As the first morning light Cardiff City the city team bus came back to their home. Returning after their hard-fought away match against Burton Albion with a win of 1–0, had players drained—both physically and mentally. Most were lounged back in their seats with their eyes closed, their fatigue clearly visible. Though despite the exhaustion, there was also flicker satisfaction on their faces—a quiet achievement of clean sheet win and that too in their first game.
The bus soon pulled into the Leckwith training ground. Players filed out of the bus one after another sluggishly, although there was no time for rest—Portsmouth would soon be in city, and their first game for EFL Cup was just around 48 hours away.
Ethan had seen the fixtures drawn back in June—Portsmouth would be playing an away game in the EFL Cup, first round. It was not a big deal then, but now that the game is 2 days away, it felt like a weight on shoulder considering it was also a knockout match. Even though Portsmouth played in a lower league, they certainly wouldn't want to take them lightly. As having the match coming down to a loss with lower league team would surely make them a topic of troll among both fans and football gurus.
By afternoon, the team was already out on the training pitch. Coaches and staff members calling out players for drills, cones laid down nearby, and the squad was split into smaller groups for specific training and practice.
"Right," bellowed Coach Jepson, clapping his hands. "Let's pick it up lads! Cup games won't be waiting for our rest."
Ethan himself was made to join practice game alongside seasoned members of the squad, the kind of session that demands composure, and a fast footballing brain. It wasn't just training—it was a proving ground where he needed to up his game. Each and every pass of his was grounded and was placed with precision. He played a very clean and smart football—quick with one touch and well-timed interceptions showing his awareness to game beyond his years of experience. The game didn't felt a bit like the youth tournaments he had played before.
When two defenders closed in to intercept at fast pace, he didn't fumble with ball. But created well-weighted through-ball pass to Ralls which earned him a nod or two from his teammates.
"Good ball, Voss!" Warnock called out, from the sides. "That's what I want to see."
Ethan nodded, breathing hard, wiping a bead of sweat from his temple. He wasn't just out here to fill the numbers—he treated every drill like it was a minute of the match. This was his second chance, and he wasn't planning on letting it slip past unnoticed.
Back in the dressing room after a rough afternoon training session, squad gathered around to hear tactical details from Warnock.
"Portsmouth's going to bring in tough fight," Warnock said, arms crossed as he scanned the room. "Don't let the league table fool you—this is a cup fixture. They'll want it, badly. They'll be in our faces from the first whistle, looking to rattle us, and will certainly try to make it physical. And we'll not be here just to respond—we're here to dictate. This is our turf, our crowd and our match. You'll all make sure that they know about it from the first minute."
Although the message was simple, but his tone carried seriousness. No Manager wanted to be in the Championship where his team bowed out to a lower-tier side, that too on his teams home ground.
Later in the evening, while most of the player had taken showers and went on with their day, Ethan still remained on the pitch. With one of the assistant coach, a former midfielder with a whistle slung around his neck, who stayed back to help. He fed balls to him just outside the penalty area, pacing the passes at different intervals deliberately as he forced him to adjusted his stance with each delivery—left footed strike, low and hard; then a right-footed curler, arching toward the top corner. Though shots clipped the post, few still nestled into the net, but it wasn't just about perfection. It was about building rhythm, confidence and most importantly imprinting muscle memory.
As the ground lights were switched out, he turned himself toward his locker for a bath, when a familiar voice called out.
"Voss," Warnock said, stepping into the room. "Keep this up lad and you'll get your shot sooner than you think, also try to take good rest or you'll wear yourself out."
He met Warnock's eyes, his expression stoic. "I'll be ready," he said, his voice low. It wasn't a plea for attention or a bold prediction and certainly no useless bravado—but with certainty, a thing you gain when you go through relentless training sessions and countless hours on the pitch.
On eve of August 7th, Portsmouth arrived in the Welsh capital. Traveling up from the south, the squad checked into a city centre hotel, keeping their routine tight and their focus sharper. Local press had captured their arrival.
The online chatter kicked off, the moment Portsmouth's arrival photos went public. Supporters of home team flooded the forums and social media with their predictions and reddit with Hot Takes. Optimistic fans had already written it down as a routine victory for Cardiff. But others—especially the experience ball pandits, who remembered past cup upsets—urged for patience. "It's the EFL Cup," one fan commented online on Cardiff City Support Page. "Don't expect Portsmouth to just show up here and hand down an easy victory. They've got a point to prove, and nothing to lose in turn."
Soon at the stadium, staff worked in tandem to finalize the preparations—banners and barriers were installed, and dressing rooms were inspected down to the last detail. The buzz was real and it clearly radiated in Cardiff City.
However Ethan wasn't caught up in all that noise. While chatter was spinning around formations, predictions and playing eleven, he sat quietly on the bench of the locker room, lacing his boots and adjusting his shin pads with deliberate calm. His mind was focused, trying to visualize the game he might get the chance to join, his first touch and the feeling of settling the ball under his control.
Around him the cheering of crowd grew louder, each cheer and chant, rising his pulse as both teams stepped on the ground, which was filled with color of blue, under the cloudy sky,
And somewhere in that thunderous surrounding, he still wondered—not with desperation, but with hope—whether tonight might be the moment when his name will echo in these stadium walls, not from the bench, but from the pitch.