The morning of the Cardiff City closed trial dawned with a low mist blanketing the outskirts of Leckwith. Ethan Voss stood on the sidewalk outside Cardiff International Sports Campus, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, boots clipped to the side. The air smelled like rain and cut grass. A familiar scent, grounding. But nothing about this moment felt ordinary.
Just yesterday, he had boarded a rattling early-morning train from Plymouth, traveling alone with a prepaid rail ticket and a second-hand phone clutched in his pocket.
He exhaled once, deeply, then stepped inside the complex.
Inside, the atmosphere buzzed—not with noise, but tension. The other players had arrived early. There were about two dozen boys, all lean, tall, sharp-eyed. Most wore kits from their local academies: Bristol, Reading, even a few with Welsh youth club logos stitched on their sleeves. Ethan's plain navy tracksuit made him stick out—and not in the way he liked.
He didn't know anyone. No handshakes, no inside jokes. Just sidelong glances sizing him up.
"Who's that?"
"Don't think he's from any of the known lots."
"Probably a fluke—trialist lottery pick."
He ignored the whispers. He'd heard worse in his last life. This time, he wouldn't waste energy proving his worth through talk. That would happen on the pitch.
A whistle blew. The coaches had arrived.
Gareth Rowe stood at the front, clipboard as always. His weathered face was marked with the kind of lines only decades in youth football could carve—some from stress, others from triumph. Next to him were two other staff members. One was lean, wiry, and kept his arms crossed like a man used to barking orders—Darren Wells, a former Cardiff midfielder whose career had been defined by crunching tackles and unwavering grit. Known among locals as a hardman with a tactical brain, Wells didn't speak much, but his eyes never stopped analyzing. The third was younger, possibly a technical coach, armed with an iPad and standing in silence.
"Gentlemen," Rowe began, scanning the group, "this is your chance. No marketing fluff. No spotlight. Just football. We'll be watching how you train, how you play, how you recover, and how you react to mistakes. That's what defines a professional."
He paused as his eyes landed briefly on Ethan. No acknowledgement. Just pressure.
The trial began.
The first hour was technical drills: passing patterns, one-touch sequences, first-touch evaluations. Ethan slipped into rhythm quickly. His touches were deliberate but smooth. His decisions quick, yet calm. While many trialists tried to dazzle with stepovers and risky flair. Ethan operated differently, he did what Cruyff would've done—make the hard things look easy, and the simple things look perfect. He recalled what Cruyff once said that simplicity was genius—and so Ethan played that way. Every trap, pivot, and release he made was measured, efficient, and unshakably calm.
"Keep your shape!" one coach barked.
Ethan shifted accordingly, already two steps ahead of the call. He didn't chase the ball. He positioned himself where it would need to go next.
After drills came small-sided games. The real test.
Ethan's team wore white bibs. His opponents in red pressed high, aggressive, eager to stamp dominance. But Ethan played like he had a metronome ticking inside his head. Tap, turn, space, release.
He wasn't the fastest. He didn't shoot first. But suddenly his side was stringing six, seven, ten passes together. He didn't demand for ball. The ball came to him naturally because his positioning and choices made everything around him work better.
"Who is that kid?" someone whispered from the sideline, their voice tinged with both surprise and frustration. He wasn't dominating with stepovers or flashy goals—he was dictating tempo. Making seasoned youth players chase shadows. Staff members leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowed in interest.
Rowe didn't answer. He just scribbled something over on his clipboard.
Then came the full-pitch match.
Ethan was slotted in midfield—a position where the game either flows or fails. The pressure intensified. Players shouted, challenged, tackled harder. A few tried to body him off the ball.
It didn't work.
He played with clarity, always one thought ahead. The ball did the running—zipping diagonally between defenders, forcing them to turn their hips and chase. A disguised lofted chip dropped behind the full-back, sending the winger into open space. Moments later, Ethan received it back just outside the box. One deft fake—a ghost of a shot—and he rolled the ball square across the six-yard line for an easy finish. Simple, clinical, devastating.
He wasn't playing like Cruyff.
He was applying Cruyffian principles.
And it showed.
By the time the final whistle blew, Ethan's kit was drenched, but he wasn't winded. Mentally, he felt more alive than he had in years—both lifetimes.
The players gathered on the sideline. Coaches conferred. One by one, names were called and thanked. Some were given polite encouragement. Others were told to keep grinding.
Then Rowe looked at Ethan.
"Voss. A word."
The others glanced at him, some with narrowed eyes, others with curiosity. Ethan followed Rowe back toward the tunnel.
Inside, away from the group, Rowe leaned against the wall.
"That performance today—it wasn't loud. It wasn't flashy."
Ethan waited, silent.
"It was efficient. Intelligent. Exactly what this level demands. You understand the game like someone who's seen it from a different angle."
Ethan shrugged slightly. "I've watched a lot of football."
Rowe cracked a grin. "So have we. But you didn't just watch. You absorbed. There's a difference."
He pulled out a folded piece of paper.
"Provisional contract. U18 development squad. One month trial, with the option to extend. You'll train with our academy full-time, schoolwork handled through our education partners. Housing is covered. You want it?"
Ethan took it slowly. His fingers didn't tremble, but his chest felt tight.
"Yes. I want it."
Rowe nodded. "Good. Don't waste it."
As the coach walked away, Ethan looked down at the contract.
[Cruyff Template Integration: 21%]
< [Trait Update: Tactical Awareness +6 | Balance +2] >
The journey had just begun. But this time, he was already steps ahead.