12 January, 2023
The hallways of St. Luke's had that permanent hospital tang — disinfectant, stale floor polish, maybe even a hint of burnt toast from the cafeteria downstairs. On the third floor, rain whispered across the chemistry lab's windows like fingers drumming lightly on glass. Outside, the sky looked like wet cement, stretched thin over a tired city.
Room 3C was silent, in that restless, pre-bell kind of way. The type of silence that hums just beneath the surface, full of ticking clocks and scribbling pens and students willing the clock forward with their minds.
At the back of the room, Nico Varela slouched low in his seat like he was trying to become part of the chair. His legs stretched under the bench, long and lazy. A biro twirled in his right hand, but the glucose molecule in his workbook remained unfinished — half-circles, arrows, stray carbon bonds drifting off into white space.
His body was here.
His brain? Not so much.
Kick-off was in thirty-three minutes.
Year 11 vs. Year 12. The charity match — big event, big crowd, all eyes. Old folks from the care home next door were already getting wheeled out to the sidelines, bundled up in scarves and puffers like tiny bundled mascots. Teachers would line the steps, students would scream every time someone tried a rainbow flick. It wasn't the Champions League — but in this little world, it mattered.
Most of them saw it as a fun Friday tradition.
Nico didn't.
To him, this match — this day — was more than that. It was a spotlight. A shot. A message to anyone watching. To the coaches who'd passed on him. To himself.
He wasn't just a baller.
He was the baller.
Captain. Midfielder. 6'1" with tight curls and a jawline that made Year 10 girls fake reasons to hang near his locker. Dominican roots. Calm swagger. Teachers said he was "mature beyond his years," but Nico never saw the point in talking about it. All he knew was, when things got tight, everyone looked to him. And he liked it that way.
But none of the compliments, none of the buzz around school, none of it really landed anymore.
Not since that day.
Not since those words.
"You're not technical enough."
It came back like a bruise that wouldn't fade.
The Crystal Palace office had been cold. Damp. He remembered his hoodie sticking to his back, still wet from training. Coach hadn't been mean — he'd almost looked sorry.
"You've got heart, Nico. Speed, strength. Smarts. But the role you want? That deep-lying, tempo-controlling maestro? That takes finesse. Craft. You're not there technically. And at this level… that's the difference."
It hadn't felt like feedback. It felt like a door slamming.
Since then, his boots hadn't left the gym bag under his bed. He didn't quit, not officially — but the dream? It felt like someone had reached into his chest and flicked off a light switch.
Now he was just a schoolboy again. Flashy at recess. Captain of the school team. But no more academy sessions. No more scouts. The pitch felt smaller now, like the real version of the game had moved on without him.
Across the lab bench, Cristiano Dunn leaned in with that same stupid grin he always wore before a match. "You locked in, skip?"
Nico didn't look up. Just muttered, "Always."
Cristiano had been there from the start — winger, best mate, absolute menace. All legs and elbows, fast like a deer on Red Bull, and somehow always three seconds from either a worldie or tripping over his own feet. They'd been side-by-side since Year 7.
At the front of the room, Mr. Patel was mumbling something about covalent bonds, drawing sagging loops on the whiteboard. The smell of dry-erase marker filled the air.
Nico glanced up at the wall clock.
2:27 p.m.
And then, the world changed.
No sound. No movement. The fluorescent lights froze in mid-flicker like a paused video. The hum of conversation, the scratching of pens — everything just… stopped.
The air turned heavy, dense, like the room had been dipped in fog.
And then, it appeared.
A screen. No — a SCREEN.
Floating in the middle of the classroom, glowing faint blue, translucent like a hologram. It shimmered, unreal, like something out of a game or an anime. Solo Leveling popped into Nico's head — the part where the main guy sees his first quest. That moment right before everything changes.
The letters were clean. Digital. Alive.
MISSION: Become the GOAT of football.
TIME LIMIT: 8 Years.
ACCEPT? [YES] / [NO]
Nico froze. His lips parted.
"The f—?"
Cristiano blinked at him. "Yo, you good?"
"Huh? Nah. I'm good." Nico shook it off, eyes darting back to the screen.
It hovered, waiting. Pulsing gently.
He didn't think. He didn't weigh pros and cons.
He just tapped YES.
The screen shimmered again.
TEMPLATE INITIALISATION
SPIN THE WHEEL TO BEGIN.
A wheel spun into existence. Golden. Slow. Names circling the rim like football royalty — but not the obvious ones. No Messi. No CR7.
Instead:
Wilfried Zaha.
Oscar.
Willian.
Son Heung-min.
Moussa Dembélé.
Ziyech.
Trossard.
Matheus Pereira.
Each name flared as it passed. Highlight reels spun in mid-air: Son cutting inside and smashing it top bins, Zaha weaving through defenders like they were ghosts, Dembélé holding off three men with just body shape and calm.
And then — the wheel clicked. Slowed.
MOUSSA DEMBÉLÉ.
The screen flashed.
TRAIT UNLOCKED: PRESS RESISTANT (LV.1)
Inspired by Moussa Dembélé — calm under chaos, master of midfield balance.
Nico straightened. He felt… different. Like his feet had sunk an inch deeper into the floor. Like his spine had lengthened. His heartbeat slowed. The classroom noise returned faintly in the background, but it felt far away.
"Do I have a… status?"
The screen shimmered again.
PLAYER STATUS — NICO VARELA
Pace: 67
Shooting: 72
Passing: 78
Dribbling: 82
Defense: 80
Physical: 74
Active Trait: Press Resistant (Level 1)
Nico's eyebrows twitched. The numbers felt strong — better than average — but he had no idea what normal looked like.
"Like… is that good? Am I cracked or mid?"
The screen glitched, then pulsed.
COMPARE TO OTHERS: AVAILABLE
SUGGESTED TARGET: CRISTIANO DUNN
Nico squinted at his friend and locked eyes for three seconds.
New stats loaded.
PLAYER STATUS — CRISTIANO DUNN
Pace: 64
Shooting: 68
Passing: 66
Dribbling: 74
Defense: 45
Physical: 59
Active Trait: None
Nico blinked.
Cristiano. The supposed speedster.
And yet… Nico had more pace?
"Damn," he muttered, a smirk creeping in. "I really got the upgrade."
The bell shrieked.
Chairs scraped. Bags zipped. The classroom erupted into motion again, like nothing had happened.
Cristiano clapped him on the back. "C'mon, boss man. Time to show these sixth formers who runs this yard. What's the formation saying?"
"4-3-3," Nico said absently. "Keep it basic. Randell still thinks 'tactical flexibility' is a yoga pose."
Cristiano cackled. "Man, if he overlaps the fullback one more time…"
They pushed through the crowd toward the changing rooms, bantering the whole way.
"You know we've never won a match without you, right?" Cristiano said.
Nico raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like a team problem."
"Year 12's got some academy heads," Cristiano said. "Proper players."
Nico cracked his neck, eyes on the rain outside. "Looks like we gotta carry again."
They bumped fists, no words needed after that.
The corridor smelled like sweat and rain. The thud of studs echoed off concrete. The drizzle outside hadn't let up.
And as Nico stepped out toward the pitch, something inside him clicked into place.
For the first time in weeks… he felt ready.
…
The Year 11 boys crammed into the smaller of the two changing rooms — white-tiled, vaguely lemon-scented, and definitely not designed to fit a full squad of teenage boys and their oversized egos.
"Bruv… seriously," muttered Jayden, kicking at the bench with a booted heel. "Why the hell are we in the girls' changing room?"
Cristiano, halfway through lacing his boots, didn't even look up. "Year 12s got first pick, innit."
"Still," Jayden grumbled. "Feels wrong. I'm scared to touch anything."
"Smells better than that shithole we usually use," said Darnell, tugging on his socks. "Ain't even mad."
Laughter bubbled around the room. The pre-match tension was starting to loosen.
Nico stood near the lockers, already kitted up, his No. 6 jersey half-tucked. He waited until the volume dipped, then clapped once — loud and sharp.
"Aight, listen up," he said. The room quieted instantly.
"This might be the last game we get this year. Exams are around the corner, and once they start breathing down our necks, you know it's all revision timetables and stress dreams. So let's make this one count."
A few nods. A muttered "Let's do it."
"These Year 12s?" Nico continued. "They're not that deep. Couple academy kids, sure, but half of them haven't played proper football since Sports Day. Don't let the names fool you."
He scanned the room — eye contact, one by one.
"You know your positions. Play simple. Pass and move. No one's out here trying to reinvent the game. If you're under pressure, give it to me. I'll sort it out."
Then came the grin. "And for the love of God — don't embarrass yourself. Sixth Form girls are watching. I already saw Jess and Amber by the pitch."
Jayden snapped his head around. "Oi — that's my sister, you knob!"
The room erupted. Darnell nearly fell off the bench laughing. Cristiano banged the lockers.
Nico smirked, cool as ever. "Even more reason to ball out then, init?"
Cristiano jumped in, eyes wide with mischief. "If I get a hat-trick, Jayden — you gotta give me her Snap. Man's tryna network."
Jayden just buried his face in his hands. "I actually hate all of you."
Laughter echoed through the room, but the nerves had shifted. It wasn't tension anymore — it was energy.
Nico pulled the armband up his sleeve and nodded toward the door.
"Let's go. Time to show 'em what we're about."
Boots thudded against tile as the boys stood and shuffled out together, bantering, focused, locked in. Cristiano gave Nico a quick shoulder bump as they reached the hallway.
"You reckon I got a shot with Jess though?"
Nico just shook his head, grinning. "Focus on scoring goals, not girlfriends."
They pushed through into the corridor. The drizzle was louder now. So was the crowd.
Game time.
…
The drizzle hadn't let up, but it hadn't kept the crowd away either.
Parents, students, teachers, and even a few familiar faces from the local community lined the concrete steps beside the pitch, bundled in coats and scarves, clutching steaming cups of coffee. There was a buzz in the air — not stadium-level electricity, but the kind of quiet, eager anticipation that only school matches with bragging rights can bring.
The players jogged into position. Boots tapped the wet turf. Captains exchanged nods. The whistle hadn't blown yet, but the battle lines were drawn.
Over by the metal railing, Mr. Patel squinted through the mist and spotted a familiar face — tall, wiry, with a flat cap and a navy wool coat buttoned right to the chin.
"Russell Jefferson," he said with a smile, walking over. "Back again?"
Russell turned, face creased by time but eyes sharp as ever. "Yeah, couldn't miss it," he said with a nod. "These games are always worth a watch."
Mr. Patel chuckled. "Well, you picked a good one. Four academy players on the pitch today."
Russell raised an eyebrow. "Four?"
"Well… three now. One just got released."
Russell let out a low whistle. "Brutal business."
"Tell me about it."
Russell's eyes drifted toward the Year 11 huddle, where a tall, light-skinned boy was pulling his teammates into formation, pointing, calling out, clapping shoulders. His presence stood out — confident, composed, even in the drizzle.
"Hey," Russell asked, nodding toward him. "Who's that kid? The one commanding that team."
Mr. Patel followed his gaze. "That's Nico Varela. Real talent. Used to be with Palace, actually. Got released about a month ago."
Russell's eyes narrowed, thoughtful. "You can tell he's got it, though. Poise. Vision. Leadership."
Mr. Patel nodded. "Shame, really. Some of the best ones fall through the cracks."
Russell didn't reply right away. He kept watching Nico — the way the boy read the pitch before the ball even moved, the quiet authority in his stance.
"Well," Russell said finally, "if he plays like he leads, this'll be worth the rain."
Mr. Patel patted him on the shoulder. "You're in for a good one."
He started walking toward the center circle, tugging a black whistle from his jacket pocket.
"Wait—" Russell called after him. "You're refereeing?"
Mr. Patel grinned over his shoulder. "Every year. Somebody's gotta keep these kids from starting a war."
Russell chuckled, then turned back to the pitch, eyes still on Nico.
The whistle was about to blow.
And somewhere in the wet air of that old schoolyard, something bigger was beginning.
…
Mr. Patel stepped out onto the slick turf, whistle swinging from his fingers, rain tapping lightly on his bald head as he called out, "Captains!"
Nico Varela jogged toward the center circle, his blue bib sticking slightly to his kit in the drizzle. From the opposite side, Mark Collins — Year 12's captain and academy center-back — strode over, red bib tight across his chest, every step full of quiet confidence.
They met at the halfway line, boots crunching damp grass beneath them.
Mr. Patel looked from one to the other. "Alright, lads. Keep it clean, play hard, respect each other, yeah? No two-footers, no handbags, and if you swear loud enough that the care home hears you, you're off. Deal?"
Both captains nodded.
"Good," Mr. Patel said. Then he grinned. "Now, we're not doing the usual coin flip today. This is a school match — so we're flipping it academic style."
Mark frowned. Nico raised an eyebrow.
Mr. Patel cleared his throat theatrically. "First kick-off goes to whoever answers this question correctly. No calculators, no huddles. Just quick maths."
A pause. Then: "What is… seven to the power of three?"
Mark blinked. Looked like he was still loading.
Nico didn't even hesitate.
"Three hundred forty-three."
Mr. Patel gave him a slow, impressed nod. "Top set, I see."
He handed Nico the ball. "Kick-off's yours."
Nico smirked, took the ball, and jogged to the center circle. Cristiano met him there, bouncing on the balls of his feet, eyes lit up like it was a cup final.
"Man really hit us with a math test," Cristiano muttered.
"Just be glad it wasn't chemistry," Nico replied, placing the ball down with care.
The Year 11s formed up quickly in their blue bibs, spreading across the pitch with energy. Darnell at right back, Jayden on the left, midfield triangle locked in, wide options ready to explode.
The Year 12s stood opposite in red bibs, calm and composed, with academy boys like Mark and Tyrese giving off real we've played county-level energy.
The crowd pressed forward slightly, umbrellas bristling, thermos caps unscrewed, phones already recording.
The whistle hadn't blown yet — but the storm had already gathered.
Nico stepped back.
Cristiano grinned beside him.
Mr. Patel lifted the whistle to his lips.
And the match began.
WHISTLE.
And just like that — it began.
Felix, the Year 11 striker, tapped the ball back with his first touch, quick and tidy. Nico met it with a calm side-foot pass to Randell, who was already shifting his weight to receive.
The center-back took two touches and fed it back to Nico — routine stuff. But the second the ball left Randell's boot, Nico felt it.
Pressure.
A shadow closing fast.
Zion Williams — Year 12's academy-built No. 10 — was already snapping at his heels, moving like a heat-seeking missile.
Nico didn't panic.
The ball kissed the grass, and Nico let it roll just a touch across his body before trapping it with the outside of his right foot. Zion lunged to press — heavy, eager — but Nico dipped his shoulder, rolled his body, and spun away clean.
Like silk.
Press Resistant (Level 1) — activated.
Zion slid past into empty air as Nico turned sharply into space. And just like that, the entire pitch unfolded in front of him.
Midfield lanes open. Options popping like icons on a screen.
He pushed the ball forward, gliding through the center circle with that lean, driven gait of someone who knows they've just broken the first line.
Then came the next challenge — a Year 12 midfielder stepping in, trying to close him down fast. Stocky, physical, looking to throw weight.
Nico barely slowed.
Quick feint left, touch right. Clean beat. Gone.
Gasps from the sideline.
Then he spotted Cristiano — peeling wide on the left flank, arms out, already screaming for it.
Nico didn't hesitate. He slipped the ball through with the perfect weight — not just accurate, but inviting. The kind of pass that says run onto this and cause chaos.
Cristiano was off.
The crowd began to murmur — something was brewing.
Nico stood near the halfway line for a moment, hands on hips, watching the play develop like a chess master waiting for his next move.
Cristiano sprinted down the left, bib flapping as he carried momentum like a wave. He looked up once and spotted Felix darting into the box — calling for it, arms pumping.
Cristiano squared it low and fast.
But just as it reached the six-yard box, Mark Collins — Year 12's stonewall center-back — read it perfectly. He stepped in, sharp and decisive, and cut it out with a strong right foot. One touch, then boom — a long clearance upfield, far and high, slicing through the grey drizzle.
But Nico was already moving.
He'd read the flight before the ball had even left Mark's foot.
He drifted into position near the halfway line, judged the bounce, and rose smoothly — thud — meeting it with his forehead like it was scripted. Not just a clearance — a controlled header, angled neatly into the path of Darnell, his right-back.
Darnell took it down — awkwardly, but enough to keep it alive.
Then suddenly — Tyrese.
The Year 12 left winger. Fast, flashy, footwork like he had rubber bands in his ankles. He came flying in, swarming Darnell, applying instant pressure.
"Man on!" Nico shouted, already moving to support.
Darnell panicked and stabbed the ball toward him — sloppy, rolling off the outside of his boot.
Tyrese pounced, closing fast.
But Nico got there first.
One touch to kill the ball, second touch — Marseille turn.
He dragged it with his sole, spun cleanly, left Tyrese skating past like a hologram.
"OHHHHHH!" came the cry from the crowd. The boys on the bench were up out their seats.
Nico didn't even pause.
He glanced up, eyes scanning like radar.
And there — again — was Cristiano. Alone. Wide left. Space to burn.
Nico shifted his stance and pinged a cross-field diagonal with his right foot — rising, cutting through the air like a missile, 40 yards on a rope.
Cristiano met it with a soft chest touch, smooth as silk, and took off toward goal. The Year 12 right-back came across to meet him, low stance, ready to shut it down.
But Cristiano feinted like he was going wide, then chopped inside with a sudden snap — clean, tight, dangerous.
He opened up his body and went for the far corner — that classic Thierry Henry curl.
The ball left his foot like a whisper.
It curved… dipped… and flew just wide of the post, brushing the side netting on its way out.
So close.
The crowd let out a collective gasp — that sound of almost-magic.
Cristiano turned, hands on his head, flashing a half-smile toward Nico across the pitch.
"Next one," Nico mouthed back.
Year 12 were shaken.
And Year 11?
They weren't just in the game.
They were controlling it.
The Year 12 keeper placed the ball down, wiped his gloves on his shorts, and launched it deep with a booming kick.
It sailed through the air like a cannonball, cutting across the drizzle.
Darnell leapt up near the right touchline, trying to nod it back into play — but mistimed it slightly. The header skimmed off his scalp and dropped awkwardly… straight to Tyrese.
Bad news.
The Year 12 winger barely needed an invitation. First touch — clean. Second — acceleration.
And then he was gone.
Tyrese tore forward with the ball glued to his boots, head down, cutting through the slick grass like a racehorse on rails. Only one defender stood between him and glory — Nico's center-back, Raj.
But Raj hesitated. Backed off. Wrong move.
Tyrese shifted left, then right — shaping to strike.
Then out of nowhere—
Boom.
Nico.
He'd sprinted 30 yards like a bloodhound locked on scent, closing the gap in seconds. And just as Tyrese shaped to shoot, Nico flew in — slide tackle, perfectly timed, boot-to-ball.
Clap of boot. Gasp of crowd. Silence, then roars.
The ball spun loose, but Nico popped back up like he was on springs and claimed it under control — calm, unbothered.
Then came the wave.
Three Year 12 midfielders rushed him — pressing from all angles, snarling, snapping.
He didn't blink.
First, a La Croqueta — right to left, slipping past the first man.
Then — a roulette. Smooth. Precise. A full spin between the other two, leaving them grasping at mist.
The crowd erupted.
Nico was through.
And suddenly, there was space.
A ridiculous amount of it.
He charged forward — full throttle, boots slicing the turf. The box approached. Defenders backpedaled in panic.
At the edge of the area, he shaped to shoot — defenders bit.
Then, a disguised pass with the inside of his foot — cool, clever, unexpected.
Right to Lucas, the right winger, who had ghosted into the box unnoticed.
Lucas didn't hesitate.
One touch.
Bang.
Low, clean, ruthless. The ball zipped past the keeper's outstretched hand and slammed into the net.
1–0 to Year 11.
The sidelines exploded. Screams, claps, chants, even a vuvuzela from somewhere in the crowd.
Cristiano tackled Lucas in celebration, the bench spilled onto the edge of the pitch, and Nico?
Nico just turned and jogged calmly back to his half, expression steady, eyes forward — like it was all just part of the plan.
On the touchline, Mr. Patel blew his whistle and glanced toward Russell Jefferson, who was watching with arms folded, eyebrow raised.
The old scout muttered under his breath, "That kid…"
Russell Jefferson had seen enough.
He stood quietly by the railing, arms folded, eyes locked on the pitch — not moving, barely blinking. The rain had soaked through the shoulders of his coat, but he didn't notice. Not once did he check the score. He wasn't here for that.
He was watching one player.
Nico Varela.
That tackle. That drive. The press resistance. The disguised assist. The way he carried himself — head up, unfazed, like the pitch was his office and everyone else was visiting.
"Jesus," Russell muttered to himself.
A monster in midfield.
Not just good — rare. A kid with an engine, defensive awareness, composure, creativity. And that passing range? Crisp. Clean. Confident. It wasn't just technical — it was intelligent. Every pass had intention behind it.
Russell had been around long enough to know the archetype when he saw it — this was the DNA of the top-tier midfielders. The Busquets, the Modrićs, the prime Yaya Toures. Players who could break play up, control tempo, and build attacks all in the same sequence.
And this kid had it.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an old, slightly cracked smartphone — held it like it was an alien object. Russell never really got on with the thing, always said touchscreens felt like trying to type on jelly. But this… this was worth the effort.
He scrolled awkwardly through his contacts, found the one he needed, and hit call.
The line rang twice.
"Dad?" a voice answered.
"Listen," Russell said without even greeting him. "Get down to St. Luke's. Now."
"What? Why?"
"There's a charity match on. School game. You're gonna think I'm crazy, but there's a boy out here — a midfielder. Sensational."
His son hesitated. "You sure?"
"Sure?" Russell scoffed. "Son, I've watched ten thousand midfielders in my life. Ninety-nine percent of them are copy-paste. But this one? This one moves different. Think Partey's positioning, Modrić's feet, and a touch of Jude Bellingham's arrogance — wrapped in one. And he's what? Sixteen?"
Silence on the line.
"If you leave now," Russell added, eyes still fixed on Nico jogging calmly back into shape, "you'll catch the second half. Just trust me."
"…I'm on my way," his son replied.
Russell ended the call, slipped the phone back into his pocket, and smiled faintly.
"Let's see what you do next, son," he murmured to himself.
The rain kept falling.
But something far bigger had started to take shape.
…
HALFTIME.
1–0 to Year 11.
And Year 12?
Shellshocked.
They trudged off the pitch like a team who'd been slapped, soaked in drizzle and disbelief. Their bibs were clinging to sweat-slicked shirts, boots muddy, eyes low. Not one of them spoke as they filed into the changing room.
Silence.
The kind that hums with frustration. With shame. With the weight of unexpected humiliation.
Most of them just sat staring at the floor, rewatching the first half in their heads on loop — the tackles, the turns, the goal, him.
Finally, it was Mark Collins who broke the silence — ripping his bib off and throwing it hard against the wall.
"There's no way you guys are serious," he snapped, eyes darting around the room. "We're losing to the fucking Year 11s."
No one replied.
Mark stepped forward, fired up now.
"They've got one baller — one! And he's running the whole game. We're getting embarrassed. Do you know what I just heard on the sideline?"
Still nothing.
"I just heard Amber and Jess talking about how fit Nico is."
Heads turned, suddenly interested.
"Yeah. Nico. Talking about how he's got that 'captain energy' and how he spun Tyrese like a fidget spinner. If we lose this game, that's it. That's our rep. Gone. You think any girl's looking at us the same after this?"
Zion let out a low curse under his breath.
Mark pointed straight at him. "Zion — get in that guy's head. Elbow him, talk trash, I don't care. Heard he just got released from Palace, yeah? Use it. Hit a nerve. Rattle him."
Then he turned to Tyrese.
"You get tackled like that again, I'm subbing on Tyler."
Gasps. A few chuckles, even in the tension.
"Don't look at me like that — I will."
Tyrese threw his hands up. "Bro— Tyler plays FIFA with his feet. You'd rather bring him on?"
"Try me," Mark growled. "Second half, I want blood. You want to act like ballers? Then show it."
Still silence.
But this time, something shifted in the air.
Anger.
Pride.
And just enough panic to make them dangerous.
…
Meanwhile…
On the far side of the pitch, under a shared umbrella and with matching pink phone cases, Amber and Jess were live on Insta, vlogging the match like it was the World Cup.
"Hey guyyyyys," Jess said, flashing peace signs into the camera. "We're back and the second half's about to start!"
Amber leaned in, eyes wide. "Not even gonna lie, Year 11 are owning the Year 12s right now."
Jess snorted. "It's so embarrassing. Like… aren't they meant to be the older ones?"
Amber laughed. "Literally. But okay, hear me out though…"
Jess turned to her, already knowing what was coming.
"Nico and Cristiano?"
"Ohhh," Jess gasped dramatically, covering her mouth. "Wait. No. Yeah."
Amber nodded seriously. "Nico's giving future Champions League captain. And Cristiano's got that whole fast-but-goofy thing going on. I like it."
Across the pitch, Cristiano had just stepped onto the grass for the second half when he caught a few of the words drifting through the drizzle.
He paused.
Then grinned like a kid at Christmas.
"Yo, Nico," he said, elbowing him. "You hear that?"
Nico raised an eyebrow. "Hear what?"
Cristiano gestured toward the girls with his thumb. "Jess and Amber are talking about how we're the stars of this match. My market value just skyrocketed, bro. I might be worth six quid and a Lucozade now."
Nico laughed. "Score a goal and you might get cuffed by Valentine's Day."
Cristiano smirked. "Say less."
As the referee raised his whistle to start the second half, Cristiano cracked his neck, bouncing on his heels with new energy.
The Year 12s were coming back angry.
But the Year 11s?
They were coming back loved.
….
The second half kicked off like a fight round.
Samir, Year 12's striker in red, tapped the ball backward to Zion Williams, who didn't hesitate — he sprinted forward like he had a score to settle.
He cut through the middle with purpose, gliding past Felix with ease. One shimmy and gone.
Zion flicked it wide to Tyrese, their winger — fast, flashy, unpredictable — already tearing up the right side.
Darnell, Year 11's right-back in blue, stepped up.
Too eager.
Tyrese flicked the ball forward and nutmegged him without slowing down. The crowd roared as Darnell spun, furious, while Tyrese flew down the touchline.
Near the corner flag, he whipped a vicious low cross into the box, eyes scanning for Samir.
But it didn't reach him.
Nico Varela was already there — again — timing his run, reading the game two passes ahead. He rose with that same quiet authority and hammered the ball away with a clean, commanding header.
The clearance found space — and Nico took off again, moving like he hadn't just defended his box seconds ago.
Alex, Year 11's left-sided mid, brought the ball down and rolled it back into Nico's feet as he cut through the middle third.
One touch.
Eyes up.
Felix was peeling off the defenders.
The gap was there.
Nico shifted his weight and drew back his foot to thread the killer pass—
CRACK.
A boot slammed into the side of his shin.
Zion.
Late. Nasty.
Nico winced, staggered, but kept his feet.
Mr. Patel's whistle shrieked through the air. He stormed over, yellow card already in hand.
"That's late, Williams! You know better!" he barked.
Zion just shrugged, barely looking at the ref. As Nico steadied himself and turned, Zion leaned in with a half-smirk and said low, cutting:
"Get up, G. Falling like that… and you wonder why Palace dropped you."
The words hit harder than the tackle.
For a split second, time slowed.
Nico didn't say a word.
Didn't need to.
His eyes locked onto Zion's, steady, unreadable — not angry, not rattled… just cold.
Then he turned, walked back to the ball, and dropped it at his feet like he was clocking in for work.
No theatrics. No jawing back.
Just quiet fury building.
Cristiano jogged over from the left wing, leaned in.
"You good?"
Nico nodded once, eyes never leaving the goal.
"I'm about to shut them all up."
Nico stood over the ball, the rain misting across his face, Zion still hovering nearby like he was expecting a war.
But there was no tension in Nico's body.
No rush.
No ego.
Just poise.
He didn't even glance at goal.
Instead, with one calm touch, he rolled the free kick sideways to Randell, the centre-back, who stepped onto it and returned it immediately. A one-two reset — quiet, simple, unbothered.
But Zion had already taken the bait.
He was charging again, hungry to press, to rattle Nico one more time.
Too late.
Nico had already seen him coming.
As the ball spun back toward him, Nico let it roll across his body, shifting his weight like liquid — smooth, elegant, unhurried. That signature Gravenberch turn — one touch, one sway, and he let the ball glide to his far foot, using the spin and his frame to shield it perfectly.
Zion slid past like a breeze.
Gone.
The crowd murmured — that hush when something special is building.
Nico took two quick touches into space and threaded the ball out wide to Cristiano on the left.
Cristiano squared up his marker, red bib vs. blue bib, 1v1.
He hesitated, body twitching left.
Then snapped right.
Burst of pace.
Space made.
He looked up, saw Nico arriving late at the edge of the box — alone, cool, still scanning — and cut the pass back.
The ball skidded through the wet grass like a gift wrapped in velocity.
Nico met it in stride.
Mark Collins, Year 12's captain and centre-back, came flying out to close him down.
But Nico wasn't fazed.
One gentle touch — not even rushed — just enough to shift the ball out of reach, using Mark's own momentum against him.
Then the shot.
Not laces. Not power.
Precision.
He wrapped his foot around it, curling it sweetly — effortlessly — into the top right corner.
The keeper dove, full stretch, both arms out.
Didn't matter.
He wasn't getting there.
The ball smacked the side netting with a snap — the kind of sound that silences everything.
Top bins.
Technique over violence. A strike that says: this is different class.
2–0.
The pitch froze.
For a second, even the players stopped moving.
Then the sideline erupted.
Benches on their feet. Screams from the crowd. Phones flying up to capture the moment. Darnell tackled Cristiano in celebration. Alex sprinted over and threw his arms around Nico.
But Nico?
Nico just jogged calmly back to the halfway line.
No smile.
No fist-pump.
He glanced once at Zion — who stood near the box, frozen, mouth tight, chest rising.
And then Nico looked away.
Like he'd already forgotten him.
…
Just as Nico's shot snapped into the top corner, a car door slammed near the school gate.
Anthony Jefferson — tall, lean, coat half-zipped — jogged up the steps by the fence, late but curious, the echo of the crowd's roar still hanging in the drizzle.
He reached his father just as the players jogged back to halfway, the Year 11s bouncing with energy, the Year 12s stunned.
Anthony stood still for a moment, eyes following the blue No. 6.
"Nico Varela," Russell said, not even looking at him.
"That was him?"
"Yup."
Anthony's brow furrowed. "You said this kid got released by Crystal Palace?"
"Last month."
Anthony turned, incredulous. "Why in the hell would they do something so—" he stopped himself. "—so stupid?"
Russell didn't answer right away. He just watched Nico calmly taking his position again, high socks soaked, not a single emotion written on his face.
"Doesn't matter why," Russell finally said. "What matters now… is what you're going to do."
Anthony's eyes narrowed slightly. "Brentford would love a profile like his."
Russell finally cracked a smile, glancing sideways at his son.
"And you say your father doesn't help you," he said.
Anthony exhaled, watching Nico adjust his armband like it was business as usual.
"Alright then," he said. "Let's get to work."
…
Back on the pitch, the restart felt… slow.
Not by mistake — by design.
Nico Varela stood at the heart of it all, boots planted like anchors, eyes scanning everything. Year 11 in blue were buzzing, full of confidence. Year 12 in red were unraveling — their press now hesitant, their pride bruised and bruising further by the minute.
Nico didn't need to shout.
He didn't need to run wild.
He just… commanded.
One touch here to Alex, his midfield partner. A quick return. Nico took the ball, let it roll across his body, then sprayed it wide to Jayden on the left with the calmness of someone changing a TV channel.
Year 12 tried to press.
Tried.
Zion stepped up again, angry and twitchy, but Nico checked over his shoulder once and released the ball just before the pressure arrived — into a pocket that didn't even look open until it was.
Lucas, the right winger, latched onto it and darted down the flank.
"Simple!" Nico called.
Lucas laid it off.
Back to Nico.
Everything ran through him now — the beat of the match, the tempo of the team.
He wasn't just making passes. He was making choices.
Slow it down? He did.
Speed it up? One look, one movement, and suddenly they were breaking lines again.
Cristiano buzzed up and down the left. Felix hovered between defenders. Even the back four were relaxed now — trusting the midfield general in front of them to guide the ship.
Year 12 couldn't keep up. They weren't just being outplayed — they were being controlled.
At one point, Nico stood with the ball at his feet for a full three seconds, untouched, daring anyone to press him.
They didn't.
They couldn't.
Even the crowd knew what they were watching now. It wasn't flash. It wasn't highlight reel stuff. It was something better — mastery.
From the touchline, Russell Jefferson nudged his son.
"See that?" he murmured. "That's not a highlight kid. That's a player who knows how to run a game."
Anthony didn't reply.
He was already pulling out his phone — fingers flying, typing something fast.
Brentford's head of recruitment was about to get a message.
Back on the pitch, Nico played a one-two with Alex, drifted forward, and clipped a ball over the top that dropped right into Felix's path like it had been drawn there.
Felix didn't score.
But it didn't matter.
Because everyone watching could see it now:
This wasn't just a player with a trait.
This was a player with class.