The sky above Cardiff was the same dull grey Ethan remembered, but everything else felt sharpened, more vivid. Even the air had a certain clarity, like the moment before a storm. He walked the path toward the Cardiff City Academy dormitories with a slow, purposeful gait, the provisional contract still folded neatly in the inner pocket of his jacket. Each step he took now was loaded with a weight far greater than before.
Two days earlier, he had returned home to Plymouth. The walk from the train station to his parents' modest semi-detached house felt surreal. His mother had opened the door, confused to see him back so soon.
"Ethan? Didn't the trial just finish?"
He couldn't help the grin that spread across his face. "I got in. One-month trial. Cardiff City Academy."
His father had risen from his armchair, newspaper forgotten. There were no loud cheers or emotional speeches—just a slow, firm handshake and a single nod of approval. His mother pulled him into a tight hug.
They spent that evening eating reheated shepherd's pie, talking about logistics, his living arrangements, and whether or not he needed a new pair of boots. His dad even dug out his old kit bag from the attic.
It felt warm. Real. Grounded.
And yet, even as he laughed with them, Ethan's mind was already drifting forward—to training sessions, to tactics, to his one-month window.
Now, back in Cardiff, that warmth stayed tucked in his chest like an ember. It reminded him what he was fighting for. He wasn't just chasing a second chance.
He was honoring the first one he let slip through his fingers.
The academy staff had given him a two-day window to relocate. Ethan spent the first day scouting out nearby hostels and budget supermarkets. He'd remembered the mistake he made in his previous life—believing that raw talent would carry him without the grit and sacrifice needed to back it up. That naïveté had cost him everything. He never even made it to the professional stage; a few promising matches in youth leagues, then years drifting through part-time jobs and weekend pub leagues. This time, he moved like a chess player, always calculating the next step. He would save every penny, train like a ghost possessed, and make sure that no one—even fate—could bench his life again.
His room was small, square, and undecorated. A twin bed, a desk, and a steel locker. But when he dropped his bag down and lay back on the mattress, it felt like five-star luxury compared to what he'd lost in his last timeline. He stared at the cracked ceiling and whispered under his breath, "One month. That's all I need."
—
The first official training session as a trialist felt different. There was no crowd, no scouts watching behind clipboards. Just pure football.
Head Coach Jamie Trant, the U18 team lead, stood in the center circle, surveying the squad with cold precision. "Cardiff doesn't run on talent alone," he said. "We run on discipline, tactics, and trust. You break shape, you break the team. Understood?"
A chorus of yeses followed. Ethan gave a nod.
The training began with positional rondos. Tight spaces. Two touches max. He was dropped into the center almost immediately, with three players pressing. The ball zipped around the triangle, but Ethan's first touch was velvet. He didn't try to dribble out. He baited one in, flicked it sideways, and let his body glide into the open lane before passing again.
The others started noticing. Not just the coaches, but the players.
"He doesn't panic, does he?" said one defender to the other.
"Moves like he's more experienced than us," another mumbled.
But Ethan didn't react. He couldn't. That was the key—discipline. Emotional detachment on the pitch was something Cruyff always mastered, and Ethan had inherited the philosophy.
In the scrimmage that followed, Ethan played a deeper midfield role. He didn't score. He didn't assist either. But he dictated the game. His presence calmed the backline, gave rhythm to their buildup, and created width in attack without overcommitting.
Coach Trant walked past after the final whistle and gave him a short nod. That was enough.
The next day, he was summoned to the academy office.
Inside sat Martin Howells, the youth development director. He was balding, suited, and calm—far calmer than Ethan expected from someone holding his immediate future in their hands.
"Mr. Voss," he began, folding his hands. "Your performance yesterday was… mature. But mature doesn't guarantee a contract. We've had many who started hot and burned out in three weeks."
Ethan nodded. "I understand."
"What I want to know is—why football ?"
Ethan met his gaze directly. "Because the last time I had a chance like this, I threw it away chasing comfort. This time, I'm chasing clarity. Every day I train, I feel like I'm finally aligned with what I'm meant to be."
There was silence.
Then, unexpectedly, Howells smiled.
"You're not from a professional background. You've got no agent. And we can't find much about your records beyond the youth sessions in Plymouth five years ago."
Ethan hesitated. "A lot can happen in a few years. Injury, family things. I disappeared for a bit. But I'm here now."
Howells leaned back. "Fine. One month. Prove you can be consistent. We'll revisit this conversation at the end."
Ethan stood and offered his hand. "Thank you."
"Just keep your head down, Voss. Talent gets you in the door. But discipline keeps you in the room."
Ethan walked out with a strange feeling in his chest. It wasn't pride. It was hunger.
[Cruyff Template Integration: 28%]
< [Trait Update: Composure +4 | Short Passing +3 | Vision +2] >
He was getting sharper. Faster. But more than that, he was beginning to think like Cruyff—analyze like him. The system wasn't just boosting attributes. It was altering his footballing mind.
That night, he went for a jog through the quiet streets near the dormitory. He wasn't running for fitness. He was running to center himself.
Every step forward was a rebellion against the past.
He had made mistakes in his old life. Let a limp, a diagnosis, and fear define him. But this time, he'd carved a new beginning. One clean touch at a time.
One month.
It was more than enough.