August 14th, Saturday. 09:00 AM The Ironworks Estate, Eastfield.
Epilogue.
The silver trophies had been securely stored in the glass cabinets at The Hawthorns, the parades were now over, the confetti had been swept up from the streets of Birmingham and the billionaires of Europe had gone back to their boardrooms to work out how to stop the machine.
Yet in Eastfield the concrete had not changed.
The pitch at The Ironworks was a roughly rectangular area with patchy grass, broken glass, and rusted metal goalposts, but no nets. It was surrounded on all sides by tall, grey council flats which cut out the morning sun. This was the complete opposite of Wembley Stadium.
It was perfect.
Ethan Matthews was in the centre circle—though it was merely a dull ring sprayed onto the earth—wearing a simple grey hoodie and a pair of worn trainers. He had a heavily scuffed and heavy football held under his arm.
As a final action, he took his phone out of his pocket before the new season officially started.
Group Chat: The Eastfield Boys
Mia: Callum is at the moment working out the best trajectory for a free-kick over the broken fence; I asked him simply to kick it. We're now walking down from the flat!
Callum: The wind resistance caused by the council blocks results in a highly unpredictable vortex, Mia. It needs a particular spin rate. And Ethan, Vance sent me this afternoon the tactical dossier for the Premier League opener. The rest of the league is terrified.
Mason: I'm already there at the pitch, Wonderkid. Stop typing and come down here now. The match at Crestwood starts at 3 PM, and I need a good warm-up before I head back to the League One trenches.
Ethan: Leave the dossiers at home, Cal. The mud is all we've got today. We'll meet up in five.
Ethan locked the phone and put it in his gym bag which was on the sideline.
He raised his head and saw Mason Turner walking across the uneven grass in his red-and-black Crestwood United tracksuit. As the League One captain, he looked just as imposing and feral as always, the scar on his cheek reflecting the grey morning light.
Mason grinned, showing off his missing tooth as he put his bag beside Ethan's, and added, "Even so, you still can't afford a pitch that has real grass on it."
"Grass will soften you, Mase," Ethan replied, throwing the heavy, scuffed ball to his best friend. "We've got a title to defend this afternoon, and I wanted to remember what the mud felt like."
Mason caught the ball and held it underneath his boot. He glanced round the ironwork cage which was the Ironworks pitch. It was here that they had bled. It was here that they had struggled to survive long before anyone had ever cared about their names.
"This year everyone is going to be coming after you, General," Mason said, lowering his playful tone and substituting it with one of cold and hard realism. "All the aristocrats, all the billionaires, all the tactical geniuses. They want the crown back."
"Let them come," Ethan said, a slow and ruthless smile appearing on his face.
The heavy metal gate at the side of the pitch swung open and Callum Reid and Mia went inside. Callum was in a perfectly clean jacket which at once seemed out of place, and Mia had two cups of steaming coffee, laughing at something that Callum was attempting to explain with his hands.
When Callum's girlfriend saw them she beamed and said, "You two mustn't break each other's ankles! The season starts today!"
"I won't make any promises, Mia!" Mason shouted and kicked the ball up into his hands.
Mason looked back at Ethan. The Crestwood captain adopted an athletic position, fixing his eyes on the Dictator of The Hawthorns. The Champions League anthem was not playing. There were no cameras present. All that existed was the concrete, the cold wind, and the clear truth of the sport.
"First to five wins," Mason challenged, throwing the ball straight towards Ethan's chest and adding that there were to be no fouls and no crying.
Ethan held the ball firmly against his chest and let it drop precisely to the ground. He didn't look at the rusted goalposts; instead, he focused on the space between them, on the geometry of the dirt, and on the precise angles needed to control this small, damaged section of the world.
Though he was king in Europe, he was actually made here in the shadows of the estate.
"Your funeral, Mase," Ethan whispered.
He lowered his shoulder, tapped the ball forward into the dirt, and then started working.
The factory was open and would never, ever, close.