Saturday, May 29th. 9:00 PM The Pitch, Olympiastadion, Berlin.
UEFA Champions League Final. The Second Half.
Real Madrid 1 - 0 West Bromwich Albion.
The Olympiastadion buzzed with nervous energy. The Spanish fans sang, secure in their one-goal lead, expecting their team to expertly run down the final forty-five minutes.
Ethan Matthews stood in the center circle, waiting for the referee's whistle. He didn't look at the massive Champions League trophy shining on the touchline. His focus was on the white shirts of Real Madrid.
Julian Vance's voice echoed in his mind. They are royalty, and royalty does not know how to bleed.
The referee blew the whistle. The second half began.
Real Madrid quickly tried to regain their sterile, suffocating possession. They passed the ball back to their legendary Croatian maestro. He took a smooth touch, looking to set the pace.
He never got the chance.
Ethan didn't just jog to press him. He sprinted. He crossed ten yards of grass in no time, launching himself into a fierce, well-timed sliding tackle.
He took the ball cleanly, but followed through with all his momentum, sending the veteran midfielder crashing hard into the Berlin turf.
The stadium gasped. The Madrid players raised their arms, shouting for a yellow card.
The referee signaled to continue. It was a heavy, working-class tackle, but it was fair.
Ethan didn't apologize. He didn't offer a hand to help the maestro up. He just grabbed the loose ball, shielded it from a second Madrid midfielder with a rough drop of his shoulder, and won a throw-in.
"Wake up!" Ethan shouted, turning to his teammates with fierce intensity in his eyes. "We do not let them play! We put them in the dirt!"
55th Minute.
The chessboard was officially broken.
West Brom had completely lost their tactical finesse. They had turned the Champions League Final into a Sunday League brawl on a frigid morning in Eastfield.
They pressed the man, not the ball. They left late tackles in. They challenged every single header with brutal force.
Real Madrid looked visibly shocked. They were used to teams backing off and trying to outsmart them. They weren't ready for a team willing to make it a street fight.
The elegant Madrid wingers began to shy away from fifty-fifty tackles, scared of Lucas Vega and the West Brom full-backs. The midfield trio, usually composed, started rushing their passes, hearing the heavy footsteps of Ethan Matthews closing in.
68th Minute.
The constant, overwhelming physical pressure finally caused a mistake.
A Madrid center-back, pressed hard by Armando, panicked. Instead of calmly passing to his goalkeeper, he hastily kicked the ball out of play for an unnecessary West Brom corner.
Ethan jogged over to the corner flag. The noise from the English fans was deafening. They could sense the fear.
He raised his left arm. Back post overload.
Ethan whipped the ball in with fury. It went past the near post, hanging in the air just outside the six-yard box.
Liam Thorne didn't try to elegantly jump over his marker. He used his big frame to push the Madrid center-back aside, creating space.
Thorne met the ball with a powerful header that almost took the net off.
GOAL.
Real Madrid 1 - 1 West Bromwich Albion.
The Olympiastadion exploded. The noise hit like a physical shockwave.
Thorne sprinted to the corner flag, his face flushed, yelling at the top of his lungs, until Ethan tackled him to the ground. The aristocracy had been breached. The street fight was working.
82nd Minute.
West Brom had all the momentum. Real Madrid, worn out by the relentless physical play and shaken by the equalizer, clung on, hoping for extra time to regroup.
But Ethan didn't plan to play another thirty minutes.
He operated on pure instinct and adrenaline. He was everywhere. He was a wall in defense and a battering ram in midfield.
Madrid tried to counterattack. Their Brazilian winger slipped past Vega and moved toward the penalty area.
Ethan tracked him all the way back. He played it cool. He waited until the winger dropped his shoulder to shoot, then made a perfect, crunching block, taking the shot on his thigh and clearing it away.
You get nothing, Ethan thought, ignoring the pain in his leg. This is our house now.
89th Minute.
The clock ticked down to the end. Madrid won a throw-in deep in their own half. They were stalling.
The ball went to their defensive midfielder.
Ethan didn't wait for a cue. He just charged.
He raced at the midfielder with startling speed. The Madrid player panicked, taking a heavy touch. Ethan lunged, toe-poking the ball away and instantly turning defense into offense.
The ball rolled perfectly into Jaden Kalu's path on the right wing.
Madrid's defense was in disarray. They had sent too many players forward for the throw-in.
Kalu sprinted down the flank, reaching the edge of the penalty area. He looked up.
Armando was marked by two defenders at the near post. But Kalu noticed the late run.
Ethan hadn't stopped running after making the tackle. He charged straight down the center, completely unmarked, arriving at the edge of the box just as Kalu cut the ball back.
The pass was flawless.
Ethan didn't take a touch. He didn't try to place it. He poured nineteen years of Eastfield grit, every ounce of his summer struggles, and the entire weight of the Black Country into his right boot.
He struck the ball with sheer, overwhelming power.
It stayed two feet off the ground, a white blur slicing through the Berlin night. The legendary Madrid goalkeeper dove, but he was outmatched by the terrifying strength of the shot.
The ball smashed into the back of the net.
GOAL.
Real Madrid 1 - 2 West Bromwich Albion.
Silence fell over the Spanish side of the stadium. The English side erupted into a chaotic, ecstatic roar.
Ethan didn't celebrate. He collapsed to his knees on the Berlin turf, sliding a few feet before tipping forward onto his chest, completely overwhelmed by the enormity of what had just happened.
Seconds later, Liam Thorne, Armando, Kalu, and the entire West Brom bench jumped on top of him.
90+4 Minutes.
Whistle. Whistle. Whistle.
Full Time.
West Bromwich Albion are the Champions of Europe.
The sound was deafening. Fireworks lit up the sky over the Olympiastadion.
Real Madrid players fell to the grass in tears. The Kings of Europe had been dethroned by a team that cost a fraction of their salaries, beaten not by tactics, but by sheer determination.
Julian Vance pulled Ethan to his feet. The stoic manager had tears in his eyes. He hugged Ethan tightly.
"You did it, General," Vance shouted over the crowd's roar. "You conquered the world."
10:30 PM. The Dressing Room, Olympiastadion.
The dressing room was in shambles. Champagne covered the walls, the tactical board, and the ceiling. The massive silver trophy sat prominently in the center, surrounded by exhausted, ecstatic players singing loudly.
Ethan sat in his locker, a gold medal hanging heavily around his neck, a bottle of water in his hand. He pulled out his phone, wiping champagne off the screen.
Group Chat: The Eastfield Boys
Mason: CHAMPIONS OF EUROPE. CHAMPIONS OF THE BLOODY WORLD. I AM CRYING IN A BEER GARDEN IN GERMANY. YOU DID IT, ETHAN. YOU ACTUALLY DID IT.
Callum: The high press in the 89th minute was the bravest tactical move I've ever seen. You left the defensive shape to force an error from their deepest midfielder, fully exposing their lack of pace. Perfect read, Eth.
Mia: I have lost my voice. The pub is completely wrecked. We love you so much, Eth! You're a legend forever!
Ethan: I told you, Cal. No chess. Just a street fight. We put them in the mud.
Mason: You put them in the concrete, General. Bring that cup back to the Black Country.
Ethan: I'm bringing it home, boys. The factory is officially closed for the summer.
Ethan locked his phone and leaned his head back against the concrete wall of the dressing room. He looked at the shining silver trophy in the center.
The ghosts of the World Cup were completely gone. He was no longer the broken wonderkid.
He was Ethan Matthews. The Dictator of The Hawthorns. And he was the King of Europe.