Monday, November 9th. 07:30 AM. The Gym.
The calendar on the wall of the Riverton gym had X's marked all over it. Since the Crestwood game, Ethan had played seven games in 21 days. W-W-D-W-L-W-W.
Riverton had climbed out of the relegation zone and was now sitting in 14th place. The "West Brom Kid" was no longer a novelty; he was now the first name on the team sheet.
Ethan was doing pull-ups. His upper body had transformed. The skinny teenager who arrived in August was gone. Now, he was leaner and stronger. His shoulders were broader, built to withstand the constant pushing of the National League.
Mick Harrigan walked in, holding a newspaper. "Matthews. Drop."
Ethan dropped from the bar and landed softly on his feet. "Morning, boss."
Harrigan slapped the paper onto a bench. FA CUP FIRST ROUND DRAW: RIVERTON TO FACE LEAGUE ONE GIANTS.
"Peterborough United," Harrigan said, his eyes shining. "At home. Saturday. They are 3rd in League One. They score goals for fun."
Ethan wiped his hands on a towel. "Peterborough?"
"One of the teams that said 'no' to you in the summer," Harrigan reminded him with a smirk. "Their manager thought you were 'too lightweight' for their midfield."
Ethan felt heat rise in his neck. "Too lightweight."
"Saturday is televised," Harrigan continued. "BBC highlights. A full house. And I had a call this morning. West Brom are sending Ben Garner."
"The Loan Manager?"
"No," Harrigan shook his head. "Garner is the Assistant Manager. Vance's right-hand man. They're coming to see if you're ready for January."
Ethan stared at the newspaper headline. POSH TO CRUSH MINNOWS.
"I'll be ready," Ethan replied.
Saturday, November 14th. 2:55 PM. The Riverton Arena.
The stadium looked completely different from the empty shell of August. 4,500 people packed in. Every seat was filled. Fans hung off the fences. The air was filled with the smell of fried onions and flares in the cold November chill.
Ethan stood in the tunnel. To his right, the Peterborough United players appeared polished. Their expensive kits and neatly groomed hair made them look like professionals expecting a comfortable 3-0 win over semi-pros.
Ethan glanced down at his muddy kit, which was already dirtied before the game even began (the warm-up pitch was a bog). His shin pads—The String Don't Break—were taped tightly.
"Don't respect them!" Harrigan shouted one last time before pushing them out. "They think you're plumbers! Show them you're wolves!"
Kickoff.
Peterborough started quickly. They moved the ball with a speed and precision that Riverton hadn't seen all season. For the first ten minutes, Ethan barely touched the ball. He was running after shadows.
"Too easy!" the Peterborough fans chanted from the away end.
15th Minute.
Peterborough's star midfielder, a slick Number 10 named Clarke, received the ball in space. He turned and saw Ethan. He saw a teenager. Clarke smiled and attempted to flick the ball over Ethan's head—a sombrero.
It was disrespectful. It was arrogant. It was a mistake.
Ethan didn't track the ball. He focused on Clarke. As Clarke tried to maneuver around him, Ethan stepped in front. He used his newfound upper-body strength and slammed his shoulder into Clarke's chest.
Thud.
Clarke bounced off Ethan and went down. Ethan controlled the falling ball with his knee, spun, and sent a 40-yard diagonal pass to Baz.
The crowd erupted. A roar of pure, primal energy.
Ethan stood over Clarke. "Not today," he said. "Keep it on the floor."
40th Minute.
The game remained goalless, but the momentum had shifted. The Riverton crowd sensed an opportunity. The pitch was cutting up, slowing down Peterborough's passing.
Ethan was everywhere. He wasn't playing as a "Number 10" or "Number 6." He was playing as a warrior.
He won a header against a 6 ft 2 in center-back. He slid in to block a cross. He shouted at his winger to track back.
Up in the Director's Box, Ben Garner jotted notes in his notebook. Physically dominant. Vocal. Angry.
65th Minute.
0-0.
Peterborough was losing their cool. They started rushing their passes.
Ethan anticipated a lazy pass from their left back. He intercepted it. Space opened up.
"Drive!" Harrigan yelled.
Ethan pushed forward. He covered ground quickly. Two Peterborough midfielders approached him. Ethan didn't slow down. He didn't look for a foul.
He executed a "La Croqueta"—moving the ball from his right foot to his left in a blur—and slipped between the two players. He was 25 yards out.
He saw Baz making a run, pulling defenders deep. Space opened up in front of him.
Ethan recalled the Ipswich game. The hesitation. The pass sideways. He remembered the Millwall game. The injury. He remembered being told he was "too lightweight."
He didn't pass. He fired a shot.
It was a knuckleball. It dipped and swerved in the wind. The Peterborough keeper dove, but the ball shifted late. It brushed his glove and crashed into the bottom corner.
GOAL. 1-0 Riverton.
The stadium shook. Literally shook. Ethan didn't celebrate with a knee slide. He ran directly to the sideline, right in front of the Peterborough dugout. He stood still, arms out, glaring at the manager who had rejected him.
"ARE YOU WATCHING?!" Baz yelled, jumping onto Ethan's back. "ARE YOU WATCHING?!"
88th Minute.
Riverton was hanging on. Peterborough had a corner. Everyone was up, even the keeper.
The ball came in. Chaos ensued. A Peterborough player swung a boot. The ball was heading for the bottom corner.
Ethan was on the post. He had no time to kick it. He threw himself at it.
The ball hit his chest—right on the West Brom crest of his undershirt—and bounced out. He scrambled and cleared it away.
"AWAY!" he shouted.
Full Time.
Riverton 1 - 0 Peterborough United.
The whistle blew. Pitch invasion.
Ethan was swarmed. Fans patted his back, hugged him, and tried to grab his shirt. "Legend! You're a legend, Matthews!"
Ethan fought through the crowd. He felt exhausted, bruised, and ecstatic. He reached the tunnel.
Mick Harrigan was waiting. Tears were streaming down his broken nose. He grabbed Ethan and kissed him on the forehead. "You beautiful, angry bastard," Harrigan sobbed. "You did it."
6:00 PM. The Manager's Office.
Ethan sat with an ice pack on his knee. The door opened. Ben Garner walked in, wearing a West Brom coat.
Harrigan stood up. "Ben. Good to see you."
"Mick," Garner nodded. "Hell of a result."
Garner turned to Ethan. "Hello, Ethan."
"Hi, Ben," Ethan replied.
Garner noticed the mud on Ethan's kit and the bruise forming on his cheekbone. "Vance sent me to check on the knee," Garner said.
"The knee is fine," Ethan said.
"I can see that," Garner smiled. "I also saw you dominate a League One midfield. Clarke is worth £2 million. You made him look like a kid."
Garner took out his phone. "I just spoke to Julian. He watched the stream."
Ethan's heart raced. "And?"
"West Brom is 8th in the Championship," Garner said. "We are struggling for creativity and bite."
Garner put the phone away.
"You have six weeks until the January window opens. Keep playing like this. Stay angry. Because on January 1st... I think your loan is being ended."
Ethan sat up straighter. "Ended?"
"Recalled," Garner clarified. "Julian wants you back. Not for the reserves. For the First Team."
Ethan glanced at Harrigan. Harrigan sighed. "I knew it. I knew I wouldn't keep you." He looked at Ethan. "Go on then. Give us six more weeks. Get us into the playoffs. Then you can go back to your heated seats."
Ethan stood up and shook Garner's hand. "I'll be ready."
8:00 PM. The Car Park.
Ethan walked to his car. He checked his phone. It was buzzing with messages.
Mason: GIANT KILLER. Saw the goal on Twitter. Absolute rocket.
Callum: Did you stare down the Peterborough bench? Savage. I love it.
Gary: Proud doesn't cover it. Mum is crying.
Ethan leaned against his car. The cold November wind no longer felt biting. He had survived the drop. He had survived the mud. And now, he had a return date.
January 1st.
He took one last look at the Riverton stadium. He had six weeks to finish the job here and to leave a legacy. Then... he was going home to complete what he started at The Hawthorns.