Wednesday, July 15th. 2:00 PM. The Ironworks Gym, Eastfield.
The excitement of the European Cup felt like it belonged to another time.
Inside the Ironworks Gym, there were no flashing cameras, no pristine training fields, and no air conditioning. Just the intense July heat, the smell of chalk, and the harsh clanking of rusted iron.
Ethan Matthews stood in front of a frayed cable machine, his grey t-shirt soaked with sweat. He wasn't lifting for looks; he was building strength. The Champions League had shown him the harsh reality of elite European football. He needed more upper-body strength to hold off the massive center-backs he faced.
He gripped the rope attachment, stepped forward, and bent at the hips. He performed a slow, very controlled overhead extension to target the long head of the triceps.
"You're doing that pretty boy isolation stuff again, General," a rough voice called over the hum of a large industrial fan.
Mason Turner dropped a heavy barbell onto the rubber mats with a loud crash, wiping chalk off his calloused hands.
"It's not pretty boy stuff, Mase," Ethan grunted, letting the cable retract. He quickly adjusted the pin, lowering the weight slightly for standard pushdowns to target the short head of the muscle. "To control the space, I have to be able to shield the ball. Upper arm mass is the difference between keeping the ball and being pushed into the advertising boards."
"Whatever you say," Mason laughed, grabbing a towel. "I just need to survive."
Mason walked over, looking leaner and more determined than he had in May.
"Crestwood United is still in League One this season," Mason said, a familiar toughness in his voice. "We missed the Championship playoffs by two points last May. Two points. That means next month, I face forty-six games of tough battles against teams that just want to hurt me."
Ethan finished his pushdowns and grabbed a pair of heavy dumbbells for a set of slow, painful hammer curls.
"You're the captain, Mase," Ethan said, working on the brachialis muscle to reinforce his elbow joints for the tough midfield matchups. "You command the field in League One. They should worry about you hurting them."
"Oh, they are," Mason grinned, showing off his missing tooth.
The heavy metal door of the gym creaked open, letting in a bright shaft of afternoon sunlight. Callum Reid walked in, wearing a clean, pressed polo shirt that stood out in the gritty Eastfield gym.
"You two have been in here for three hours," Callum said, adjusting his glasses. "Mia is waiting in the car. She said if you don't finish your workout in the next ten minutes, she's leaving us to walk home in this heat."
"Tell Mia to turn on the AC in the car and give us five more minutes," Ethan replied with a smile, dropping the dumbbells.
"I already did," Callum said, pulling a folded piece of paper from his pocket. "I also brought you this. The club embargo lifted this morning. Julian Vance has started making moves in the transfer market."
Mason quickly forgot about his barbell. He walked over, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Who are we bringing to The Hawthorns, Wonderkid? We have Champions League money now. We can buy anyone."
Callum unfolded the paper, laying it out on a weight bench. It was a printed list of names, organized by squad roles, like a well-crafted draft.
"Vance isn't buying superstars," Callum explained, tapping the paper. "He's looking for certain class synergies that fit your playstyle, Ethan. He's building a roster designed for strong transitions. He just signed a ball-winning defensive midfielder from the Bundesliga."
Ethan looked at the name. It belonged to a gritty, hardworking player known for covering a lot of ground, not for fancy moves or social media clout.
"Perfect," Ethan nodded. "He does the sweeping; I control the tempo."
"Exactly," Callum continued. "Vance is also finalizing a deal for a fast, left-footed winger from the Championship to support Kalu on the right. It completely balances the attack. If teams try to overload the right side to stop Kalu, the new winger will have plenty of space on the weak side."
"A fighter from Germany and a fast winger from the lower leagues," Mason approved, crossing his massive arms. "Vance isn't letting the European Cup go to his head. He's still building a strong team for the grind."
"He knows the Premier League is tougher this year," Ethan said quietly, grabbing his gym bag from the floor. "We aren't the underdogs anymore. We aren't the surprise package. Every team in the country will treat playing us like their cup final."
"Let them," Mason grinned. "You beat the billionaires and outsmarted the tacticians. Now you just have to do it again."
Ethan zipped up his bag and threw it over his shoulder, feeling a deep, satisfying ache in his arms. The summer break had been a necessary time to heal and rebuild. But the Eastfield boys were growing restless.
"Okay," Ethan said, walking toward the bright sunlight at the gym exit. "Let's not keep Mia waiting. We have a title defense to prepare for."