Tuesday, September 29th, 1:00 PM. The Riverton Coach.
The M1 motorway stretched ahead like a long, grey path. The Riverton team coach, which had a hint of dampness and diesel, had been heading north for four hours.
Ethan sat in the middle row, pressed against the window. His legs felt cramped. He had tried to sleep, but the bus jolted with every pothole.
Across the aisle, Baz, the striker, was eating cold pasta from a Tupperware container.
"You alright, West Brom?" Baz mumbled with his mouth full.
"Legs are stiff," Ethan replied, shifting his left knee.
"Get used to it," Baz grunted. "Gateshead away. The International Stadium. It has a running track. You're five miles from the fans, and the wind comes straight off the Tyne. It cuts right through you."
Ethan checked his phone, but there was no signal. He looked at the map. Gateshead felt like the end of the world.
A month ago, he dreamed of the Premier League, private jets, and luxury hotels. Now, he was on a bus to the Northeast to play in front of 800 people on a Tuesday night.
Mick Harrigan stood up at the front of the bus. He swayed with the movement of the vehicle.
"Listen up! We are 23rd in the league. This is embarrassing. Today isn't just about football. It's about pride. If I see anyone hiding tonight because it's a bit chilly, you're walking home."
6:30 PM. Gateshead International Stadium.
Baz wasn't lying. The stadium was a vast concrete bowl with an athletic track around the pitch. The stands felt far away. The wind howled, whipping rain sideways across the field.
Around 600 fans were scattered in the main stand. The atmosphere was cold and unfriendly.
Ethan jogged out for the warm-up. The wind hit him hard. He wore his thermal underlayer, gloves, and a snood.
"Take the snood off!" Harrigan shouted from the tunnel. "You look like a skier! You're a footballer!"
Ethan pulled off the snood. The cold bit at his neck. He looked at the other team. Gateshead players were big and physical. They seemed to thrive in this weather.
7:45 PM. Kickoff.
The game was ugly from the start. The wind made high balls difficult; they hung in the air and dropped unpredictably.
Ethan attempted a ground pass in the 5th minute. The wet surface slowed the ball. It was intercepted.
Gateshead quickly countered. Their midfielder, a bearded giant named O'Keefe, brushed past Ethan.
Ethan chased him, grabbing O'Keefe's shirt. O'Keefe swatted him away like a fly.
"Too small!" O'Keefe yelled.
20th Minute.
Ethan received the ball near the touchline.
O'Keefe came flying in. He slid in, taking the ball, Ethan, and part of the touchline.
Ethan went airborne, landing on the running track, his hip scraping against the tartan surface.
The referee waved play on. "Won the ball."
Ethan lay on the wet rubber track, looking up at the grey sky.
Why am I here?
I could be with the U21s. I could be warm.
He stood up and checked his hip. The skin was grazed and bleeding. He saw O'Keefe laughing with the linesman.
Ethan walked back onto the pitch. He didn't complain. He just clenched his jaw.
Survival.
55th Minute. 0-0.
The game was a battle of attrition. Neither team could connect three passes.
Riverton earned a throw-in deep in Gateshead territory.
Baz threw it to Ethan.
Ethan controlled it with his chest. O'Keefe was on him instantly, breathing down his neck.
"Go home, little boy," O'Keefe whispered.
Ethan didn't try to turn or use tricks. He dropped his center of gravity, backing into O'Keefe and using his body to hold him off. He dug his studs into the turf.
He waited. He felt O'Keefe lean in, trying to take the ball.
Ethan spun. Not away from the pressure, but into it. He used O'Keefe's own momentum to throw him off balance.
O'Keefe stumbled.
Ethan was free. He was in the box.
He raced to the byline and looked up. There was no angle to shoot. He spotted Baz making a run to the near post.
Ethan smashed the ball across the face of the goal. It was a chaotic "mixer" ball.
It hit a Gateshead defender's shin, struck the post, and bounced out.
It hit Baz's knee.
The ball trickled over the line.
GOAL.
0-1 Riverton.
It was the ugliest goal in football history. Ethan didn't care. He punched the air.
O'Keefe got up, his face red with anger. He glared at Ethan.
Ethan glared back.
"Not so small now," Ethan muttered.
75th Minute.
Gateshead were throwing everything at them: long balls, crosses, and elbows.
"Matthews!" Harrigan yelled. "Drop! Be a third center-back!"
Ethan dropped back, standing on the edge of his own box.
A high ball came in, caught by the wind.
Ethan jumped, feeling exhausted. His reconstructed knee ached in the cold.
He headed it clear. But as he landed, a Gateshead player stepped on his foot—hard.
Ethan went down, feeling a sharp pain.
But he looked at the clock. 15 minutes left.
If he stayed down, they might score while he was being treated.
He forced himself up and limped back into position.
"You alright?" his center-back asked.
"Fine," Ethan winced. "Just winded."
90th Minute + 4.
The referee checked his watch.
Gateshead had a corner. The keeper moved up.
The ball was whipped in. The wind swirled as bodies crashed together.
Ethan found himself marking O'Keefe.
O'Keefe grabbed Ethan's shirt, trying to throw him.
Ethan held on tight, anchoring himself.
The ball dropped. O'Keefe swung a leg.
Ethan threw himself in the way.
Thud.
The shot hit Ethan's thigh, instantly causing a dead leg. But he blocked the ball.
Baz cleared it.
Whistle. Whistle. Whistle.
Full Time.
Gateshead 0 - 1 Riverton.
The Aftermath.
Ethan struggled to walk. His left leg was numb from the cold and the block. His hip was bleeding. His foot throbbed.
Harrigan walked onto the pitch, looking like a drowned rat in his raincoat.
He approached Ethan.
"You blocked that shot," Harrigan said.
"Yeah," Ethan gasped.
"O'Keefe is 15 stone," Harrigan noted. "And you stood him up."
Harrigan nodded once.
"Get on the bus. You earned your seat."
11:00 PM. The M1 Southbound.
The bus was dark. Most players were asleep.
Ethan couldn't sleep. His adrenaline was still pumping, battling the exhaustion.
He sat with an ice pack on his thigh. He ate a cold slice of pizza that Baz saved for him.
He checked his phone.
Mason: Saw the score. 1-0 away at Gateshead on a Tuesday. That's a solid result.
Ethan: It was horrible. Worst game of football ever.
Mason: But you won. And you're not in the hospital.
Ethan: Just about. Got a dead leg and a grazed hip.
Callum: War wounds. Wear them with pride. You're out of the relegation zone?
Ethan: Just. 20th.
Ethan set his phone down and looked out the window at the passing streetlights.
He thought about the Premier League—heated seats and perfect grass.
He missed it. He really missed it.
But then he remembered tonight, the block, the silence of the unhappy Gateshead fans, and the nod from Harrigan.
He felt... tough.
He touched his knee. It hadn't buckled. It held firm against the wind and the giants.
He closed his eyes.
I can do this, he thought. I can survive this.
The bus rolled on through the dark, carrying them away from the cold North, three points heavier.