Saturday, April 3rd. 2:00 PM. The Dressing Room, The Hawthorns.
April. The toughest month in football.
In August, you dream. In December, you grind. In April, you survive.
The Championship table was intense:
3. Luton Town - 75 pts
4. Middlesbrough - 74 pts
5. Coventry City - 70 pts
6. West Bromwich Albion - 69 pts
7. Sunderland - 68 pts
8. Blackburn - 67 pts
West Brom clung to 6th place by just one point. Every tackle counted. Every yellow card counted.
Julian Vance stood in the center of the room. He didn't have a tactical board today. He held a calendar.
"Seven games," Vance said quietly. "Seven battles. If we win five, we are in the playoffs. If we stumble, Sunderland will overtake us."
He looked at Ethan.
"Today is Millwall."
The room fell silent. Everyone understood.
Millwall was the team against which Ethan had injured his knee fourteen months ago. The Lions were back. They were physical, aggressive, and they knew exactly who Ethan was.
Ethan tightened his laces. He felt the titanium shin pad against his leg.
"Let them come," Ethan said.
3:30 PM. The Pitch.
West Bromwich Albion 0 - 0 Millwall.
The game was a fight. Millwall seemed content with a 0-0 draw. They stayed back, kicked anything that moved, and took their time.
Ethan took a beating. He had taken an elbow to the ribs in the 10th minute and a late slide tackle in the 35th.
65th Minute.
Ethan got the ball in the center circle.
He saw a flash of blue approaching. It was Cooper, the Millwall center-back. The same player involved in the tackle last year.
Cooper didn't slow down. He came in hard, studs showing.
The crowd held its breath.
The "Old Ethan" might have jumped. He might have protected himself.
Ethan planted his left foot—the rebuilt one—into the ground. He leaned into the impact.
Thud.
Ethan didn't fall. He absorbed the hit, sent Cooper off his hip, and spun away with the ball.
Cooper hit the ground. Ethan stayed on his feet.
The Hawthorns erupted. It felt better than a goal. It was a release.
Ethan pressed forward. The Millwall midfield was scattered.
He saw Jaden Kalu making a run.
Ethan slipped the ball perfectly between the defenders.
Kalu took a touch and smashed it home.
GOAL.
1-0 West Brom.
Ethan didn't celebrate with the team. He turned to Cooper, who was getting up.
"Try harder," Ethan whispered.
Tuesday, April 6th. 7:45 PM. The Gateshead International Stadium.
Three days later, in the cold northeast wind, Crestwood United was fighting for playoffs of their own.
The National League table was crowded:
6. Boreham Wood - 65 pts
7. Solihull Moors - 63 pts
8. Crestwood United - 62 pts
9. Eastleigh - 61 pts
Crestwood was chasing. They needed to win their game in hand to move into the playoff spots.
Mason Turner stood in the tunnel. He looked drained. He was working shifts at the warehouse during the day and captaining a promotion push at night. His eyes were dark circles.
"Legs have gone," Callum Reid muttered next to him, stretching his hamstrings. "I'm running on Red Bull and anger."
"You don't need legs," Mason said. "You need heart. We win tonight, we go 7th. Let's go."
Kickoff.
Gateshead played quickly. They played on a plastic pitch that zipped the ball around.
Crestwood spent the first 45 minutes chasing shadows.
Halftime: 0-0.
The Crestwood dressing room was quiet. No yelling. Just heavy breathing.
"They're tired too," The Gaffer said, trying to lift spirits. "One moment of magic. That's all we need."
75th Minute.
Gateshead had a corner.
Mason went up. He clashed heads with their striker.
He landed hard. He felt blood trickling down his nose.
"Ref! He's bleeding!" shouted the Gateshead player, trying to get Mason sent off for treatment.
Mason wiped the blood onto his sleeve. "It's stopped. Play on."
He refused to leave the pitch.
88th Minute.
The game was heading for a draw. A draw wasn't enough.
Callum Reid picked up the ball deep in his own half.
He looked up. He saw Mason—bloodied nose and all—making a desperate run from center-back.
Callum didn't pass to him. But Mason's run drew two defenders away.
Callum cut inside.
He was 25 yards out. The plastic pitch favored a low shot.
He hit it.
The ball skidded off the surface, picked up speed, and found the bottom corner.
GOAL.
0-1 Crestwood.
Callum collapsed. Mason fell on top of him. The whole team piled on.
They weren't celebrating with joy; they were celebrating with relief.
Saturday, April 10th. 9:00 PM. The Group Chat.
Ethan sat in his apartment, watching Match of the Day. West Brom had drawn 1-1 with Stoke that afternoon, keeping them in 6th place by a thread.
His phone buzzed.
Mason: Just got back from the North. My nose is broken again.
Ethan: Typical. Did you win?
Callum: 1-0. Ugly. Awful. I loved it. We are 7th, Eth. We are actually in the spots.
Ethan: I'm 6th. You're 7th. It's happening.
Mason: Don't jinx it. We have 5 games left. Wrexham, Notts County, Chesterfield. The fixture list is brutal.
Ethan: We have Sheffield United and Norwich. Same here.
Callum: Imagine though. What if we both make the playoffs? The finals are the same weekend at Wembley.
Ethan: Saturday: Championship Final. Sunday: National League Final.
Mason: The Double Header. We could watch each other play at Wembley.
Ethan put his phone down.
The thought sent a chill down his spine.
Wembley. The arch. The 90,000 seats.
Three kids from Eastfield who used to use jumpers for goalposts.
He picked the phone back up.
Ethan: Let's make a pact. Nobody drops out. We both go to Wembley.
Mason: Deal. The String Don't Break.
Callum: Deal. (But if I die of exhaustion, bury me in the center circle).