He was already locked in.
That night, he replayed the moment Coach Mendez pulled him aside after training. The sky dimming, the pitch mostly empty.
Mendez stood with his arms crossed, no clipboard, no smile.
"You've got something," he said. "You see the game different. Feel it. You don't just play — you guide."
Nico didn't say a word. Just listened.
"I want to start you," Mendez continued. "Soon. But I can't. Not yet."
Nico frowned slightly. "Why?"
"Wouldn't be right. Other boys been grinding here for years. If I throw you in now, it's disrespect. But…"
He paused.
"If you keep playing like this, I won't have a choice."
Nico nodded once. "That's how I want it anyway."
Mendez smiled. "Good. Because the moment's coming. Might be sooner than you think."
…
Two weeks later.
Brentford U18 vs Fulham U18.
A derby.
Nico sat on the bench, bouncing his knee, legs already warm from the pre-match. The stands around the pitch were packed with parents, scouts, and silent observers. West London cold. West London energy.
63:40.
Brentford were losing 2–0 at home, and it showed.
Fulham weren't flashy, but they were efficient. Clinical. Every time Brentford tried to build something, it collapsed under the weight of Fulham's press. First goal? Counterattack. Second? A turnover in midfield and a ruthless finish.
Coach Mendez stood stiff by the dugout, arms folded, jaw locked. Then he glanced down the bench.
"Nico — get ready."
No emotion in his voice. Just expectation.
Nico was already on his feet. The zip of his top dropped. He bent to tighten his boots. Jogged lightly, loose hips, deep breaths.
He didn't think about the score.
He thought about the space.
64:29.
Board went up.
#8 OFF — #6 ON.
A quiet ripple of claps. Few people knew the name. A few in the crowd checked the team sheet again. "Varela… 15?"
He jogged on. Floodlights humming above. The wind had picked up. Breath visible.
Fulham's No. 10 looked at him as he ran into position and muttered something to his teammate. A smirk. A challenge.
Nico clocked it. Didn't react.
66:04.
First touch.
Ball zipped in from the centre-back — hard, bouncing. Fulham closed immediately.
Nico let it come across his body. One touch with the right instep, soft and angled, to shift the pressure. The second took him out of traffic.
Then he released it — clipped, clean, to the left-back.
Crowd murmured. Quiet approval.
Next sequence.
One-two with Trey. Then again. Now Nico had space.
He took it.
Fulham's line was stretched. Their right-back was tucked too deep. Trey peeled off the shoulder.
Nico stepped into the ball.
Slid it.
A perfect through ball — just the right angle, soft enough for Trey to carry, hard enough to beat the tracking midfielder.
Trey sprinted onto it. One touch, then a second — pulled the keeper out, then passed it low into the net.
2–1.
No wild celebration. Just urgency.
Trey pointed back at him. "That's you, bro!"
Nico nodded once. Already jogging back into shape.
77:28.
Brentford were on them now.
Fulham looked tense. Shouting more. Their shape cracking under the weight of Nico's control. Everything was sharper. More purposeful.
Ball came into him in the centre circle.
One Fulham midfielder stepped too early.
Nico turned him blindside.
Now there was grass.
He scanned once.
Amari. Wide right. Alone.
Nico shifted the ball out of his feet — then whipped a long diagonal that curled around Fulham's midfield and dropped just outside the final third.
Amari didn't break stride.
Touched it once with his thigh. Then chopped inside. The fullback stumbled.
Low cross.
Connor, Brentford's striker, burst through the near post and met it first time. Roof of the net.
2–2.
The bench erupted.
Now the volume was real. The subs were shouting. Even some academy coaches down the sideline were laughing — that kind of laugh when a kid makes grown men look slow.
Nico clapped once. Jogged back.
Composed.
But hungry.
88:54.
Fulham were shaken. Trying to pass for the sake of it. Legs heavy. Passes nervy.
Nico watched it happen.
He waited.
Then pounced.
Loose square pass in midfield.
He stepped in, cut it off, and took the ball into space. First touch rolled. Second exploded.
Quick Step — Activated.
He surged between two defenders — hips low, shoulders dropping, weight always forward.
Now it was just him and the final third.
Trey ran off to the right. Amari flared out wide.
But Nico slowed.
22 yards out.
Just off centre.
The crowd leaned forward.
One last breath.
He took the shot.
Right foot. Clean.
The ball left his laces like a scream. It rose fast, dipped late, and bent away from the keeper's gloves at the last second.
Top corner.
The sound of the net snapping silenced everything.
For a moment.
Then chaos.
Trey sprinted over, screaming. Amari launched a water bottle in the air. The bench flooded the sideline.
Nico stood still.
Didn't celebrate. Didn't need to.
He'd already seen it happen — before it even left his foot.
Full-time: Brentford 3 – Fulham 2.
Debut:
1 assist (Trey).
1 pre-assist (Amari to Connor).
1 winner.
27 minutes.
And he ran the whole show.
…
Nico was in bed. Lights off. Hoodie up. The hum of London night just outside his window. His legs ached in that beautiful, post-match way — heavy, but earned.
His mind kept replaying the match:
The through ball.
The switch.
That goal.
Top bins. Like it was nothing.
His phone buzzed on his chest.
Cristiano [9:48PM]
"BROOOOOOOOOO."
"You've actually gone viral fam."
[Twitter link]
Nico unlocked it. Tapped.
@NextGenScoutUK
"Nico Varela (15) vs Fulham U18s — remember the name."
[1:52 min clip]
#BrentfordU18 #NextUp #Varela
The video opened with no music — just real football. Tight turns. First-time passes. The through ball to Trey. That switch out to Amari. The match-winner, bending into the top corner like it had been called in advance.
Nico's jaw clenched slightly as he watched himself move across the screen. Not as a fan. Not with pride.
Just locked in.
Comments flying underneath:
"Nah this kid's unreal."
"15? He moves like he's 24."
"Tempo. Composure. IQ. Future pro easy."
"Palace fumbled."
"We watching a star load in, in real-time."
"Man's a regen of Dembele & Xavi. I said what I said."
Views: 63.1k
Likes: 17.6k
Bookmarks: 2.1k
Climbing. Fast.
Cristiano messaged again.
Cristiano [9:52PM]
"You're actually HIM."
"Fam you're trending on football twitter."
Nico locked his phone.
Exhaled.
And then it happened.
A soft pulse in the corner of his vision.
No sound. No fanfare.
Just a quiet, floating screen.
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION
MATCH RECOGNISED: First Academy Appearance
Performance Rating: 8.9
Goal: 1
Assist: 1
Minutes Played: 27
Strong impact. Match tempo elevated. Decisive contribution. Pressured scenario. Visible leadership.
Reward Unlocked: 1x SPIN — PlayStyle or Trait Upgrade
[Spin Now]
Nico stared at the glowing screen.
No part of him questioned it anymore.
He sat up, thumb hovering.
"Go on then," he muttered.
And tapped.
The wheel spun. Quietly. Smoothly.
Each icon passed in a blur — curves, bursts, silhouettes of players mid-pass or strike.
Nico didn't blink. He just watched it roll.
Then it slowed.
Tick… tick… tick…
CLICK.
The glow locked in.
PLAYSTYLE UNLOCKED: Incisive Pass (Lv.1)
The signature of elite playmakers. Unlock defences with sharp, grounded passes through tight lines.
Passing (Short +4 | Vision +3)
Pass speed increased by 6% in tight midfield zones
New Effect: Bonus accuracy when threading ground passes between defenders. Targets anticipate slightly faster.
A subtle pulse hit behind his eyes — like a map rearranging.
Suddenly, he could almost see angles. Gaps where passes didn't exist before. Routes forming before teammates even made the runs.
No noise. No celebration.
Just clarity.
Incisive Pass unlocked.
"Fairs. Pull up my stats for me real quick system."
PLAYER STATUS — NICO VARELA
• Pace: 72
• Shooting: 74
• Passing: 85
• Dribbling: 84
• Defense: 81
• Physical: 79
• Vision: 83
• Composure: 86
• First Touch: 88
• Active Trait: Press Resistant (Level 10)
• Active Trait: Thiago Flow (Level 12)
• Active Trait: Quick Step (Active)
• PlayStyle: Incisive Pass (Level 1)
"Damn," he muttered under his breath. "That's… pretty high already."
The screen pulsed.
Then responded.
SYSTEM NOTE:
You are under the assumption that 100 is the maximum.
It is not.
Nico squinted. "Wait… huh?"
Another notification appeared, calmer this time. Almost like a whisper.
To understand your true level, proximity to a professional-tier player is required.
When close to an active pro, stat scales will adjust to reflect elite-level benchmarks.
Nico sat back, eyebrows raised slightly.
So 88 in first touch didn't mean elite?
85 passing wasn't near the top?
He stared at the numbers again — now with different eyes.
The system didn't hand out ego.
It gave truth.
And truth was, he hadn't even scratched the surface.
…
Brentford Training Ground – Early Morning
The gravel crunched softly beneath their boots as Matthew Carr walked alongside Thomas Frank, the first team manager. The air was sharp, the kind that made every breath feel clean. In the distance, the first-team players were beginning to drift out onto the pitch.
"Did you see the clips I sent you?" Matthew asked, keeping his voice low.
"Of the boy?" Frank replied.
"Yeah."
Thomas nodded once, thoughtful. "He's a talent for sure. No denying that. But pushing a 15-year-old that high, this fast… it could stunt him. First team is a different world. Physical. Demanding."
"Physicality's not the problem," Matthew said. "He's already 6'1, strong, and he's got real presence. Handles pressure like he's been playing men's ball for years. I've seen him shrug off U18 midfielders like nothing. U23s wouldn't bully him."
Frank raised a brow. "Confidence in his size?"
"Size, yes. But more than that — his profile."
Thomas looked ahead, letting the thought sit for a moment. "Go on."
Matthew continued. "We've been missing a midfielder who can really grab a game. Control the rhythm. Dictate the tempo when it matters. Not just recycling possession — I mean taking charge. This kid does that. Calm. Calculated. Never rushed."
Frank stayed quiet for a moment, then offered a measured reply.
"I'll take your word for it. But clips aren't games. I need to see it live."
"There's another one coming," Matthew said. "Two weeks from now. Palace. He's starting."
That got Thomas's attention. A hint of a smile tugged at the edge of his mouth.
"Palace, you say?"
Matthew nodded. "Yep. Should be interesting, considering they let him go."
Frank glanced over, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Then I'll be in attendance."
…
Two weeks later,
Brentford U18 vs. Crystal Palace U18
The bus cut through South London like a silent bullet, wrapped in dull grey skies and soft, misting rain. The windows fogged as they moved, the kind of still, quiet condensation that came from players breathing slow and deep — no shouting, no tunes playing through someone's speaker. Just the sound of the road and studs shifting inside kit bags. This wasn't a normal matchday, and everyone felt it.
Nico sat alone, hoodie up, near the front. Not for isolation. Just for stillness. He didn't need noise. Didn't want distractions. His eyes were fixed on the road ahead, but he wasn't watching traffic. His focus was buried under layers of muscle memory and sharpened instinct. He wasn't running through what-ifs. He was waiting.
The destination was a ground he knew — one he'd trained at, bled at, hoped at. Crystal Palace. The badge that used to mean something. They were the ones who looked him in the eye and said the words still stuck to the back of his ribs: "You're not technical enough." They'd delivered it gently, like a compliment wrapped in failure.
Now they were just another opponent.
Coach Mendez had barely spoken since boarding. His clipboard rested on his knee, untouched for the last half-hour. He didn't need to check anything. Everyone knew the task.
Inside the away changing room, the tension shifted from quiet to carved. Shin pads were taped tight. Boots were double-knotted. Every breath was a beat. Nobody spoke — not out of fear, but focus. The walls were whitewashed, the floor dusty near the drains, the ceiling light buzzing like it always did. The world felt narrow.
Mendez stood in the center, his voice low and exact.
"You know what today is," he said, scanning their faces. "But don't let it control you. You don't play with history in your chest. You play with the present at your feet. Don't force anything. Let the game move through you."
He looked at Nico, eyes holding just long enough.
"And if we do that, they'll break before we bend."
Nico didn't nod. He didn't need to. He simply stood, zipped up his top, adjusted the armband, and made his way down the tunnel.
The light outside hit different. Cold. Brighter than expected. The pitch glistened from the earlier rain, short grass cut perfect — the kind of surface where the ball zipped. The kind of pitch that punished hesitation.
Palace were already out. Their midfielders laughed too loudly, all gestures and gum-chewing bravado. The number eight stood taller than most, chatting confidently to their captain. Fake confidence. The kind you learn from playing too many average games with nobody pressing you properly.
Brentford lined up opposite. No words. Just shape. Just readiness.
When the whistle blew, the game ignited instantly.
The ball came to Nico within ten seconds. From the kickoff, recycled through the back line, then clipped into his feet. The Palace ten came flying in, trying to set the tone. Nico let it run across his body. He didn't react to the press — he invited it. Let the number ten get close, then shifted his weight, dragging the ball with the sole of his boot before pivoting out.
One touch right. Feint left. The Palace player overcommitted.
Nico was gone.
He didn't need a burst. Just two tight steps and space opened up.
Now he was moving forward. Chin up. Body calm.
He scanned once, spotted the channel between Palace's fullback and centre-back, and threaded a grounded ball with just enough weight for Trey to run onto.
Three lines broken. Palace already retreating. Control — established.
They tried again minutes later, this time with more structure. Their midfield compressed. Their wingers pinched in. They wanted to trap him in the half-space. But Nico didn't bite. He dropped slightly deeper into the pivot, received with his back foot, and flicked it diagonally out to Darnell, who caught it in stride down the right.
No wasted motion. No nerves.
His teammates started looking for him earlier. That was the shift. No delay. As soon as they got the ball, they scanned for Nico — and he was always open. Always moving. Just a few steps ahead of the game.
The Palace bench started barking. "Tighten on six!" "Step early!" But it was already too late. You can't press someone who's already seen what you're going to do.
In the 14th minute, Palace tried to play out. Their centre-back shaped to switch, but Nico read the hips — not the ball. He moved before the pass was even played and stepped in front of the receiving midfielder like he'd timed it with a stopwatch.
Clean interception.
Two players rushed toward him — panicked.
He didn't even glance at them. One touch out of pressure, a pause, a pivot, then a chipped diagonal over the left-back's head. It landed like a pass from heaven. Amari killed it dead with one touch, drove down the line, and crossed.
Nearly 1–0.
The crowd exhaled.
Palace's midfield didn't say anything this time.
They were starting to realise what they were dealing with.
Nico wasn't just another baller. He was a metronome with bite. A calm storm.
Every triangle started through him. Every tempo shift began at his boots. He didn't shout, didn't point — he just moved, constantly, like a chess piece already six moves into the game.
At the 28th minute, Brentford were knocking again.
Throw-in to Amari. He held it near the touchline, body tight to the defender. Nico dropped diagonally, received a short bounce pass, and released it back to Trey with his first touch.
Then he moved again.
They tried to trap him — again.
He broke it — again.
He rotated twice, created an angle for Micheal ,Brentford's right winger, and received the layoff just inside Palace's third. One look. A quick drop of the shoulder to open the space.
Then a reverse ball.
A disguised slider through two Palace legs.
Connor timed his run. Took the touch. Slotted it.
Goal.
1–0 Brentford.
Nico didn't celebrate. Didn't throw his hands up. He just turned and walked back into shape. This wasn't revenge. This was control.
Palace's number six shook his head. He hadn't even touched Nico yet. He'd been chasing shadows for thirty straight minutes.
The rest of the half continued in rhythm. Brentford shifted the ball cleanly. Nico moved like a river current, bending Palace's shape with simple passes that didn't look threatening — until they were. Every pass had teeth. Every touch had intention.
By halftime, Brentford led. And Nico? Not a single misplaced pass. Not one moment of pressure that got to him. Every ball, every choice, clean.
The players walked back to the tunnel in silence.
Coach Mendez stood still at the halfway line as Nico jogged past.
He didn't say a word.
He didn't have to.
The changing room was still at halftime.
No voices. No clapping. Just the rhythmic sound of studs shifting on concrete, players sipping water in silence. Everyone already knew.
Coach Mendez stood at the door with his arms folded. He looked at no one in particular when he finally said, "Don't manage the lead. Manage the game."
Nico sat alone at the end of the bench. He hadn't taken his boots off. He didn't want to cool down.
He wasn't tired.
He was locked in.
Palace came out different. Not tactically — emotionally. The midfield was louder, more aggressive, more physical. Their number eight shoved Trey before the restart. Their ten bumped Nico just after the whistle blew.
It didn't shake him. It comforted him.
He received the first ball of the second half under pressure — instantly double-teamed. He didn't even scan. He just let the ball roll across his body, nudged it with the outside of his foot, and shifted left into space.
Two steps and he'd lost them both.
Then came a switch. One bounce. Right to Amari's boot.
Palace's bench shouted again. "STEP! STEP ON HIM!"
Nico smiled — the smallest curl of a lip — and jogged back into space.
In the 52nd minute, Palace caught their breath long enough to mount a push. Their winger burst down the left, cut inside, and squared it. Their striker took a heavy touch.
Nico was there.
He'd tracked the whole sequence — not sprinting, just reading.
He stepped in front, stole it cleanly, and transitioned forward with a drop of the hip and a glide past the pressing midfielder.
Brentford flowed out of their own half like a wave.
He bounced a one-two with Trey. Then with Darnell.
Suddenly, Palace's whole shape was fractured.
Connor peeled off. Nico didn't even lift his head this time. He slid a pass between the lines, so disguised the Palace captain turned the wrong way.
Connor took it. Shot low.
Saved — barely.
But the crowd was feeling it now. Coaches. Scouts. Even players on the bench stood.
Palace had possession for maybe a minute at a time — and the rest belonged to him.
By the 60th, they started fouling. Nothing reckless — just those little late nudges. Shoulder bumps. Hooks around the hip. Their eight clipped Nico's ankle after a pass and jogged off like it didn't happen.
Nico got up, didn't speak. Next sequence, he let the ball run past him at a tight angle, then shifted weight and bounced off the pressure with a La Croqueta.
Crowd noise picked up again.
He wasn't showboating.
He was making art.
It was in the 71st minute that the second goal came. From nothing.
Brentford were recycling possession. Back to the centre-back. Across to Nico.
Palace pushed forward again, trying to bait him into a mistake.
He let the press come.
Three shirts stepped.
He stepped through.
One tight dribble. A delayed turn. A body feint that created just two yards of space.
Then he released it.
A perfectly weighted reverse ball — disguised, low, and right between Palace's right back and centre-back.
Connor made the run, curved it clean, took one touch, and slotted it bottom left.
2–0. Game over.
The Palace bench deflated.
Their captain yelled at the backline. Their ten threw his arms up.
But there was nothing left to say.
From there, Nico shifted gears again.
He slowed everything.
Called for the ball constantly. Moved it wide, brought it back. Killed the clock without looking like he was. Drew fouls without flopping. Drew pressure without risking.
He controlled their frustration with calm.
Every touch was on the half-turn. Every bounce pass had rhythm.
At one point in the 83rd minute, he orchestrated a 17-pass phase without Palace touching the ball. His teammates played triangles — Nico checked his shoulder four times, repositioned three times, and made five passes in 45 seconds.
By the time Palace touched the ball, they were booing themselves.
The Brentford bench was smiling now.
Even Mendez couldn't hide it.
The final whistle blew.
Brentford 2 – Crystal Palace 0.
Nico walked off like he'd done nothing special. No celebration. No waving to the crowd. Just calm steps toward the touchline, sleeves rolled, socks half down.
His stat line?
104 touches
100% pass accuracy
11 progressive passes
3 defensive recoveries
0 fouls
6 key passes
2 pre-assists
1 flawless performance
Crystal Palace's midfield didn't say a word.
They just watched him walk off.
They'd never got near him.
—
On the sideline, Thomas Frank zipped up his coat slowly.
"He's not just good," he muttered to Matthew Carr, standing beside him.
Matthew nodded.
"He's inevitable."