Adam was intercepted, and Luton was nearly caught on the break. Fortunately, Kanté recovered just in time to win the ball back and halt the counterattack.
Ethan remained silent on the touchline. The Luton players assumed Adam had simply been unprepared when he received the ball.
Adam himself was startled. His mistake had been poor, uncharacteristically so. In the past, he might have brushed it off — after all, errors happen in football. Even Cristiano Ronaldo misplaces passes now and then.
But things were different now. Adam was no longer just another youth player — he was the English media's new darling, hailed as a prodigy, a talent to rival Messi.
"I'm supposed to be the next big thing. How can I make such a basic mistake?"
His eyes darted to the sidelines. Ethan's furrowed brow made Adam even more nervous.
He was desperate to redeem himself, to erase the stain of that earlier error with something brilliant.
The opportunity came quickly. Kanté, instead of pushing forward recklessly, calmly passed the ball back to the center-back. Luton regrouped, resetting their shape before launching a more structured attack.
Ethan was pleased. Kanté had shown maturity — knowing when to hold, when to push, and when to recycle possession. For a defensive midfielder, he had an excellent footballing brain.
Maybe Kanté isn't just a ball-winner, Ethan thought. With his intelligence, perhaps he can do even more for the team tactically.
As Luton began to press forward again, Kevin Keane whipped in a cross from the left. A Chester defender rose to meet it, heading the ball away — but only as far as Adam White.
Drinkwater called for the pass. From his position, he could see that Adam was boxed in near the sideline. Even if he beat one man, there was little space or opportunity to create real danger. Chester had already shifted defensively. A reset through midfield was the sensible option.
But Adam ignored the shout. He wanted to make amends on his own.
His dribbling was sharp — a shimmy to the left, a shift to the right — then he cut inside, driving toward the center.
Vardy held his position in the box, using his body to shield the ball and calling for a pass into feet.
Adam didn't look up. He shot with his left foot — but the effort was blocked by a defender. Chester regained possession and quickly launched a counterattack.
Luton had lost the ball again.
From the sideline, Ethan erupted.
"Pass the ball, Adam!" he bellowed, his voice cutting through the stadium.
Frustration etched every face in the Luton team. They glanced at Adam, who stood frozen, disappointed and alone.
The rest of the match didn't go much better. Adam grew more frantic with every touch. Football is often cruel to young players — when confidence fades, so does everything else. Adam, still inexperienced, didn't know how to reset, how to breathe through the storm. The harder he tried, the worse it got.
Ethan eventually sent on the tall striker Matt Schmidt in a tactical change, but Adam's poor form neutralized the intended effect.
Ethan considered pulling Adam off, but held back. Doing so might help the team win the match — but it could destroy the confidence of a fragile young star.
When the final whistle blew, Ethan's face was stone. A 1–1 draw away from home. The chance to close the gap at the top of the table had slipped away — and now the distance had grown again.
He shook the opposing manager's hand quickly and walked straight down the tunnel.
The next day, rain poured over the Luton training ground.
There was no day off. Ethan, still fuming over the draw, had the team in for training as usual — rain or not.
His voice rang out through the curtain of rain, even audible from the security hut. Magis, the guard at the gate, looked anxiously toward the drenched training pitch.
Training in heavy rain is common in England — but this was no ordinary session. The pitch had turned into a mudfield. Players trudged through sludge, sliding, slipping, falling.
Ethan stood stoically under the downpour. His sodden tracksuit clung to his frame. Rain dripped off his brow, but his voice never wavered — barking instructions, demanding intensity.
The team was split in a scrimmage: starters versus subs.
Even here, Adam struggled.
His touch was heavy. His movement lacked confidence. The mud slowed him, and with it, his once-vivid spark seemed dulled.
He fell again. Another mistimed pass. Another failed dribble.
The brilliance he once radiated was gone — replaced by frustration and self-doubt.
After Adam was intercepted by Kanté once again, the young Englishman—still only seventeen—stood hunched over on the pitch, hands on his knees, gasping for breath. Rain poured relentlessly from the sky, forming a curtain of water in front of his eyes. He could barely see, but it didn't matter. The feeling he once had—the rhythm, the flow—was gone. The game no longer moved in sync with his instincts. He used to feel like he was in control, especially during that match against Chelsea, when the ball seemed to obey his will. Now, it was slipping through his fingers.
The sound of the rain blurred everything around him, even drowning out the shouts from the touchline. But soon, he realized—everyone was staring at him.
Adam slowly looked up and met the furious eyes of his manager, Ethan.
"Boss!" Adam called out instinctively, straightening up.
"You think you're some kind of star now?" Ethan shouted, his voice cutting through the downpour. "Look at how you've been playing lately! You're not even fit to call yourself a professional footballer!"
No one dared say a word. The entire squad stood frozen under the weight of their coach's anger.
"Training's over!" Ethan barked. "Adam—stay!"
The rest of the players cast Adam sympathetic glances as they headed off the pitch toward the changing rooms, soaked and silent.
The rain kept falling. Ethan turned and began walking slowly toward the sideline.
"Come on!" he ordered.
Adam's chest tightened as he hurried after him. Ethan didn't speak for a while, clearly trying to calm himself down. His footsteps were heavy in the mud, his jaw tight.
He had seen stories like this before—talented youngsters making headlines with dazzling debuts, only to vanish months later, swallowed by hype and complacency. Back then, those stories were just tabloid drama. But now, it was real. Now, one of those players was right in front of him. And he wasn't going to let it happen.
Adam followed nervously, watching his coach's back.
"What do you think of your own talent, Adam?" Ethan suddenly stopped walking. Adam nearly bumped into him.
"I'm a genius, boss. That's what you said," Adam replied, standing up straighter, trying to sound confident.
"Yes, you are. You've got a gift that many players only dream of," Ethan said. "But there are loads of talented kids out there. You know how many of them actually make it to the top? Very few."
He turned to face Adam directly.
"Do you know why you were poor in the last match? Why you can't recapture that spark you had in your debut?"
Adam's eyes dropped.
"You're wasting your talent," Ethan continued, his voice softer now but still firm. "You're coasting on your potential instead of using it to grow. Talent means nothing if you don't respect it."
Adam opened his mouth but said nothing. At seventeen, he didn't have the words.
Ethan sighed, then patted the boy's shoulder. He bent down, took off his mud-covered boots, and handed them to Adam.
"Take these. Clean them."
Adam took them silently and watched his manager walk barefoot off the pitch, disappearing into the rain.