The Legendary Playmaker

Ethan woke before sunrise. Not because of nerves, but out of habit. Years of regret in a different life had turned him into someone who understood the value of time. Every second now was precious—a gift he never thought he'd get again. So when the morning light bled faintly through the curtains of his dorm, he was already lacing up his boots.

The Cardiff air stung with early winter chill. Most of the city was still asleep. But he was already out on the pitch, jogging slow laps under the pale orange sky, his breath coming out in clouds. Every step echoed with silent resolve. His mind flickered between thoughts of the past and the lessons he needed to carry forward.

He broke into a sprint, then stopped as if hitting an invisible wall—his breath sharp, movements tighter than they used to be. The ball nestling under his foot, and he tapped it into motion. Passing against the wall, he watched the rebound like a hawk, adjusting his angle with each repetition. Sharp turns followed—first left, then right—then a stutter step and feint, as though dancing with a imaginative defender. The flicks came next, subtle at first, then sharper, more daring. One touch. Pivot. Turn. Reset. His body moved like it remembered something he hadn't learned yet—a muscle memory from a legend, he personally never met.

By the time the rest of the squad showed up, he had already built a thin layer of sweat and was in full stretch.

"You trying to make us look bad?" Corey, a tall midfielder with a sharp jawline and a much sharper tongue, called out as he jogged past.

Ethan didn't look up. "Nah. Just making up for lost time."

Warm-ups transitioned into possession drills. Two-touch, tight zones. The kind of exercise where panic spreads fast and confidence unravels with each bad pass. Ethan stayed calm, flowing between spaces, always offering a passing option, always a step ahead.

Coach Jamie Trant, arms folded, watched from the sidelines.

"Watch Voss. See how he shifts? That's how you control a midfield."

Ethan didn't let the praise get to his head. That was another lesson from his past life—ego was a silent killer. The kind that whispered you're doing enough when you weren't. The kind that convinced you to rest when you should've pushed.

As the session progressed into tactical drills, Trant split the team into starters and trialists. Ethan found himself on the "B team"—a mix of reserves and newcomers. The message was clear: earn your way up.

The scrimmage began at a blistering pace. The A team pressed hard, eager to assert dominance. Ethan anchored the midfield, dropping deep to receive the ball, transitioning play, slowing things down when needed, speeding them up when space opened.

Twenty minutes in, he made a move that shifted the tempo. With two players closing down, Ethan feigned a turn, let the ball roll past him, then cut inside with a sharp touch, splitting the midfield. He didn't look for a glory pass. He slid it short to a winger running into space. The ball didn't end in a goal—but it unraveled the press.

From the sidelines, assistant nudged Coach Trant. "Read the ball like he's got the script."

Trant didn't reply. But he was watching.

The next few days followed a rhythm. Training, recovery, study. Ethan recorded every session he could on his phone, analyzing positioning, movement, decisions. He spent evenings rewatching footage, taking notes in a battered notebook. He didn't go out with the other lads. Didn't join in on FIFA nights or post-dinner banter. Some called him distant. Others just figured he was too focused to care.

But he did care.

He cared deeply.

Because in his last life, the dream had died quietly. With a dramatic ligament injury. One missed trial. One wrong mishap. Too many excuses. And suddenly, years had passed.

Now, with the system ticking quietly in the background, he had tools others didn't. But it wasn't magic. It could enhance—but can't replace hard-work.

[Cruyff Template Integration: 33%]

< Trait Update: Spatial Awareness +2 | Interceptions +3 | Balance +1 >

He felt the shifts. In training, he saw passing lanes before they opened. He could anticipate a press seconds before it came. His footwork felt more grounded, his body language cleaner. But it was still up to him to apply it. To perform.

That Friday, Coach Trant called him aside after drills.

"You've got a steady head on your shoulders," he said. "I don't need highlight reels—I need someone who reads the game, keeps us steady, and brings the best out of those around him."

"Thank you, sir."

"That wasn't a compliment," Trant said, his tone steady. "It's a challenge. You've got something in you—I've seen glimpses. Now make it undeniable."

Ethan nodded. "Yes, coach."

The weekend was rest day for most. A chance to sleep in, call girlfriends, catch up on Netflix. But not for Ethan. He was out on the secondary pitch before dawn again, ball at his feet, music in his ears, headphones crackling with old match commentary—Cruyff-era Ajax games, Barcelona passing sequences. He mimicked the movement, the turns, the positioning.

By the time Monday rolled around, he was sharper. More confident. During training, he barked instructions, organized play, even called out errors—not arrogantly, but with clarity.

"Hold shape," he yelled when the fullbacks drifted too far.

"Ball's on. No need to rush it," he advised calmly when the midfield got too frantic.

Coach Trant didn't say anything. But again, he was watching.

It was a week before the end of July. After the session, Ethan had just returned to his dorm, logged into the academy's training portal, and was watching training footage when a message pinged on his screen.

From: Glyn Chamberlain

Position: Head Scout

Subject: Scheduled Meeting

"Tomorrow. 10 a.m. At my office."

He stared at the screen. It wasn't a guarantee. But it meant something.

He stood, grabbed his notebook, and added a new page.

Week 1: Survive

Week 2: Lead

Week 3: Dominate

Week 4: Sign.

He tapped the pen twice on the paper, then underlined the last word.

This wasn't a comeback story.

This was him, writing the version of his life he was meant to live.

Because this time, he knew there would be no rewrites.