The late afternoon sun filtered down over the campgrounds, casting long shadows across the dewy grass. Players had begun trickling out, bags slung over tired shoulders, chatter dimming with the end of tryouts. But Ethan stayed.
He lingered by the far side of the pitch, near the equipment tent, where the Cardiff City scout had asked him to wait. His heart wasn't racing—but it was alert, keyed up like an engine idling just below full throttle. Every second he stood there felt heavier with expectation.
He spotted the man walking toward him—a lean, sharp-eyed figure in a navy Cardiff jacket that hung crisp and uncreased, the club's crest embroidered boldly over his heart. There was something methodical in his stride, each step measured, betraying a man used to long days of observation and quick, decisive judgment. His expression was businesslike but not unkind, a face worn by years of squinting under floodlights and deciphering raw talent from fleeting flashes. In his hand was a plain clipboard—no logo, no stickers, no flashy tech. Just paper, pen, and sharp eyes. The kind of simplicity that meant seriousness.
"Ethan Voss?" he asked, his voice clipped with a Welsh lilt.
"Yes, sir."
The scout offered his hand. "Gareth Rowe. Cardiff City's development coordinator. Mind if we walk?"
Ethan nodded, falling in step beside him.
They strolled along the outer fence, boots crunching softly on gravel.
"You stood out today," Rowe said without looking at him. "Calm under pressure. Intelligent movement. Crisp control. You don't panic when the ball's at your feet—that's rare for a kid your age."
"I try not to force things," Ethan replied. "Let the game come to me."
Rowe raised an eyebrow. "Most boys your age think the game owes them something. You seem to think you owe it."
Ethan just smiled slightly. "Something like that."
Rowe stopped, turning to face him. "Tell me, Voss. You disappeared last year, didn't you? No matches. No footage."
"Yes." Ethan kept his voice steady. "Personal reasons. I stepped away for a while."
"No sign of rust now."
"I didn't stop training. I just stopped being seen."
Rowe regarded him a moment, eyes narrowing. "You've changed. Martinez said as much. Said you used to be all raw speed and instinct. Now you're more composed. Controlled. Like someone who's learned what not to waste."
"I guess I've learned to see more," Ethan said. "To read the game, not just react to it."
That earned a faint nod. The man was testing him—not just his skill, but how he spoke, how he carried himself. And Ethan knew it.
"I don't buy into flukes," Rowe said finally. "You played with intent today. Not just flashes—sustained quality. That's what we look for."
He pulled a paper from his clipboard. Standard academy documentation. At the top: Cardiff City FC – Youth Trial Invitation.
"We're holding closed trials in a week. Invitation-only. You'll train with our U18 squad, play a couple of internal matches. It's not a guarantee—but if you perform like today, there'll be a contract waiting."
Ethan took the paper slowly.
In his past life, he never made it past open trials.
Now, one day in, he was being offered a backdoor into one of the most competitive academies in the EFL Championship.
"What's the catch?" Ethan asked quietly.
Rowe smirked. "You tell me. You play like someone who's spent years under elite coaching, but on paper, you're invisible. No club connections. No school league highlights.Just a blank slate where your profile should be."
"I've had time to step back. Re-evaluate things. Strip away the distractions and get serious about what I want from the game."
Rowe folded his arms. "Then you understand what's expected. This isn't Sunday football. At Cardiff, the pressure's constant. If you freeze, someone else takes your place. If you overcomplicate, you'll get benched. If you can't adapt, you're out."
Ethan didn't flinch. "I'm ready."
Rowe studied him for a beat longer, then nodded. "Alright, Voss. I'll see you in seven days."
He turned and strode off, not looking back.
Ethan stared at the invitation in his hand. His grip tightened.
[Cruyff Template Integration: 13%]
< Trait Update: Vision +4 | Decision-Making +5 >
The numbers weren't the important part. It was the validation.
This time, he wouldn't drift into obscurity. He'd enter the system and stay there.
That night, Ethan sat in his room, surrounded by notes and match diagrams. The tactical board on his desk was cluttered with magnetic markers and scribbled plans, arrows looping between imagined positions.
He wasn't studying anymore—he was visualizing. Predicting. Simulating.
His mind played replays not from today's matches, but from classic games. Moments only a true student of the sport would obsess over—Cruyff's ghost-like feints, the effortless pivot passes, the rhythmic control that made him both conductor and artist.
A knock came at the door.
His father leaned in, mug of tea in hand. "You're quiet," he said. "How'd the tryout go?"
Ethan looked up. "Cardiff invited me to their closed trial."
His father blinked, visibly surprised. "That's… that's huge."
"Yeah."
The silence stretched. A mix of pride and something heavier lingered between them. Regret from the past, perhaps. Hopes renewed.
"You know what you're doing?" his father finally asked.
Ethan nodded. "More than I ever did."
His father hesitated, then said, "Alright. You've got our support. Just… don't burn yourself out again."
"I won't."
But deep down, Ethan knew he would go even harder this time. Because this wasn't just about playing. It was about rewriting a life that had been wasted before.
He looked down at the Cruyff notes he'd printed. This wasn't imitation. It was absorption. And soon, Cardiff would see more than just a good player—they'd see the rebirth of something greater.
If that meant exhaustion, sacrifice, or pressure—so be it.
He was Ethan Voss. And this time, the future was his to control.