The Coaching System-Chapter 275: Ethan Walsh – “Tuesday, Just Tuesday”

The blinds were only halfway drawn, and sunlight had already begun to sneak in across the wall by the time Ethan opened his eyes. It was late—past ten, maybe closer to eleven—but no alarm chased him out of bed. No sprint to the car. No pre-match brief waiting at the training ground. Just Tuesday.

He stayed still for a moment, not from laziness but from something else. Quiet. No phone in his hand, no system prompts blinking. Just stillness and breath.

Downstairs, he moved slowly. Not out of grogginess—he wasn't tired—but with a pace that didn't need to rush. He dropped two slices of toast into the slot and let the kettle run. The toast burned slightly at the edges. He scraped it without much care, then loaded both pieces with peanut butter that clung in clumps. He didn't correct it.

He took the plate and mug to the small table by the window and sat cross-legged. The coffee was a little bitter. He drank it anyway.

Afterwards, he reached for the notebook.

It wasn't the leather one he used on away trips or the spiral one Jake had given him when he started first-team minutes. This one was old. Pages curled. The cover soft from wear.

He flipped it open. Past training diagrams and quotes he didn't write. Found a blank page near the middle and picked up the pencil. Not to sketch anything exact. Just to move it.

Loose lines. Angles that broke too early. Curves that turned back in on themselves. Nothing tactical. Nothing coherent. But he didn't stop. The page filled slowly. Half a shape, then lines crossing through it. It didn't need to be finished.

By the time he pulled on his hoodie and slipped his phone into his pocket, the sun had shifted higher.

The streets of Bradford always carried noise, but it wasn't sharp. Just movement. Background hum. People going about things that had nothing to do with football.

Ethan walked down Manningham Lane with his hood up and his hands in the front pocket. No one looked twice. A few glanced—half-recognition maybe—but kept walking. No flashes. No questions. Not today.

He stopped near a side shop tucked just off the high street. The kind of place that sold phone cases, chargers, and wireless headphones in neat glass rows under too-bright lights. He looked at the headphones, then looked again.

Two pairs. Same brand. Both black. One matte, one slightly glossier.

He didn't ask the clerk. He just stood there. Five minutes passed, then ten. He picked one up. Put it down. Picked the other. He wasn't stalling. He just wanted to choose right, even if it didn't matter.

Eventually, he bought the matte ones. Not because they were better, just because his fingers had rested on them longer.

He didn't put them in immediately. The street had a weight to it now—half busy, half fading. Somewhere between school letting out and the pubs waking up. He walked slowly until he reached Centenary Square.

The fountain wasn't on, but the benches around it weren't all taken. He sat. Pulled the hood lower.

A boy on a scooter rolled past. A woman in a beige coat stood scrolling through her phone. A couple laughed quietly over something shared from a bag of chips.

Ethan didn't smile. He didn't frown either.

He just watched.

Let the noise settle.

Let the minutes pass without chasing them.

His shoulders dropped slightly, but he didn't move. No messages. No tactics. No orders from Jake or the system. No reminder of Alkmaar, or Watford, or Charlton coming next.

Just this—concrete, movement, light wind brushing past the side of his hood.

Just Tuesday.

The coffee shop sat tucked between a used bookstall and a boarded-up printer's. No glowing signs, no playlist pumping through ceiling speakers. Just a chalkboard by the door that said today's special: spiced chai & quiet corners.

Ethan pushed the door gently. A small bell rang, the kind that was meant to be heard only once. The air inside was warmer, softer, like it hadn't changed since morning. He stepped up to the counter, looked at the menu, and didn't read a word of it.

"I'll have the chai," he said, and the barista nodded without asking anything else.

He found a seat by the window. The table was crooked, its legs uneven, but it held the weight of the chipped mug and the paperback he'd grabbed from the communal shelf on the way in. Some classic. Something with yellowed pages and someone else's folded corners. He tried reading. Made it a dozen pages in. The words blurred.

Outside, traffic moved in quiet layers. A dog barked once from somewhere far. He sipped the chai. It burned slightly, but not enough to complain.

His phone buzzed. He glanced down. One message, short.

Ethan: FIFA later? freēwēbηovel.c૦m

He didn't wait for a reply. Just dropped the phone screen-side down and went back to pretending to read. A minute passed. Then three.

Outside the window, three boys in Bradford kits walked past. One of them pointed at the window. Another laughed. Ethan didn't move. He stayed still until they disappeared down the street, their shadows long in the afternoon light.

Only then did he rise.

He left the book open on the table and the mug still half full.

Ella lived just off Oak Lane, near the post office. She opened the door before he knocked.

"You're early," she said, stepping aside.

"I didn't run into traffic," he replied, and that was all.

The flat smelled like baked garlic and something lemony. He kicked off his shoes without asking where to put them and sat at the small kitchen table.

She cooked without commentary, and he didn't offer to help. She didn't bring up the match. Or the clean sheet. Or the curl from outside the box. She never did unless she really wanted to know.

Instead, they talked about the new flat he was barely furnishing. She asked if he was eating enough. He said yes. She didn't believe him but moved on.

They spoke about their mum. Not in deep, heavy tones, but with careful touches—like brushing dust off old glass.

When dinner was done, she handed him something wrapped in brown paper, edges folded sharply.

He opened it slowly. A photo. The two of them, ages ago, in someone's garden. She in pigtails. He holding a plastic ball too big for his hands.

No frame note. No message on the back. She didn't explain.

He looked at it once. Then twice.

"Thanks," he said. Quiet. Not sure what else to add.

She cleared the plates without replying.

Back home before nine.

He kicked the door shut with his foot. The kitchen light flickered when he passed it, and he didn't bother fixing it. The room was dim. Comfortable in a way that didn't ask for adjustment.

The laptop whirred to life on the desk. He didn't check emails. Didn't scroll. Just pulled open the sketch from earlier. The one with the unfinished lines and the crossing curves.

This time, he followed through.

The angles met. The shape took form. He didn't know what it was. Maybe no one would. But it felt finished now.

He saved it. Then sent it to one person—Vélez. No caption. No explanation.

Seconds passed. Then his screen blinked.

A game invite.

Roney.

Ethan stared at the notification for a breath longer than needed.

Then he smiled—just a little—and reached for the controller.