The playoff defeat was a bitter pill. The dressing room at the away ground was a tomb of silence, broken only by the sound of tired, frustrated men peeling mud-caked kits from their bodies. The dream of Championship football had been so close, its taste sweet on their tongues, only to be ripped away. For Armani, the loss was a sharp lesson in the brutal finality of English football. There were no participation trophies, no silver linings. You either went up, or you stayed down.
The summer break was a strange, disjointed period. Returning to Montego Bay felt like stepping into a vivid, familiar dream. The sun was a welcome embrace, the food a symphony of flavors, and his mother's love a balm for the lingering sting of defeat. But something was different. He was different. The constant, low-grade pressure of professional football had rewired him. The leisurely pace of life felt almost unnerving. He found himself waking at dawn, his body craving the structure of a training regimen.
He spent his days not just relaxing, but working. He trained with the MBU academy, a returning hero whose presence inspired the next generation. But he was no longer one of them. He moved with a different intensity, his first touch sharper, his understanding of space more advanced. Donovan Bailey watched him with a proud, paternal eye.
"The boy is gone," Bailey said to him one afternoon, as they stood on the familiar, sun-baked pitch. "A man has come back. England has put steel in you."
It was true. The raw, explosive talent was still there, but it was now encased in a layer of professional grit. He was stronger, both physically and mentally. The homesickness and initial struggles had carved out a resilience he hadn't possessed before.
His time wasn't spent entirely in Jamaica. A clause in his Lincoln contract, negotiated by the savvy Kingston lawyer, sent him for a two-week training stint at a Category One academy in England—a club with far greater resources than Lincoln. It was an eye-opening experience. The facilities were pristine, the coaching incredibly detailed, the level of the other young players intimidatingly high. It was a glimpse of the next tier, a reminder that his journey had only just begun. He returned to Jamaica not disheartened, but more motivated than ever.
The new season at Lincoln City began with a familiar feeling: the grey skies, the biting wind, the heavy pitches. But this time, there was no wide-eyed shock. There was a quiet determination. He knew what to expect. The preseason was a brutal test of fitness, a deliberate weeding-out process designed by Appleton to separate the committed from the complacent.
Armani was no longer a novelty. Opponents in League One had done their homework. Scouting reports now highlighted his pace as a primary threat, and they set up to nullify him. Defenders no longer engaged him high up the pitch; they dropped deep, denying him the space behind to run into. They showed him inside, into traffic, onto his weaker right foot. For the first few weeks of the new season, he was frustrated, rendered ineffective. The "Super-Sub" magic seemed to have worn off.
The stats in the early months were sobering:
Lincoln City - 2025/26 Season (League One) - First 3 Months:
· Appearances: 12
· Starts: 5
· Goals: 0
· Assists: 1
· Minutes Played: 501
He was playing more minutes, but his production had stalled. The one assist was a fortunate deflection. The coaching staff, while supportive, were clear in their feedback. "They've found you out, Armani," one of the assistants told him bluntly. "One pace, one direction. You need to add more strings to your bow."
It was a challenge that defined the entire, grueling season. This was the "long grind" they never showed in the highlight reels. It wasn't about spectacular goals or last-minute winners; it was about the daily, unglamorous work of evolving as a player.
He spent hours after training with a dedicated coach, working on his right foot until it was no longer a liability but a functional tool. He studied video of wingers who thrived without blistering pace, learning how to use feints, changes of pace, and clever body movement to create half-yards of space. He worked on his crossing, aiming for consistency over spectacle.
Progress was agonizingly slow. There were nights he returned to his shared house with Calum, his body aching, his spirit tested, wondering if he would ever break through this new wall. The Championship felt further away than ever.
The breakthrough, when it came, wasn't a moment of individual brilliance, but one of intelligence. In a drab, midweek fixture against Accrington Stanley, he received the ball on the wing with his back to goal, a defender tight on him. The old Armani would have tried to spin and burn him. The new Armani took a touch, shielded the ball, and played a simple, first-time pass back to his central midfielder. He then immediately spun and darted into the space behind the defender, who had been drawn forward by the initial pass. The midfielder, reading the move, played a first-time ball over the top. It wasn't a perfect pass, but Armani's run was so intelligent and well-timed that he reached it, cutting it back for a simple finish.
It was a goal born from patience and tactical understanding, not just pace. On the sidelines, Manager Appleton allowed himself a rare, full smile. It was the kind of growth he invested in.
That assist unlocked something. He didn't suddenly become a goal machine, but he became a more complete, more unpredictable player. The stats for the rest of the season reflected the struggle and the gradual evolution:
Lincoln City - 2025/26 Season (League One) - Final Stats:
· Appearances: 38
· Starts: 22
· Goals: 4
· Assists: 7
· Minutes Played: 2,114
· Key Passes per 90 mins: 1.5
· Successful Dribbles per 90 mins: 1.8
Lincoln finished a respectable 9th, well clear of relegation but far from the playoffs. It was a season of consolidation, for both the club and for Armani Wilson. He hadn't set the league on fire, but he had overcome a sophomore slump, adapted his game, and cemented his place as a valuable, evolving member of the squad.
As he packed for another summer, he looked out at the now-familiar Lincoln skyline. The dream was still alive, but it was no longer a naive fantasy. It was a blueprint, and he was slowly, painstakingly, laying the foundation, brick by hard-earned brick. The long grind continued, and he was learning to love the process.