Friday, August 28th. 12:00 PM. The Canteen, West Bromwich Albion Training Ground.
The UEFA Europa League Draw.
The big flat-screen TV in the players' canteen usually played Sky Sports News on mute. Today, it was loud, and every chair was filled.
The UEFA Europa League draw ceremony felt like a long, drawn-out show. There was music, a highlight reel of last year's goals, and several middle-aged executives giving long speeches about the new "Swiss model" format.
The usual four-team groups were gone. Instead, there was a single, large 36-team league table. West Brom would face eight different opponents—four at The Hawthorns and four away in Europe. Two teams from each of the four pots.
Ethan Matthews sat between Liam Thorne and Lorenzo Rossi, a plate of grilled chicken and pasta untouched before him. His leg bounced nervously under the table.
"I miss the old days," Thorne grunted, checking his watch. "Now they just press a button, and a supercomputer spits out eight teams. It takes away the romance. Plus, I have a massage booked in twenty minutes."
"Patience, Capitano," Rossi smiled, sipping a well-made espresso. "The machine does the math, but the places are the same. This is the reward for what we've been through. Enjoy the show."
Since it was their first European campaign in a generation, West Brom's UEFA coefficient was low. They were placed in Pot 3.
12:45 PM. The Draw.
The presenter manually drew the ball for West Bromwich Albion from Pot 3. The camera zoomed in on the big digital screen as the automated software quickly calculated and displayed their eight fixtures.
The names appeared at once, and a hush fell over the canteen.
Pot 1 Opponents: Ajax (Home), AS Roma (Away).
"Roma," Rossi nodded approvingly. "The Stadio Olimpico. Beautiful city. Terrible pitch. But the food after the match is fantastic."
Pot 2 Opponents: Real Sociedad (Home), Galatasaray (Away).
The canteen fell completely silent at the second name. Galatasaray. Istanbul. RAMS Park. A stadium notorious for its deafening noise and a fanbase that created an atmosphere of pure intimidation.
"Right," Thorne muttered, sitting up a little straighter. "That's not a holiday, then."
"Istanbul," Rossi said, pausing with his espresso cup halfway to his mouth. He didn't smile this time. "Very loud. When you have the ball, they whistle so loudly your ears ring. When you lose the ball, they roar. Do not let them roar, Ethan."
Ethan swallowed hard. He had played at Anfield and Old Trafford, but the look in Rossi's eyes told him that Turkey brought a different kind of pressure.
The rest of the screen displayed their opponents.
Pot 3: SC Braga (Home), Eintracht Frankfurt (Away).
Pot 4: IFK Göteborg (Home), Legia Warsaw (Away).
Eight games. Eight different tactical styles. And a brutal, freezing trip to Poland in the dead of winter right in the middle of the festive schedule.
Players started shouting and banging their hands on the tables. The reality hit them. It was no longer an abstract idea. They were going to Rome. They were going to Istanbul.
Julian Vance stood at the back, leaning against the doorframe. He didn't cheer. He pulled out a small notebook from his tracksuit pocket and wrote down the eight names. He caught Ethan's eye over the heads of the celebrating players, tapped his temple with his pen, and walked out to start preparing.
Ethan looked at the screen, mentally calculating the air miles. He pulled out his phone.
1:15 PM. The M6 Motorway, Northbound.
Rain pounded against the windows of the Crestwood United team coach. The heating was broken, and the bus smelled of damp polyester and Deep Heat. They crawled through heavy traffic on their way to a Friday night fixture against Barrow.
Callum Reid sat in the window seat, a large bag of ice on his surgically repaired hamstring. He was closely reviewing a printed sheet of Barrow's set-piece routines. Every minute he played was money earned; he couldn't afford a mistake.
Mason Turner sat across the aisle, his long legs crammed into a tiny space, trying to sleep with a hoodie pulled over his eyes.
Callum's phone buzzed on the fold-down tray. He picked it up.
Group Chat: The Eastfield Boys
Ethan: The new format is wild. Eight different games. Roma away. Galatasaray away. Frankfurt away. Legia Warsaw away in December.
Callum stared at the screen. He looked out the window at the gloomy British motorway, then back at the text.
Callum: You're playing in the Stadio Olimpico. I'm currently eating a cold cheese sandwich while staring at a traffic jam near Stoke-on-Trent.
Mason's hand reached out from under his hoodie, blindly grabbing his phone from the seat next to him. Moments later, the three typing dots appeared.
Mason: Galatasaray away. Good luck. I've seen YouTube videos of that place. The fans literally set the stadium on fire before kickoff.
Ethan: Rossi just told me not to let them roar. I think I'm actually terrified.
Mason: Just pretend it's Walsall on a Tuesday night. Same thing, just more flares. We are booking flights to Rome, by the way. I don't care if we have a game Saturday; I'll fake a calf strain to watch you get two-footed by an Italian center-back.
Callum: I can't fake an injury, Mase. I won't get paid. But I'll watch on TV with a big bowl of pasta in support.
Ethan smiled as he read the messages. The contrast felt absurd, comical, and grounding.
Ethan: Keep yourselves safe in Barrow tonight. I need my captain and my Number 10 in one piece.
Mason: Always. The string won't break. Enjoy the glamour, Galactico.
Callum locked his phone and leaned his head against the cold glass of the bus window. He pulled the ice pack a little tighter against his leg.
"Rome," Callum whispered to himself, a small, proud smile on his face. He nudged Mason's knee across the aisle. "Our boy is going to Rome, Mase."
"I know," Mason grunted from under his hood, his voice thick with sleep and genuine pride. "Now let me sleep. We've got a battle in Barrow."
2:00 PM. The Manager's Office, West Bromwich Albion.
Ethan knocked twice and pushed the door open. Julian Vance stood in front of a large tactical whiteboard. He had pinned a map of Europe, with red string stretching from Birmingham to Italy, Turkey, Germany, and Poland.
"You wanted to see me, boss?"
"Sit down, Ethan," Vance said, not turning around. He pointed at the map. "Look at this league phase. What do you see?"
Ethan sat down, studying the web of red strings. "Hostile environments. Constant travel. A tough schedule."
"I see a marathon that breaks sprinters," Vance corrected him, turning around. "The old group stage allowed you to learn about an opponent and play them twice. Now? Every Thursday is a whole new tactical puzzle. We play the Italian low block one week, the German high press the next, and emotional chaos in Turkey after that."
Vance walked over to his desk and leaned against it. "Lorenzo Rossi will be the brain of this operation, Ethan. He knows how to navigate these waters. But you are still the heart. The Rossi Method is about resting with the ball. But against these teams, on these pitches, there will be times when the ball is gone, the stadium shakes, and the tactics go out the window."
Vance pointed his marker directly at Ethan. "In those moments, I do not need the elegant European playmaker. I need the kid from the lower leagues. I need the kid who tackled Liam Thorne in training. Can you be both across these eight different battles?"
Ethan met his manager's eyes. The fear of Istanbul and the awe of Rome faded, replaced by the cold determination that had pushed him out of Eastfield in the first place.
"I can be whatever you need me to be, boss."
"Good," Vance nodded sharply. "Because the Thursday-Sunday grind is about to begin. And it takes no prisoners."