Sunday, May 30th. 2:00 PM High Street, West Bromwich.
The UEFA Champions League Victory Parade.
The Black Country lacks glamour. It is a region built on iron, coal, and the hard work of its people. It features red-brick factories, winding canals, and gray skies.
But today, the sky was a clear, bright blue, and the streets sparkled.
An estimated four hundred thousand people filled the streets of West Bromwich and nearby areas. Every balcony, rooftop, and bus stop was packed with a sea of navy and white. Flares sent thick blue smoke into the warm afternoon air, and the crowd's roar sounded like a huge wave of joy.
Ethan Matthews stood at the front of the open-top double-decker bus, leaning against the railing.
He wore a loose, retro West Brom shirt from the 1970s, sunglasses, and a heavy gold medal hanging around his neck. His voice was gone from singing in the dressing room the night before, but the huge, toothless smile on his face said it all.
Just a few feet to his right, Liam Thorne was having the time of his life. The big center-back had tied a West Brom scarf around his head like a bandana. He held the large Champions League trophy over the edge of the bus, lifting it for the cheering crowds and shouting until his face turned purple.
Ethan watched his captain, feeling a deep peace wash over him. The pressure from the summer, the stress of the Swiss Gauntlet, the fatigue from the Camp Nou—it all faded away.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. It had been buzzing non-stop for eighteen hours, but he recognized this specific vibration.
Group Chat: The Eastfield Boys
Callum: We are by the Farley Clock Tower. The crowd is huge, but Mason elbowed us right to the front barrier. Look for the big St. George's flag with 'EASTFIELD' spray-painted on it.
Mason: I haven't slept at all. I'm running on pure adrenaline and terrible cider. Get that cup over here, General!
Mia: We see the bus turning the corner now! I'm crying again!
Ethan: I see the clock tower. Have the flag ready.
Ethan put his phone back in his pocket and tapped Thorne on the shoulder. He pointed down the avenue toward the tall Victorian clock tower.
"The Eastfield boys are down there on the left, Liam!" Ethan shouted over the crowd.
Thorne grinned widely, gripping the trophy tighter. "Let's give them a show, General!"
2:45 PM. The Farley Clock Tower.
The bus crawled forward slowly, completely surrounded by the excited crowd.
Julian Vance stepped up beside Ethan. The manager had finally changed out of his tactical gear. He wore a simple white t-shirt and track pants. He looked ten years younger than he had on the touchline in Berlin.
Vance looked out at the endless sea of people. Grown men were crying while holding small children in replica kits. Teenagers climbed lampposts just to catch a glimpse of the silver cup.
"Look at them, Ethan," Vance said quietly, his voice barely audible over the parade's roar.
Ethan leaned against the railing and took it all in. "It's incredible, boss. I didn't think there were this many people in the whole Midlands."
"Football in this country isn't just a game," Vance murmured, his dark eyes reflecting the flares in the crowd. "For many of these people, it's their identity. When the team struggles, the town struggles. When the team is humiliated by the billionaires and the elite, the people feel it."
Vance turned to his nineteen-year-old midfield player.
"You didn't just win a trophy last night," Vance said, his tone full of quiet respect. "You gave them their pride back. You showed them that the concrete can still break the cathedrals. They will remember your name in this town for the next hundred years."
Ethan swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the manager's words settle in. He wasn't just a footballer to these people; he was one of them.
"There they are!" Thorne suddenly shouted.
Ethan looked down at the pavement. Pressed hard against the metal crowd barriers was a huge white flag with the word EASTFIELD spray-painted in jagged black letters.
Mason Turner held one end, shouting at the top of his lungs, his scarred face stretched into a huge grin. Callum Reid held the other end, jumping up and down and completely abandoning his usual stoic demeanor. Mia was squeezed between them, waving frantically, tears streaming down her face.
Ethan didn't just wave.
He turned to Thorne and grabbed the heavy silver handles of the Champions League trophy. Thorne nodded, understanding instantly, and let go.
Ethan walked to the edge of the bus, right above where his friends stood. He lifted the twenty-pound trophy high above his head, the sun catching its shiny surface, and held it out toward the Eastfield flag.
Mason pointed back at him, hitting his chest above his heart. Callum gave a sharp salute full of pride.
They had been there when he was the most hated man in England. They had been with him when he couldn't bear to turn on the TV. They had helped him rebuild.
This trophy belonged to them just as much as it did to him.
4:00 PM. Victoria Square, Birmingham.
The bus finally arrived at its destination, pulling into the large civic square in the heart of Birmingham. A massive stage stood in front of the Council House, surrounded by tens of thousands of fans who had waited for hours.
One by one, the players stepped off the bus and onto the stage, greeted by thunderous cheers.
When the announcer finally called Ethan's name, the noise shifted. It wasn't just cheering; it became a deep, unified chant that echoed off the stone buildings of the square.
"He governs the midfield! He governs the pitch! Ethan Matthews, he's making us rich!"
Ethan walked to the center of the stage and took the microphone from the presenter. He looked out at the endless sea of navy and white.
He didn't have a prepared speech. He had no PR training. He was just a boy from a tough neighborhood who happened to be very good at playing football.
"They told us we didn't belong in this competition," Ethan's voice boomed over the loudspeakers, carrying a strong edge that silenced the crowd. "They said we were just tourists. They said we didn't have the pedigree."
He paused, glancing down at the Champions League trophy resting beside him.
"But pedigree doesn't win tackles," Ethan continued, his voice rising as the Eastfield spirit shone through every word. "Pedigree doesn't run through the mud. We went to Madrid, Paris, and Barcelona. And we dragged every single one of them down into the concrete!"
The square erupted into a cacophony of excitement and triumph.
Ethan grabbed the trophy by its massive handles.
"This isn't for the billionaires!" Ethan shouted, raising the cup high into the blue sky. "This is for the Black Country!"
Silver confetti burst from cannons flanking the stage, falling over the players and the crowd. The operatic Champions League anthem played loudly, completely drowned out by the fans' singing.
Ethan stood in the middle of the chaos, the confetti sticking to his sweat, the heavy silver cup in his hands.
The system was closed. The space was ruled. The factory had produced its ultimate product.
The Dictator of The Hawthorns was right where he belonged.