The sun hung low over the training complex as Václav Černý jogged out with a half-smirk tugging at his lips and headphones still blaring a beat only he seemed to enjoy. His teammates had grown used to his pre-training ritual: bounce on the balls of his feet, shake out the nerves, flash a grin, and then burst into action like a fuse had been lit.

“Černý,” barked the coach. “Left wing. Let’s see if your boots are as fast as your mouth today.”

Václav just winked. “Only one way to find out, coach.”

During the drill, he weaved through cones like they weren’t even there, flicked the ball behind his heel, and sent the keeper the wrong way with a curled shot into the top corner. The squad applauded, but Václav didn’t even pause—he was already jogging back to the line.

“Same again,” he muttered to himself. “But faster.”

This wasn’t just training. For Václav Černý, every touch was a chance to prove that he wasn’t just quick—he was dangerous.