The grass felt real beneath Ethan's studs. Damp. Springy. It clung slightly to his cleats with each step as he entered the grounds of the Southbridge Youth Training Camp.
It was all exactly as he remembered. The scent of freshly mowed turf. The hum of nervous players murmuring on the sidelines. Coaches with clipboards. Water bottles lining the fence. And up on the observation deck, shaded under white tents, a cluster of scouts from EFL Championship clubs sipping coffee and eyeing the field like hawks.
Seven years ago, this was the day it had all slipped through his fingers.
Now, it was the day everything would begin again.
Ethan rolled his shoulders, suppressing the nerves prickling up his spine. The system had told him his integration with Cruyff's template was only five percent complete. But even now, he felt it: a new layer of perception quietly blooming beneath his own instincts. A subtle voice in his mind urging patience. Rhythm. Awareness.
A tap on his shoulder snapped him back. Darren Blake.
"Yo, Ethan. You good, man?" Darren said, spinning a football on one finger like a showman.
Ethan smiled. Darren—his closest friend from the academy, full of swagger and raw speed. In his old timeline, Darren had gotten picked up by Hull City's youth program. Maybe this time, they both would.
"Yeah," Ethan said, "I'm great."
Blake grinned. "Try not to show off too much. I still need my spot."
A whistle blew sharply.
Coach Martinez—gruff, with a permanent squint like the sun offended him—stepped into the center circle.
"Same drill as last year. Four quarters, twenty minutes each. Positions rotate. Scouts are watching. Don't play like cowards."
Ethan took his place at central midfield. The #8 bib snug against his chest. He bounced on his toes, testing his balance. The ball rolled his way. He let it come. Didn't rush.
Then touched it—lightly—and turned.
The first few minutes were quiet. Jitters and cold muscles kept everyone stiff. But Ethan was calm. He didn't need to chase. The Cruyff instinct helped him read the field like a chessboard. He wasn't reacting—he was anticipating.
A striker pressed. Ethan feinted right. The striker bit. Ethan turned left—clean, smooth. A flick of the ankle and he slid a pass through the defense line to Darren, already sprinting.
"Ohhh!" someone shouted from the sideline.
Coach Martinez raised his head.
In the stands, a man with a Cardiff City badge scribbled something.
Ten minutes in, Ethan was everywhere. Not charging like a headless sprinter, but always moving into space. Finding angles. Shifting the pace. One touch. Two touch. Always clean. Always sharp.
And then it came—his first real test.
A winger cut in from the left, dribbling fast. Ethan tracked him, closed the space, and just when the winger shaped to shoot, Ethan stepped in—not with force, but with timing. The perfect interception. He didn't just steal the ball. He flowed with it, swirlled, and launched a counterattack in the same breath.
Applause. Not wild, but tight. Interested.
He could feel the eyes on him now. Curious. Calculating.
The ball moved again, and the team's tempo shifted with Ethan's rhythm. Every time he got it, players found the ball where they needed it to be. His passes were suggestions that others instinctively followed.
Second quarter began. Positions shifted. Now he was playing further up, in the #10 role.
Pressure mounted.
Darren sent a long ball over the top. Ethan timed his run—half a second delay—and broke through the defensive line. One bounce. Keeper charging. He could have gone for the flashy chip.
Instead, he stopped.
Pulled the ball back.
The keeper stumbled. Ethan slid it square to the winger, who slotted it in with ease.
Unselfish. Tactical.
The scouts murmured.
The man from Cardiff City turned to the guy beside him—a scout from Millwall.
"Who's number 8 again?"
"Ethan Voss," Millwall replied, checking a printed roster.
Third quarter. More rotation. Ethan was now at holding mid. He adapted instantly. This time he focused on control. Let others run. He became the axis. Turning, screening, distributing.
Then a mispass from a teammate triggered a counterattack. The opposing striker—bigger, faster—charged toward their box.
Ethan tracked him down. One-on-one.
In his old life, he would've hesitated. Played it safe. Backed off.
Now?
He stepped up.
Not to tackle. But to angle. He guided the striker's run toward the touchline like a shepherd with a dog. Then timed a neat toe-poke to knock the ball out of bounds. Clean.
Coach Martinez blew his whistle.
"Water break. Two minutes."
Ethan jogged to the sidelines, sipping water. Darren clapped his shoulder.
"Man, what's gotten into you? You're playing like Iniesta out there."
Ethan just smiled.
Fourth quarter. Final impression.
This time, Ethan let himself have fun.
He tried the Cruyff Turn—once, twice—flawless each time. Not to humiliate, but to create. He set up two goals. Nearly scored one himself with a curling shot from the edge of the box that clipped the post.
And then, like that, the whistle blew.
Tryouts were done.
Players milled around, catching their breath. Some disappointed. Some hopeful. Coaches huddled. Scouts packed up.
Ethan sat on the grass, staring at the sky.
He'd done it.
No limp. No fear. No wasted talent.
His phone buzzed.
[Cruyff Template Integration: 11%]
< [New Traits Unlocked: Game Awareness +10, Positional Versatility +8] >
A shadow loomed over him. Coach Martinez.
"Voss."
Ethan stood up.
Martinez studied him. "You looked different out there. Like you've experience of ten years."
"I've just been... seeing the game better."
Martinez nodded once, his tone unusually measured. "Cardiff asked about you. Their scout watched every minute you played. Said you showed control, maturity, and a presence beyond your years."
Ethan's breath caught.
"He wants you in Cardiff for private trials. Contract could be on the table."
Ethan exhaled slowly.
This was it.
His second life had just begun.