Before Ethan even hit the turf, the ball shifted.
Three passes. Five seconds. The ball was in the back of the West Brom net again.
GOAL.
West Brom 0 - 2 Paris SG.
(Aggregate: 1-3)
Ethan lay on the wet grass a moment longer than necessary, staring at the stadium lights. The gap in class wasn't just clear; it was massive.
Halftime.
West Brom 0 - 2 Paris SG.
The dressing room felt lifeless.
Julian Vance didn't draw on the whiteboard. He just looked at his players.
"They are playing at a level we can't reach tonight," Vance said, his voice quiet, lacking anger. "This is the reality of the Champions League knockout stages. You are against the best in the sport. The tactical plan doesn't matter when the gap is this wide."
Vance turned his gaze to Ethan.
"Don't let them humiliate you in the second half, captain. Play with pride. Fight for the badge. But understand the lesson they are giving you."
The Second Half.
65th Minute.
It became about limiting the damage. Ethan pushed himself to the limit. He tackled, blocked, and covered every inch of the field. He played with the raw intensity of an Eastfield boy determined not to be embarrassed in his home stadium.
But Paris was simply too good. They passed around him with beautiful precision.
78th Minute.
The final nail was driven in with sickening grace.
A sequence of twenty consecutive Parisian passes ended with a delicate ball over the top of the West Brom defense. The Brazilian playmaker let it bounce once before volleying it perfectly into the top corner from outside the box.
GOAL.
West Brom 0 - 3 Paris SG.
(Aggregate: 1-4)
The traveling Parisian fans lit red flares in the away end, the smoke drifting over the pitch like the aftermath of a massacre.
Ethan put his hands on his knees. His lungs burned, his legs felt numb, and his heart was heavy. The European dream was now brutally dead.
90+2 Minutes.
Whistle. Whistle. Whistle.
Full Time.
West Bromwich Albion 0 - 3 Paris SG.
Paris SG advances to the UEFA Champions League Quarter-Finals.
There were no boos from the home fans. As the final whistle blew, the twenty-six thousand West Brom supporters stood and applauded. They acknowledged the effort and accepted the reality. Their team had been defeated by a stronger opponent.
Ethan shook hands with the referee. He didn't ask to swap shirts with anyone. He walked straight toward the tunnel, head held high but jaw tight.
Lorenzo Rossi waited by the touchline. He threw an arm around Ethan's shoulders, leading him into the shadows of the tunnel.
"Don't hang your head," Rossi said gently. "You took a team that was fighting relegation two years ago into the final sixteen of Europe. Tonight, you faced a tough opponent. Next year, you'll be the one collecting the rewards."
11:45 PM. Penthouse Apartment, Birmingham.
The apartment was dark. Ethan sat on the floor of his living room, still in his club tracksuit, staring blankly at the wall.
The adrenaline had faded, leaving a hollow ache. The Champions League music wouldn't play for him again this season.
His phone buzzed beside him.
Group Chat: The Eastfield Boys
Callum: I'm sorry, Eth. I really am. They were just impossible tonight. That third goal was ridiculous.
Mason: Don't sit in the dark and sulk. You got crushed by a team that costs more than the whole city of Birmingham. It's a reality check, not a funeral.
Ethan: I couldn't get close to them. They played around the midfield entirely. I felt useless. They knew how to neutralize me.
Callum: That's because they respect you, General. They changed their whole strategy just to avoid going through you. That's the biggest compliment a team like Paris can give you.
Mason: Wonderkid is right. They didn't beat you in the midfield; they went around you because they were scared of what you did to them in the first leg.
Ethan: It still hurts like hell.
Mason: Good. Let it hurt. Remember this feeling. Then wake up tomorrow, put your boots on, and make sure West Brom finishes in the top four so you can do it all again next year. The World Cup is in three months, Galactico. You don't have time to dwell.
Ethan exhaled a long, shaky breath, the tension in his chest finally easing. Mason was right. The season wasn't over. The ultimate stage was still ahead.
Ethan: You're right. I'll see you boys this weekend. I need to get out of this apartment.
Callum: We play Rotherham United on Saturday. You can buy the pies.
Mason: The string doesn't break, Eth. We go again.