The Legendary Playmaker

The morning mist hadn't lifted yet when Ethan stepped off the bus near the Cardiff City training complex. It was Monday again, exactly one week since his last meeting with Glyn Chamberlain and Neil Warnock. The air was cool, but there was an unmistakable warmth growing in his chest—the kind that came from knowing a door was about to open. He had no car, no entourage, and no flashy gear. Just a clean kit in his duffel and a pair of well-worn boots. Everything else, he planned to earn.

He walked briskly toward the administrative wing of the training center, each step echoing his growing anticipation. This wasn't a trial. This wasn't another scout watching from the sidelines. Today was something else entirely—today he would become a Cardiff City player.

The receptionist recognized him this time, offering a smile. "Mr. Chamberlain's expecting you, second floor. Same office."

He climbed the stairs, adjusted the strap on his bag, and knocked on the familiar door.

"Come in."

Glyn looked up from his desk, a coffee in one hand and a stack of folders in the other.

"Morning, Ethan. Right on time."

"Morning, sir."

"Let's not waste time, yeah? The gaffer's waiting. Follow me."

They walked together through a short hallway and into a larger office—Neil Warnock's. The manager was standing near a whiteboard, notes from preseason already scribbled across it in marker. He turned with a half-smile and gestured for Ethan to sit.

"I've got fifteen minutes before the staff meeting," Warnock said. "But that's more than enough time. We've already seen what you bring to the table, and the reports from training have been consistently strong. You've turned heads, not just with flair, but with control, awareness, and work ethic. That's the kind of presence we don't overlook here."

He motioned to Glyn, who pulled out a contract folder and laid it in front of Ethan.

"One-year prove-it deal," Glyn said. "Standard terms. Weekly wage is modest, around £1,500, but there's solid upside—bonuses for appearances, goals, assists. You'll be training with the first team, and if you keep your level high, expect matchday squad selections."

Ethan flipped through the contract, his eyes absorbing each clause with growing focus. The figure—£1,500 a week—stood out, not as a life-changing sum, but as a marker of progress. What truly stirred something in him were the details etched beneath: "First team involvement. Eligibility for matchday squad. Incentive-based rewards." Each line wasn't just a benefit—it was a ladder. A climb. A promise of what could be if he delivered on the pitch.

There were details on appearance incentives, even a clause for training attendance—£500 per first-team start, £250 per bench appearance, with a rising scale if he hit five or more contributions in a month. That structure wasn't just a financial lure. It was motivation woven into the contract itself.

He didn't need a lawyer right now. He didn't need time. He just needed a pen.

Warnock watched him with sharp eyes. "No illusions, son. This isn't a golden ticket. It's a foot in the door. You still have to kick it wide open."

Ethan signed, his name etched with steady confidence.

"I wouldn't want it handed to me," he said. "I'm here to prove I belong."

Warnock nodded, satisfied. "Then we're on the same page."

An hour later, Ethan stood at the edge of the training pitch, boots laced, kit snug. The sky was clearing, sunlight cutting through the remnants of morning fog. Around him, the buzz of voices and cleats meeting turf set the tone.

The squad was mid-warmup—dynamic stretches, short sprints, rondo circles scattered across the grass. Some players gave him curious glances. A few nodded. One or two had seen him during the trial period. But today he wasn't a guest. He was one of them.

Team Coach Ronnie Jepson jogged over, clipboard in hand. "You're in Group B for now," he said, pointing toward the far side of the field. "Keep it simple, move the ball quick. They'll test you, so don't overthink it. Play your game."

Ethan nodded. "Yes, coach."

He jogged over and slotted into the small-sided possession drill. The tempo was quick, sharper than anything he'd faced during the trials. One-touch passes zipped between cones. Mistakes earned groans. But Ethan didn't panic. He kept scanning, adjusting his angles, picking his moments.

In the next few minutes, he intercepted two passes and split the defenders with a reverse ball that caught a few heads turning.

"Oi, nice ball!" someone called.

Momentum. That's all it was. Little moments that added up.

The rest of the session was a blur of tactical drills, half-pitch setups, and intense pressing routines. By the time they broke for cooldown, Ethan's shirt clung to his back and his lungs burned in the best way.

Coach Jepson walked by again, muttering just loud enough for him to hear: "Good first day. Don't lose your edge."

After training, Ethan sat on a bench just outside the changing rooms, unlacing his boots. His legs ached, but it was the kind of ache that reminded him this was real.

Inside the locker room, he caught snippets of banter and the occasional comment about "the new lad." But there were no sneers, no ice-outs. Just the start of something.

Later that afternoon, as he waited at the bus stop with his kit bag slung over one shoulder, his phone buzzed. A message from his mum.

"How did it go today?"

Ethan smiled and typed back.

"Signed the contract. First team training started. Just tired now. But it's a good tired."

"We're proud of you, love."

As the bus rolled up, Ethan climbed aboard and took a seat by the window. He looked out as the training ground faded into the distance. One foot in the door. That's all he had now. But for someone who'd once lost it all, that footstep meant everything. The game was on, and this time, Ethan Voss wasn't planning to miss the shot.