The training pitch in Cardiff was slick with morning dew, but Neco Williams didn’t slow down. His boots sliced through the grass as he darted past cones, the ball glued to his feet. Coaches watched with approving nods as he whipped in a cross that curled wickedly toward the far post.

“Nice delivery, Neco!” one shouted.

He gave a thumbs-up, breathing steadily, then jogged back into formation. The session was intense, but he thrived in the rhythm of it—burst, recover, assess, deliver.

Later, during a tactical drill, his teammate tried a clever flick to beat him down the wing.

Neco smirked. “Not today, mate.”

With a sharp interception and a burst of acceleration, he turned defense into attack, flying down the sideline before sliding a low pass into the box.

As the move ended in a goal, the gaffer clapped. “That’s the fire I want. Sharp at both ends.”

Neco wiped sweat from his brow, grinning. “We’re just getting started.”

He wasn’t the loudest in the squad, but every time he stepped on the pitch, his game did the talking—fast, fearless, and full of purpose.