Full-time.
The whistle blew sharp, and the match ended 3–0.
Cristiano had sealed it in style — latching onto a perfectly timed through ball from Nico and slotting it coolly under the keeper. Arms out, sliding on his knees, grin stretched ear to ear like he'd just won the Champions League.
Year 11 in blue swarmed him.
Year 12 in red stood quiet, some with hands on hips, others already peeling off their bibs.
No fights. No shouting. Just silence and acceptance.
They'd been outplayed.
Outrun.
Outclassed.
Nico shook hands with every red bib that came his way, quiet and respectful. When Zion approached, he held the handshake a second longer.
Zion glanced down, then back up. "Yo… I'm sorry about what I said earlier," he muttered. "Football gets me angry sometimes."
Nico gave him a small nod. "It's calm," he said. "Football gets like that."
Zion hesitated for a beat. "Listen, my club — West Ham — they're holding trials next month. I could put your name forward if you're… you know, interested."
Nico blinked. "For real?"
"Yeah," Zion said. "You should come. You're different."
Nico nodded once. "I'll think about it."
Zion gave a short nod, then turned back toward his team.
Cristiano jogged over, still hyped. "You see that? Top corner, bro. Clinical. Jess is definitely gonna follow me now."
"You got one goal," Nico laughed. "Relax."
But before Cristiano could fire back, Mr. Patel walked up behind them — clipboard in hand, whistle now stuffed into his coat pocket.
He pointed across the field toward the concrete steps.
"You see that old man there?"
Nico squinted. Russell Jefferson, still in his cap, hands behind his back, watching quietly. Next to him stood Anthony, taller, sharper-looking, phone in hand, whispering into an AirPod.
"Yeah?" Nico answered, blinking like he wasn't sure why it mattered.
Patel gave a half-smile.
"Scouts."
Nico's face changed — just slightly. "Wait… what?"
"They want to talk to you," Mr. Patel said. "Right now."
Nico didn't move at first. Just looked across the pitch, still breathing heavy, still soaked in sweat and drizzle and disbelief.
Cristiano clapped a hand on his back.
"You ready, Cap?"
Nico exhaled through his nose, eyes locked on the two figures waiting for him.
"Yeah," he said.
Then he started walking.
The crowd was dispersing — slow clumps of people folding umbrellas, parents calling kids, teachers herding stragglers back toward the main building. But Nico wasn't moving.
He stood just off the pitch, jersey clinging to his back, socks soaked through. His legs were aching. His mind was still processing the game, the score, Zion's apology, the mention of West Ham trials… and now this.
Across the concrete steps, Mr. Patel gave him a nod. Go.
Nico wiped his hands down his bib, took a breath, and walked.
As he got closer, he saw the old man's face clearly — weathered, sharp-eyed, posture stiff like he'd spent decades watching football from bad stadium seats and muddy touchlines. That was Russell Jefferson.
Next to him stood a younger man — sharp fade, long coat, trainers that looked expensive but clean. He looked like someone who moved through the football world differently. Less clipboard. More deals.
That was Anthony Jefferson.
"Mr. Varela," Russell said as Nico stepped up. "Good to meet you."
Nico nodded, unsure if he should shake hands. He did. Russell's grip was firm. Old-school.
"You've got a good eye for space," Anthony said before Nico could say anything. "And even better feet."
Nico smiled, a little awkward. "Thanks… sir."
Anthony laughed. "Don't call me sir. That's him." He jabbed a thumb at his father. "I'm Anthony."
Nico nodded again. "Nice to meet you."
There was a beat of silence as both men looked at him — not judging, not testing, just seeing him.
"Look," Anthony said, cutting straight to it, "we came to watch a school match. We stayed to watch you. That second goal?" He gave a low whistle. "You didn't just play well — you controlled the game."
Nico shifted on his feet. "I appreciate that."
"You've got a really balanced profile," Anthony continued. "You defend like you want to defend. But you've also got vision. Decision-making. And calm. Proper calm. That's rare."
Nico looked down, barely hiding the small grin breaking on his face. For the first time in a while, the rejection from Crystal Palace didn't sit so heavy.
"We're with Brentford," Anthony said. "And we want to invite you to train with our Under-16s. Just an initial training period. See how you settle. No pressure — just come in, show what you can do."
Nico blinked.
"…Seriously?"
Anthony chuckled. "Yeah. Seriously. You in?"
Nico opened his mouth, then closed it again. A dozen thoughts flew through his head — Palace. His mum. The silence after getting released. Playing just for school. And now… this?
"Yeah," he said finally, clearing his throat. "I'd love to. I'm honored."
"Good," Russell said, nodding. "Keep your head. You've got something."
Anthony pulled out his phone. "You got WhatsApp? I'll send you the details. You'll train next week. Tuesday and Thursday sessions."
Nico reached for his phone with slightly shaky hands and gave him his number.
As Anthony typed it in, Nico caught himself glancing back toward the pitch — the puddles, the goalposts, the chalked-out halfway line that had just been his whole world for the last hour.
Cristiano was on the other end, sitting on the bench now, joking with Darnell and Lucas, none of them having a clue what was happening over here.
"Make sure your boots are clean when you come in," Anthony added with a grin. "We'll be watching."
Nico nodded, voice low but steady now. "They will be."
He shook both their hands again, stepped back, then turned.
And for the first time since that cold day in the Palace office, something felt open again.
Not just the pitch.
The future.
As Nico walked away from the Jeffersons, heart pounding behind his calm expression, a breeze cut through the drizzle. His boots squelched against the wet concrete. Everything around him felt sharper — the air, the sound of distant traffic, even the echo of Cristiano's laugh across the pitch.
Then—
BZZZT.
A flicker.
Mid-step, the world around him slowed.
The dull grey sky dimmed for a second, like a cloud had shifted.
A familiar glow shimmered in the corner of his vision — not real light, but system light. Digital. Subtle. Alive.
It hovered just ahead of him, translucent and pulsing, like a message burned into the air.
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION
Objective Complete: Defeat Year 12s (Match Rated 9.0+)
Match Rating: 9.2
Contributions: 1 Goal, 1 Assist
Dominant Playmaker Status: Verified.
Reward Earned: 1x Player Wheel Spin
Nico stared.
No one else saw it. Just him. The world moved around him — kids laughing, teammates packing bags, raindrops hitting the pavement — but here, in this moment, he was somewhere else again.
His throat felt dry, adrenaline still quietly humming through his veins.
Another spin.
Another chance.
Another step.
Nico exhaled, then smiled slightly.
The golden wheel turned.
Slow, deliberate.
Names pulsed as they passed — each one full of promise.
Valverde Rocket.
Kanté Defense.
Coutinho Blitz Curler.
Firmino Link-Up.
Pogba Passing.
Yaya Drive.
Thiago Flow.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Then it slowed… and clicked into place.
THIAGO FLOW.
The wheel stopped.
A soft sound played — like a chime.
The screen shimmered, and new text appeared:
TRAIT UNLOCKED: Tempo Technician (Lv. 1)
Inspired by Thiago Alcântara — supreme ball control, effortless rhythm, passing in tight pockets under pressure.
Another panel followed, smooth and glowing.
STAT UPDATE — NICO VARELA
Dribbling: 82 ➝ 85
Passing: 78 ➝ 84
First Touch: Uncovered: 86
Passive Ability: +10% Precision in Short Passing Under Pressure
And in that moment — Nico felt it.
Not a surge of power.
Something else.
Something clean.
The ball would feel lighter now. His turns would feel tighter. Every touch would land softer, every pass hum with precision. It was like his body had remembered how to dance — not flashy, but fluid.
He rocked back on his heels, loosened his shoulders, and breathed.
The glow faded.
The noise returned — teammates joking, bags zipping, boots echoing across the ground.
But Nico stood still for a moment, something settled deep inside him now.
The system had changed him again.
Not just stronger.
Smarter.
Smoother.
More dangerous.
…
Later that evening,
The rain had finally stopped.
London's sky was still a smudgy grey, but the streets were drying — wet pavement glinting under the streetlights, buses growling down dim roads. Inside their small flat, everything felt still. Warm. Safe.
Nico sat at the kitchen table, a bowl of leftover arroz con pollo in front of him — untouched. Steam rose. He didn't even look at it.
Across the room, his mum stood near the sink, humming to herself as she rinsed a plate. Her house shoes shuffled softly across the tile. Her hair was tied up, loose strands falling around her face, and she looked tired. But peaceful.
Nico finally spoke.
"Mum."
She turned. "Yeah, mijo?"
He took a breath.
"I got invited to train with Brentford's U16s."
She blinked.
"Wait… what?"
Nico's eyes met hers. "Today. After the match. There were scouts. They saw me play. One of them said I controlled the whole game."
Her mouth dropped slightly, then covered it with her hand. "No."
He nodded. "They want me to come in. Just for a few sessions. See how I settle."
She didn't say anything at first — just stared at him, as if trying to figure out whether or not he was being serious.
"You're not messing with me, are you?" she asked, voice cracking a little.
"No," he said softly.
Her hand dropped from her face, and her eyes started to water. Not dramatically — just that shine that comes when your body's trying to catch up to a feeling.
"Oh, Nico…"
She stepped across the room and pulled him into a hug — tight, full-bodied, like she was trying to make sure he didn't float away.
He let himself fall into it. His forehead pressed against her shoulder. No words for a second. Just breathing.
"You see?" she whispered. "They made a mistake. But you didn't. You kept going."
He nodded into her hoodie. "Yeah."
"I knew it wasn't over," she said. "I just… I didn't know how it was gonna come back."
"It did," he said.
She pulled back and looked him in the face. "You better tear it up there, okay?"
He laughed. "I'll try."
She smiled — that real, mum smile that hit different than any scout's praise.
"I'm proud of you," she said. "Even if it doesn't work out. I'm proud of you for showing up. Again."
He looked down, a little overwhelmed, a little quiet.
"Thanks, Mum."
She tapped the table. "Now eat your food before I smack you. You think Premier League midfielders skip dinner?"
He grinned, finally picking up his fork. "Thiago probably eats paella though."
"You're lucky I don't know who that is."
….
Nico was lying in bed, hoodie on, lights off, only the soft blue glow of his phone lighting up the room. One headphone in. Blanket pulled over his legs. His feed was quiet — usual stuff. Memes. Football edits. A DM from Cristiano that was just a goat emoji and "Baller."
He wasn't even looking for anything.
Then he saw it.
@StLukesPE had posted a reel.
"Charity Match Highlights: Year 11 vs Year 12 — Who's Your MOTM?"
The thumbnail froze on Cristiano's goal celebration. Nico tapped it.
Music kicked in — drill beat over slowed footage.
The first clip showed Tyrese's nutmeg. Then the crowd. Then Cristiano's cutback. Nico's curler. Boom.
Another clip — Nico spinning out of a press like it was nothing, then that Foden-style top-corner goal.
Cut to him shrugging as he jogged back to halfway.
Then…
The comments.
They were flying.
"Yo who's BLUE No. 6???"
"That no.6 is a beast."
"Bro's a regen of Moussa Dembélé fr."
"The turn at 0:14? Nasty."
"Nah this guy's too cold. Someone sign him already."
"Palace fumbled bad if they let this guy go."
"What's his name?? Nico something?"
"Ball carrier. Controller. Destroyer. Future."
Nico's thumb paused.
He stared at the screen, heartbeat just slightly louder than before.
120k views.
20.4k likes.
Over 800 comments.
He blinked, reread them again.
Then the system flickered.
Just faintly — like a reminder tucked in the corner of his vision.
[Reputation Increase: +1]
Player Recognition Level: Local Breakout
He didn't smile.
But he felt it.
The shift.
The momentum.
The beginning.
He locked his phone, rolled over onto his side, and stared at the ceiling.
Everything was starting.
And this time?
He wasn't chasing it.
It was chasing him.
….
Saturday Afternoon.
The rain was finally gone, but the park grass still squished under their trainers, soaked from two days of drizzle. The clouds hung low, and the sky had that typical dull London grey, but the vibes were right.
Three boys. One ball. Empty field. Peace.
Nico, Cristiano, and Jayden strolled onto the patch of grass they always claimed as theirs, passing by abandoned cones and the remains of a U10s session. It was one of those places where everything felt familiar — the same dented goalposts, the same soggy goalmouth, the same gum wrapper still stuck to the crossbar.
Jayden dragged his feet, hoodie up, face unimpressed.
"Bro, my legs are still dead from that match," he groaned. "And you still wanna kick ball?"
Nico, already bouncing the ball under his foot, gave a slight smirk. "Grind don't stop, bro."
Cristiano cackled. "This guy is insane."
Nico didn't even reply. He just let the ball roll off his toes and dropped it onto his boot.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Quick, precise kick-ups. Smooth like second nature. Then, without warning, he launched it sky high — slicing through the clouds, just pure elevation.
All three of them looked up, tracking it.
Jayden shielded his eyes. "Bruv, you launched that—"
But Nico? Calm.
He stood, arms loose, chest rising slow.
The ball came hurtling back down.
Dead touch.
Perfect.
It dropped out of the air and landed right onto his boot, no bounce, no panic. He let it pop back up again, then rolled it around his chest — fully around, like it was caught in orbit — before flicking it up with his knee and volleying it across the pitch to Cristiano.
Cristiano just about trapped it without falling over.
Jayden stared.
Silence.
Then:
"What the fuck?" Jayden said, eyes wide. "Nah. Nah, bro. That's not normal."
Cristiano was still shaking his head. "You see this guy?"
Jayden pointed at Nico like he'd discovered a glitch in reality. "We know you're good. But since when did you have tech like that? You've been possessed, bruv."
Nico just shrugged, catching his breath, brushing his hair back with his hand like it was nothing.
"Gotta be ready for Brentford."
Jayden staggered back, arms in the air. "Mate! You're ready for the Brazil national team at this rate."
Cristiano laughed so hard he had to bend over. "Facts! Man's gonna be starting next to Bruno Guimarães and telling Neymar where to stand."
Nico cracked a grin. "I'll take number 6."
Jayden rolled his eyes. "If you get verified before me, I'm unfollowing you. That's a warning."
Cristiano pointed. "Nah, we'll still be front row. Shades on. Pretending we discovered him."
"You did discover me," Nico said, deadpan.
Jayden smirked. "Damn right. We're your origin story."
The ball rolled back to Nico's feet again, and he trapped it with the inside of his boot. The moment settled. Just three boys, back where it started. Same jokes, same grass, same energy.
But something had changed.
Even they could feel it.
Not just in the skill. Not just in the system.
In him.
And Nico?
He was just getting started.
….
Tuesday finally came around.
Nico stepped through the glass doors of the Brentford Academy with his boot bag slung over his shoulder and his heart beating steady and low.
It didn't look like much from the outside — just brick, glass, and a few players milling around in club tracksuits — but everything about it felt serious. Structured. Focused.
He made his way to reception.
The woman behind the desk looked up from her monitor.
"Morning. Can I help you?"
"Yeah," Nico said. "I'm here for the Under-16 trial. Nico Varela."
She clicked around on her screen, then gave a small nod.
"Second left down that corridor. Says 'U16 Coach' on the door."
"Thanks."
The hallway was quiet, lined with framed action shots and whiteboards full of fixtures and tactical notes. A couple of coaches passed by, nodding briefly, deep in quiet conversation.
Nico found the door.
U16 COACH – MARCUS DOYLE
He stood there for a second, took one breath, then knocked.
"Come in," came the reply.
Nico pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The office was neat but worn in — the kind of space used by someone who didn't care about decor as long as things worked. A half-full protein shaker sat next to a laptop. A pair of studs were drying by the radiator. A folded whiteboard leaned in the corner, covered in diagrams.
Behind the desk sat Marcus Doyle — mid-40s, broad shoulders, a slight limp when he stood, and eyes that clocked every movement before it finished.
"You must be Varela," he said, standing and offering a hand.
"Yes, sir."
They shook.
"I'm Marcus Doyle. Under-16s coach. Ex-midfielder myself — nowhere near as tidy as people like to remember, but I got around," he said, dryly.
Nico smiled faintly.
Doyle leaned against the edge of the desk. "So. I've heard your name about twenty times in the past four days. That school match — Year 11 vs. Year 12, right?"
Nico nodded.
"You're the one who ran the whole midfield, yeah?"
"I tried to."
"From what I saw," Doyle said, "you didn't just try. You dictated. Press resistance, vision, calm in tight spaces… good traits to have. Especially in a kid that just got let go."
Nico looked him in the eye. "Palace didn't think I was technical enough."
Doyle raised an eyebrow. "They said that?"
"Yeah."
He tilted his head. "You take that personally?"
Nico shrugged. "I took it seriously."
Doyle studied him for a second, then gave a slow nod.
"Good answer."
He walked around the desk, pulled open a drawer, and grabbed a red bib.
"You're running with our top midfield unit. Tight-space drills. One-two touch. Players who've been here for years."
Nico didn't flinch.
"You ready for that level?"
"I am."
Doyle handed him the bib.
"Go get changed. Pitch 2. They've already started the warm-up, but I told them we had someone coming."
As Nico turned to leave, Doyle called after him.
"Varela."
He turned.
"This isn't about showing off. It's about control. Find the tempo. Be the link. If you're half the player they say you are, you won't need to do anything flashy."
Nico nodded.
"I'm not here to impress," he said. "I'm here to belong."
Doyle gave a short, approving smile.
"We'll see."
The moment Nico stepped out onto Pitch 2, the air felt different.
There were no cameras. No fans. No music blasting from the sidelines like back at school.
Just boots on turf. Shouts. Instructions. Tempo.
The session was already underway. Six midfielders worked inside a square of cones, passing fast, calling out names, opening up angles. Coaches stood around with stopwatches and clipboards, quiet but watching everything.
Nico jogged toward the gear rack, pulled on his red bib, and tied his laces tighter. His hands moved automatically. His eyes never left the drill.
The touches were crisp.
Barely a second on the ball before it moved again.
Marcus Doyle spotted him and gave a nod to one of the assistant coaches, then waved Nico over.
"Jump into the middle," Doyle said. "Let's see how you handle chaos."
Nico didn't say a word. He stepped into the grid.
He was in now.
Rondo-style possession drill.
Five outside, one inside. Tight space. Two-touch max. If you lose the ball, you're in the middle. If you take too long on the ball, the coach resets the drill. No breaks.
"Play!"
The ball zipped toward Nico. First touch came hot.
He shifted it across his body — quick, smooth — then released it left-footed to the next man.
No drama.
Next pass. One touch back.
Then again — this time fizzed hard at his chest.
Nico cushioned it with his thigh, dropped it, turned blindside of the pressing player, and reversed it with a disguised pass around the corner.
Someone shouted, "Class!"
It kept going.
Faster now. Players testing him. Sending him hospital passes. Slower balls. Bounce passes.
Nico adapted to every one.
Shoulder checks before receiving. Sharp angles. Cruyff turn out of pressure. La Croqueta in a tight space. Ball never stuck to him — it flowed.
Thiago Flow (Lv.1) — activated.
In the back of his mind, something pulsed — soft, instinctual. The system was guiding him in ways he barely noticed. Not flashing. Not buzzing. Just… syncing.
His body moved cleaner.
Touches timed better.
Passing windows opened a half-second earlier than they should have.
He wasn't thinking anymore. He was feeling it.
The ball came into him again. He let it roll across his body and shifted his weight — that subtle sway he'd seen in YouTube clips of Alcântara. He waited half a beat, drew in the press, then released a disguised pass between two legs.
Nutmeg.
"Oi, Varela!" someone laughed. "You're taking the piss now!"
Marcus Doyle said nothing. But he saw everything.
The assistant leaned toward him. "He's got it."
Doyle nodded slowly. "Yeah. He does."
The drill ended. Players rotated. Nico stepped off, breathing heavy but sharp, no slouch in his posture.
One of the older boys — stocky, high fade, maybe a year above — clapped him on the back.
"You play like you've been here."
Nico nodded once. "I'm trying to stay here."
"Looks like you will."
After the rondo wrapped, Coach Doyle gathered the squad at midfield.
"Right. We're splitting into two eights," he said. "Starters on one side. Subs and trialists on the other."
He pointed toward a set of red bibs.
"Red's the first unit. White bibs, you're with the second group. Varela, white."
Nico nodded and slipped on the white bib. He joined up with the other subs — a few quiet lads, a couple returning from injury, one or two trialists like him. No chemistry. No familiarity.
Across from them stood the first team. Sharp. Confident. Full of starters who already had rhythm and reps with each other.
Coach Doyle clapped his hands.
"Two goals. 10-minute halves. Tempo high. Make your case."
The teams spread out on the condensed pitch — cones as sidelines, mini goals at either end. No referees. Just football.
The ball was rolled into play.
The reds pressed immediately. Sharp, intense. They were moving as a unit, trying to trap the whites into panic mode.
Nico dropped deep to show for the ball.
One of the centre-backs played it into his feet.
Nico turned instantly, first-time with the outside of his boot — slicing through the pressure and slipping it between the lines to his winger.
The move didn't lead to a goal, but it opened up space, and for the first time, the reds looked unsettled.
The white bibs fed off it.
Nico started moving more freely — showing, receiving, releasing. One touch, two touch. Sometimes no touch. Always thinking ahead.
The ball came to him under pressure — two reds swarming — and he let it run across his body again, touched it forward, then wrapped his foot around a lofted ball over the top.
Perfect weight.
His striker took it in stride and buried it low, bottom corner.
1–0.
"WOOO!" someone on the sideline shouted.
Nico didn't celebrate. He just pointed at the striker, then jogged back into position.
Coach Doyle watched from the halfway line, arms crossed. No smile. Just sharp focus.
The game restarted. The reds upped their intensity. Heavy touches. More aggression.
Nico stayed calm.
He drifted into pockets, found angles, played to feet under pressure. He didn't dominate with power — he dictated with control. Controlled the rhythm. Controlled the feeling.
Another sequence — quick one-two with his right-back, turn, bounce pass through midfield, third man run. He received it back at the edge of the box and slipped a disguised reverse ball across to the winger.
The winger cut inside and curled it in.
2–0. Another assist.
Now the pitch felt different.
Even the first-team boys were calling out to each other louder — frustrated, flustered.
The assistant coach leaned toward Doyle again. "He's running the game."
"I know," Doyle said, arms still crossed.
Nico didn't say much. He just kept moving, scanning, linking. He was everywhere, but never rushed. Never flashy. Just effective.
And as the final whistle blew on the 10-minute half, the white bibs — the subs — walked off the pitch up 2–0.
No shouts. No egos. Just quiet nods between teammates who'd barely known each other 20 minutes ago.
As Nico stepped off, one of the red bibs — a starting midfielder — walked past and muttered, "You made that look easy."
Nico didn't even look at him.
"Just playing football."