The Legendary Playmaker

The grey clouds loomed over Cardiff City Stadium, casting a moody light across the empty stands. Rain speckled the seats, a soft percussion that matched the growing tension in the home dressing room. Players moved quietly, methodically—no bravado, no jokes, just focus. The friendly match against Livingston was a day away, but for many in the squad, especially for those on the fringe, this was no casual run-out.

Ethan Voss sat hunched on a bench, threading his laces with a quiet focus as the rustle of fresh kit being hung echoed around the room. The kit manager moved briskly along the row of hooks, laying out gear with practiced efficiency. Outside, a light drizzle tapped against the stadium walls, the Cardiff sky a dull steel. It was Friday, a day before their friendly against Livingston, and the session ahead was more than just routine—it was kind of final dress rehearsal. Every player there felt it. The unspoken hum of anticipation coursed beneath the usual pre-training chatter, lending a sharpness to the air.

For Ethan, this wasn't just a friendly. It was his first inclusion in the senior squad.

The announcement came the day before. Warnock had casually mentioned it at the end of training.

"You're in the squad for Livingston. Might get minutes in the second half—don't be surprised."

Ethan had barely slept that night. Not from nerves—but from the pure adrenaline gained from the news.

Now, as he pulled the shirt over his head, he finally let the moment sink in. A week ago, he was just another name fighting for a contract. Now he had his name on a matchday sheet.

The rest of the squad filtered in gradually. Senior players like Joe Ralls and Sean Morrison chatted by the physio tables. Winger Danny Ward scrolled on his phone, earbuds in, head bobbing. Nobody treated this like just another game.

Assistant coach Kevin Blackwell entered first, holding a clipboard. "Alright, lads. Thirty minutes in the meeting room. Then light training—mostly shape work. Don't burn yourselves out."

The team shuffled toward the strategy room. Ethan followed, falling in beside the backup striker.

"First matchday?" the striker asked.

Ethan nodded. "Yes, feels too real now."

"Wait till you're under the lights. Stadium's different at night."

Inside the strategy room, Warnock stood beside a projector screen. The Livingston badge glared from the corner of the slide.

"They've got a compact shape, aggressive midfielders, and they don't mind clogging up the center. We're going to test a few setups—4-3-3 to start, but depending how things go, we'll shift into a 4-2-3-1. And I want transitions to be sharp. Ethan,"—he looked straight at him—"you'll come in second half, right behind the striker. Get between their lines, force their defenders to step out."

Ethan gave a slight nod. "Understood."

Warnock continued, breaking down Livingston's habits—how their right-back was slow on recovery, their keeper prone to parrying instead of catching. All the small margins.

After the meeting, they moved to the pitch for shape work. The team jogged through light drills, focused entirely on spacing, timing, and flow. Ethan was paired with second-string players to simulate the Livingston press. At first, the movement felt scripted. But then came the transitions.

He got the ball and he turned on the half-spin, sending it wide to the overlapping fullback. Another run, a fake touch, then a low-driven pass to the edge of the box. It was training, but even coaches took notice.

Kevin Blackwell made a note. "He's reading the tempo quicker than last week."

By noon, the session wrapped. They'd spent more time watching film than actually on the pitch. But that was the point. The work was mostly mental now. The test would come under floodlights.

Back in the dressing room, Ethan opened his locker to find a personalized kit laid out neatly. His name. His number—47. It wasn't headline-worthy or dramatic, but it was a milestone—one that felt earned, not gifted.

He stared at it for a moment.

"You're not taking that home, are you?" Ward grinned, nodding toward the shirt.

Ethan smiled. "Tempted."

He tossed him a bottle of water. "Save it for tomorrow. You get minutes and the crowd starts chanting? That's when it's worth framing."

—

The next morning, the stadium buzzed with preparation. Groundskeepers trimming the pitch, media techs wiring up microphones, and somewhere in the tunnels, the Livingston team arrived.

The Cardiff squad gathered by noon. Pre-match routines had begun. Some listened to music. Others went through stretching rituals. Ethan sat quietly, earbuds in, his eyes scanning the screen as clips rolled—while System interface hovered faintly in his peripheral vision, listing incremental gains from the Cruyff template.

It wasn't just about raw stats to him—not anymore. Each number had come with hours of grinding, of positioning himself better, asking smarter questions in training, taking risks with new passing angles. How close was he to that level? How much of Cruyff's DNA was starting to reflect in his own rhythm of play?

Warnock walked in around 1:30. "Alright, you lot. Kickoff's in four. Starting eleven, you know your roles. Subs, stay ready. Ethan, eyes open second half. Don't force it—just play your game."

Ethan gave a nod.

As they headed toward the tunnel, he felt it—the hum of the crowd already gathering. The stadium wasn't full, but it was alive. It always was under lights.

This wasn't the Premier League. It wasn't Wembley. But to Ethan, it might as well have been. It was the proving ground. In a game that only remember moments, Ethan Voss planned to make one.