The air felt different this morning.
Not colder. Not heavier. Just… tighter.
Nico had been in training environments before — top-end academy drills, pre-match warmups, even a couple of advanced age-group camps — but nothing had ever felt like this. There was a stillness in the building. That kind of silence that meant every minute was about to matter.
He was early. Way early. Changing room dead quiet. His boots already laid out in front of his bench, socks folded, shirt neatly hung. The badge on the chest was the same — Brentford red — but it felt heavier today.
The door opened.
Footsteps. Voices.
Deep, confident, unhurried.
Christian Nørgaard walked in first, chatting casually with Mathias Jensen. Rico Henry followed, stretching his arms overhead. No one looked surprised to see Nico there. A few quick glances, polite nods. No "welcome." No "nervous?" Just pros clocking another player in their space.
Nico kept it calm. A simple nod. No over-introducing himself. He tied his boots tighter and followed them out to the pitch.
The session started standard. Warm-up grids. Technical flow. Nothing flash.
But the moment the ball came into play, Nico felt the difference.
It wasn't just the tempo — it was the intention behind everything. Every pass had weight, spin, purpose. Every first touch led into movement. Even the way they ran — hips low, eyes up — was sharp.
In his first possession drill, Nico stepped into a 5v2 rondo with Nørgaard, Janelt, and two U23s. The passes snapped. He had half a second, maybe less, to shape his body. The ball didn't wait for him to settle — it expected him to already know.
He adjusted quickly.
First pass? Safe. One-touch return. Then came a no-look zip from Janelt. Nico met it with a soft sole control, bounced it wide, rotated into space.
The next play, he disguised a pass to the left, opened his body, and switched right with the inside of his foot. Smooth. Quiet. Clean.
No one said anything, but they noticed.
Then came the compressed press-out drill — a tight square, 4v2, max two touches. Defensive pair tried to cut angles, not chase.
Nico started in the middle.
The ball moved like it had a mind of its own. Short. Sharp. Alive.
His first rotation, he was a second late to everything.
Second time in? He anticipated better. Shadowed Nørgaard, waited for Jensen's weight to shift, and pounced — toe-poke interception, clean, ball rolled into space.
Coaches clapped.
Nørgaard smiled. "Better."
That one word meant everything.
Next came build-up drills under pressure. Backline to midfield under full press, first time touches only allowed in certain zones.
Nico dropped into the six role, between the centre-backs. First-team strikers pressed high — real press. None of that jog-then-pull-out stuff from youth matches. Nico received facing his own goal. Pressure coming from his blindside.
He checked his shoulder once, twice, then let the ball run across his body — took the touch with his far foot and sent a quick inside pass to the pivot midfielder breaking forward.
Perfect weight. Broke the press.
They reset. This time, ball came to him slower. Two men closing. He shaped like he was going back — and at the last second, Cruyff turned, slipping inside, leaving both pressing players leaning the wrong way.
Coaches whistled. "Yes, Nico!"
No celebration. No grin. Just a slight nod.
Locked in.
The next block was transition rondos into counters — turnover, three-second sprint counterattack, limited touches to shoot.
Nico won a ball clean in midfield, immediately drove forward. Three red shirts closing in.
He feinted right, sold the touch, then used a drop-step to open a narrow passing lane between defenders.
Sent it low and fast into the striker's path.
Goal.
Janelt jogged past him. "That was proper."
…
Final phase: 11v11 simulation — short halves, mixed squads.
Nico found himself between Jensen and Ghoddos in midfield, asked to hold deeper and link play.
He didn't overthink. Just played his football.
One moment, he rotated into the back line to receive under pressure. Next, he stepped high into space between the lines, received on the half-turn, and played an incisive reverse ball to the left winger in stride.
His positioning was always two seconds ahead.
Off-ball? He was alive — checking, scanning, absorbing.
When he made a late run into the box and clipped a disguised assist behind the defence, the forward didn't even have to look up to finish.
Clean.
Crisp.
And then — a voice from behind the drills:
"Good. That's real midfielding."
It was Frank.
…
As the sun dipped behind the training ground stands, Nico stayed seated on the edge of the pitch, breathing steady, legs stretched. His head was clear, but his body still hummed — not from fatigue, but from focus. Every rep. Every touch. Every second today had been different.
Then the system activated.
Clean. Minimal. A familiar soft glow.
PROXIMITY EVENT COMPLETE
First-Team Training Environment Logged.
You have now entered Tier: Professional Exposure
Recalibrating stats to match new level…
Nico watched as the numbers appeared one by one, each line adjusting before his eyes.
PLAYER STATUS — NICO VARELA
Pace: 67 ⬇️
Shooting: 70 ⬇️
Passing: 78 ⬇️
Dribbling: 81 ⬇️
Defense: 83 ⬇️
Physical: 75 ⬇️
Active Traits:
• Press Resistant (LV. 11)
• Thiago Flow (LV. 13)
• Kante Defending (LV. 3)
• Incisive Pass (PlayStyle)
At the bottom of the screen, a note flickered in quietly:
NOTE:
You are no longer being measured against academy peers. Your stats are now relative to professional standards.
This is not a downgrade — this is reality.
And now you have a new target: rise again.
Nico blinked, then nodded slightly to himself.
It didn't feel like failure.
It felt like truth.
This wasn't about looking good anymore.
It was about becoming the best.
Just as the screen disappeared, Thomas Frank appeared beside him.
"Good session," he said, calm but precise.
Nico stood, nodding. "Thanks, coach."
Frank motioned for him to sit. "Relax. Not here to run you through film. I just want to say this in person."
Nico sat back down, boots digging lightly into the grass.
Frank glanced out over the empty pitch, hands on hips. "You adjusted quicker than expected. Tempo, decision-making, positioning — all good. Not perfect. But real. Mature."
Nico didn't interrupt.
Frank looked at him directly.
"You're ready."
Nico blinked. "Wait… ready for what exactly?"
Frank didn't smile — he just nodded once.
"For full training. With the first team."
The words landed like a clean tackle.
"You've shown us enough," Frank continued. "Now we want to see how you respond when this isn't a one-off. When it becomes normal. Sessions, match prep, possibly even bench inclusion. You're in."
Nico's throat tightened slightly. "I… appreciate that."
"Don't appreciate it," Frank said. "Own it."
He stepped back, nodding. "Bring your boots tomorrow morning. You're with us now."
Then he walked away — no handshakes, no big speech.
Just confirmation.
Nico stood there, staring at the grass, then down at his boots.
For the first time in his life, he felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
…
The front door clicked shut behind him, the evening breeze cut off like someone closing a chapter. Nico slipped off his boots quietly, leaned them against the wall, and walked through the hall in socks so silent they didn't make a sound against the laminate floor.
The smell of onions frying hit him first — that warm, familiar scent that always meant she was cooking something real. He stepped into the kitchen, and there she was — apron tied up, slippers on, wooden spoon in one hand, humming something faint under her breath.
"You're back late," she said, still facing the stove. "You eat anything after training?"
"Yeah," Nico said. "They had food after the session."
She stirred once, then turned just slightly. "How was it?"
Nico pulled out the chair, sat down, and rested his forearms on the table. He didn't speak right away.
"It was… different," he said finally.
She turned fully now, hand on her hip.
"Different how?"
"It was with the first team," he said. "Like properly. Full session. No observers, no watching from the sideline. I was in it."
Her eyebrows rose, just slightly. "Brentford first team?"
He nodded.
She took a step toward him, brows still raised. "And?"
"I didn't look out of place."
He met her eyes. "I actually held my own. I kept up."
She studied him for a moment. Then she smiled. "Of course you did."
"Thomas Frank… he pulled me aside afterward."
Her expression shifted — half-proud, half-anxious.
"He told me I'm ready," Nico said. "Not just for more sessions. For full training."
She blinked. "As in… regularly?"
He nodded. "Every day."
Silence.
She pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down slowly, fingers laced.
"Does that mean…?"
"Yeah," Nico said. "It means leaving school."
His voice was calm, but inside he was still absorbing it himself.
"I'd be moved into a scholar programme," he continued. "Club education a few hours a week. But it's football. Full time."
His mum sat still for a long second, then took a slow breath.
"You'd be out of St. Luke's," she said.
"Yeah."
"No more classes. No exams, other than GCSEs of course."
"No more 8 a.m. chemistry," Nico said, smiling softly.
She didn't smile back. Not right away.
Instead, she looked him square in the face. "Are you sure you're ready for that?"
He nodded. "Yeah. I am."
"Not just the football," she said. "The lifestyle. The pressure. The expectation. When your friends are doing revision, you'll be doing double sessions. When they're on half-term, you'll be running lines in the cold. And if something goes wrong… this system you've built your whole world around…"
"I know," he said, quiet. "But I don't want to be in two places anymore. I want to give this everything."
She looked down at the table for a moment, then nodded slowly.
"I always knew this day was coming," she said. "Just didn't think it'd be so soon."
She looked up. "Are you scared?"
Nico shrugged. "A little."
She smiled finally, that soft one that always meant she was proud, even if her heart was tight.
"That means you care," she said. "That's good."
He nodded.
She reached out, took his hand, squeezed once.
"You've worked for this. No one handed it to you. So if this is the step, then take it. But you don't stop learning, Nico. Football teaches you a lot — but so does life. You keep your mind sharp, no matter what pitch you're on."
"I will," he said.
She stood up. "Alright then. I'll start making adjustments. We'll need to speak to the school. Sort out your schedule. Call your uncle."
Nico raised an eyebrow. "Why my uncle?"
"He's the only one who's going to cry harder than me when he hears."
He laughed — properly, full-chested. The first time all day.
"Oh," she added, turning back with a grin. "But you're still washing your own kit. Full time footballer or not."
Nico shook his head, grinning.
"Deal."
…
Nando's. 4:42 PM.
Lemon & Herb in the air. Bottomless drinks fizzing. The three of them in a booth near the back, tucked between a giant potted plant and a speaker playing low R&B.
Nico sat with his hood down, phone face down, stacked plates already halfway loaded. Jayden had a mountain of chips and three sauces open in front of him. Cristiano had already ordered extra garlic bread for "texture."
Nico leaned back in the booth, casual. "Food's on me, man. Get what you want."
Cristiano paused mid-sip. "…Say again?"
"You heard me."
Jayden narrowed his eyes. "Nah. What's going on?"
Cristiano nodded slowly. "You never buy food. Last time we were here you pretended you forgot your wallet."
Nico grinned. "That was one time."
"Bro, it was three," Jayden said, holding up fingers. "Once here, once at Morley's, and once when we were literally at your house and you still didn't pay."
Cristiano pointed at Nico with a wing. "So for you to say 'food's on me'? That's wild. What's the occasion? You winning the lottery?"
Jayden leaned in, squinting. "Nah. Either you're dying… or you're guilty."
Nico's smirk faded a little. Not dramatically, but just enough for the atmosphere to tilt.
Cristiano froze. "Wait—nah. You're not dying, are you?"
Nico shook his head. "No, bro."
Jayden sat up straighter. "So what's up then?"
Nico wiped his hands on a napkin. "I'm leaving school."
Silence.
Just the sound of cutlery hitting plates and someone's Coke fizzing out in the background.
Cristiano blinked. "Huh?"
Jayden frowned. "Like… leaving leaving?"
"Yeah," Nico nodded. "As in… not coming back."
Cristiano set his glass down carefully. "Okay now I might be dying."
Nico laughed once, then exhaled. "I trained with Brentford's first team yesterday. Full session. Pressing, positionals, build-up — everything. Frank pulled me aside after. Told me I'm ready to come in full time."
Jayden blinked slowly. "So this is real?"
Nico nodded. "It's already sorted. I spoke to my mum last night. She's backing it. School's getting notified. Scholar deal's getting processed. Like… I'm actually doing it."
Cristiano leaned back, hands on his head. "My guy is living the career mode dream."
Jayden scoffed. "Forget career mode — you're on some story mode arc. All you need now is the montage music."
"Don't tempt me," Nico said. "I've got a Spotify playlist waiting."
Cristiano shook his head. "So… no more maths. No more Mr. Buxton asking you to explain the quadratic formula to him because he forgot."
"No more canteen lasagne," Jayden added.
"No more group chats about homework we're not doing," Nico said.
Jayden looked away. "You really leaving us behind, huh?"
Nico's face softened. "I'm not leaving you lot. I'm just… stepping into something. You think I'm not gonna FaceTime you from the dressing room when someone like Ivan Toney nods at me?"
Cristiano sat up. "If you ever FaceTime me from a tunnel before a game, I'm screen recording that and sending it to every girl I know."
"I'll be wearing my full tracksuit," Nico replied. "Chest zipped. Badge showing."
Jayden laughed, but then went quiet. He leaned in, serious now.
"Are you ready for that though?" he asked. "Like, for real. That's a lot."
"I know," Nico said. "But it's time. I've spent too long playing like I'm trying to prove something. Now I wanna play like I belong."
Cristiano tapped his fork. "You do belong. It's not even about hype anymore. You move like it's your pitch out there."
Jayden nodded. "You've been that guy since Year 7. Remember when you chipped Marcus from halfway?"
"Don't get me started," Nico said, laughing. "He cried, you know. Legit tears."
"His mum called the school!" Cristiano added. "Said we 'emotionally injured her son.'"
They all burst out laughing, shoulders shaking, the kind of laugh that made your chest feel light.
Then silence again.
Not awkward — just… settled.
Cristiano finally raised his glass. "To Nico. Brentford's finest. May you never forget us when Sky Sports mic you up."
Jayden clinked his glass. "And may you one day buy us Nando's… after a Premier League match."
Nico lifted his own glass. "To my brothers."
They drank.
And for a while, they just sat there — not rushing, not overthinking. Just three boys, in a restaurant, on the edge of change.
…
Nico sat on the edge of his bed, his room dim with the early evening light. His boots were still on the floor, untied and muddy, but he hadn't touched them since getting home. The card Harvey had given him — crisp, simple, clean — sat on his desk. He picked up his phone, stared at the number again, then hit call.
It rang twice.
Click.
"I was wondering when you'd call me," Harvey's voice came through, calm, confident, like he'd been expecting this moment.
Nico leaned back, phone to his ear. "Didn't want to rush it."
Harvey chuckled. "That's fair. Most kids in your position would've called the next day. You waited… shows you're thinking things through."
"Trying to," Nico said. "But things are moving now. Fast."
"Good. That means you're doing something right." Harvey paused for a beat. "So what's up? Something tells me this isn't just a social call."
Nico got straight to it. "I want you to represent me. As my agent."
Harvey didn't speak right away. Nico could hear some movement in the background — a door clicking shut, maybe a pen being picked up.
"You sure?" Harvey said, voice more serious now. "Because once I'm in, I'm in. I don't half it. You don't either."
"I'm sure," Nico said. "No trial run. No maybe. I've seen how you move. I asked around. I've seen your name pop up in rooms that matter."
"And what about trust?" Harvey asked. "That's not something you Google."
"I trust people who move smart," Nico said. "You didn't approach me like I was a product. You didn't make a pitch when you had the chance. You let me come to you. That told me enough."
Harvey was quiet for a second.
"Alright then," he said finally. "You've got yourself an agent."
Nico exhaled a little, but he wasn't done. "There's something else. Brentford's pulling me into the first team setup. Full-time training. The academy coach told me it means a new contract's coming — one with wages, appearance bonuses. Scholar terms."
"Have they sent anything yet?" Harvey asked, voice shifting — now in business mode.
"No. They said they're drawing it up."
"Good," Harvey said. "Let them. When it lands, you don't touch it. You forward it to me. I'll go through it line by line."
Nico nodded. "They said it should arrive this week."
Harvey was already moving. You could hear it — tapping on a keyboard, the sound of a chair being turned.
"This is the start of something real, Nico. That paper? It's more than just weekly pay. It's positioning. Control. How they frame you now determines how they treat you later."
"I get that," Nico said. "I don't want to just play. I want to build something."
"Exactly," Harvey replied. "And my job is to make sure they don't box you in. No three-year deals with no guarantees. No language that makes you easier to loan out than lock in. You're a long-term asset — not a short-term experiment."
"I trust you to handle that."
"You focus on the football," Harvey said. "Let me worry about everything else."
There was a pause. Then Harvey added, "You've made the right call, Nico. This thing you're stepping into? It's not easy. The talent's one thing. The business? That's another game entirely."
"I know," Nico said.
Harvey's voice softened just slightly. "But I'll be with you in every room you walk into. Every conversation, every clause, every decision — I've got you covered."
"Appreciate that."
"Send me what you've got. Anything they've given you before. Scholar papers, comms, emails — all of it."
"Will do."
Harvey cleared his throat. "One more thing."
"Yeah?"
"If they try and talk you into signing anything before I'm there… walk out. No matter what they say."
Nico smiled. "I wasn't planning to sign without you anyway."
Harvey chuckled. "Good lad. We'll speak soon."
"Talk soon."
Click.
Nico placed the phone on his desk. For a moment, he just sat there — letting it settle.
This was different.
This wasn't about playing anymore.
It was about moving right.
———
Trent just announced that he's actually leaving my club, im in tears man what a rat.
Anyways how are you guys liking this story so far?