The morning mist still hung over the training ground like a veil. Brentford's red and white signage stood bold against the grey sky, and the hum of passing traffic barely touched the silence out here.
Nico stood outside reception, hood up, hands deep in his coat pockets. His breath steamed in front of him as he checked the time.
08:41 a.m.
Harvey was early.
A black Range Rover pulled into the car park — tinted windows, clean shine, no music playing. It rolled to a stop, engine cutting off smoothly. Nico watched as the door opened and Harvey Specter stepped out in a dark overcoat, tailored to perfection, leather gloves in one hand, coffee in the other.
He looked like someone who belonged in every room he walked into.
"Nico," Harvey said, walking up with a nod.
"Morning," Nico replied, shaking his hand.
Harvey studied him briefly. "You look taller already."
"Boots add two inches," Nico smirked.
Harvey gave a half-smile, then gestured toward the building. "Let's walk."
Inside the academy lounge, they sat opposite each other in a small conference room — just the two of them, clean white walls, a big table between them, and a flipboard covered in tactical scribbles left over from some previous meeting.
Harvey set his coffee down, pulled out a thin folder from his bag, and slid it across to Nico.
"What's this?" Nico asked.
"Everything they've offered you. And everything they haven't mentioned yet."
Nico opened it — printouts of contracts, side notes in red pen, arrows pointing to sections with phrases like 'non-guaranteed clauses' and 'standard extension traps.'
"Damn," Nico muttered. "They make it sound nice when they say it out loud."
Harvey nodded. "They always do."
Nico looked up. "So what's missing?"
"Structure. Timeline. Incentives that match your current value. They're offering scholar money, but you're training with the first team. That's not aligned. They're giving you the path to a pro deal, but not the terms to back it."
"And you can fix that?"
"I will," Harvey said, voice calm. "We'll ask for a dual-path contract. One that transitions into a pro deal automatically once you hit a set number of first-team sessions or matchday appearances. I want the base wage higher, the bonuses clearer, and the exit clauses smart."
"Exit clauses?" Nico asked.
"For if a top-six club comes calling in two years. You'll need the freedom to move if your rise outpaces their plan."
Nico sat back. "This is mad."
"This is football," Harvey said. "The part no one talks about. But you've got leverage now. You've gone viral three times, you're training with starters, and people are talking. You don't beg for a contract in this position — you frame one."
Nico nodded slowly. "What do I do in the meeting?"
Harvey took a sip of his coffee. "Sit still. Look focused. Let them know you're listening. And when they ask how you feel about the offer?"
"I say I'll let my agent respond," Nico said, smirking.
Harvey grinned. "You learn fast."
Just then, a knock on the door. A staff member leaned in. "They're ready for you both upstairs."
Harvey stood, straightened his jacket. "Let's go make them rewrite your future."
Nico followed, heart steady. For once, it didn't feel like he was walking into a test.
It felt like he was walking into his own terms.
The meeting room was glass-walled, clinical, with a long table and four chairs. Brentford's academy director sat across from them — Mr. Turner, suited up, laptop open in front of him. To his right, a club lawyer Nico hadn't seen before. The kind with slick hair and a sharper tie.
Nico and Harvey sat opposite.
"Morning, Nico," Mr. Turner said. "Glad you could join us."
Nico nodded. "Morning."
Turner looked toward Harvey. "And Mr. Specter. Good to meet you."
"Likewise," Harvey said, already flipping open a leather notebook. "Let's get to it."
The lawyer slid a copy of the revised offer across the table. "This is the updated scholar package," he said. "Weekly pay increased by 35% compared to the standard offer. Structured bonuses for first-team involvement. Accommodation and travel fully covered."
Harvey didn't touch the papers.
"Looks nice when printed," he said calmly. "Let's talk about what's not on that page."
The room tightened slightly.
Mr. Turner adjusted his tie. "We've given Nico a generous offer for someone still technically in a development phase."
"With respect," Harvey replied, "he's not in a development phase. He's training full-time with your first team. That makes him a shadow squad member, not just an academy kid."
The lawyer leaned forward. "He hasn't made a first-team appearance."
Harvey raised an eyebrow. "Yet."
Silence.
Harvey continued, "We'd like to amend the contract to include an automatic transition to a professional deal based on milestones. Five matchday call-ups. Ten full training weeks. Those aren't dreams — they're already happening."
Mr. Turner interjected. "We don't usually fast-track scholars into pro deals."
"And Nico Varela isn't your usual scholar."
That line hung in the air.
Harvey didn't flinch. "You've seen the training data. You've seen the metrics. You've had the media attention. And your own coaching staff are discussing his impact in closed-door sessions."
The lawyer tried again. "You're asking us to commit to a pro trajectory for a 15-year-old."
"I'm asking you," Harvey said, calmly flipping a page in his notes, "to show belief in the player you've already integrated into senior-level training. If that scares you, then maybe you're not as committed as you say."
Mr. Turner folded his hands. "We do believe in Nico."
"Then put it in writing."
Silence.
Nico stayed still — focused, calm, absorbing.
He wasn't just watching Harvey fight for him. He was learning what it meant to be worth fighting for.
Turner finally spoke. "We'll revise the deal. Include a milestone-triggered contract upgrade. Add an image rights clause, limited media access until he turns 17, and keep a 24-month exit clause to protect both sides."
Harvey nodded slowly. "Now we're speaking the same language."
The lawyer took the notes, scribbling.
Turner looked at Nico. "You alright with that, son?"
Nico looked back, clear-eyed. "Yeah. I'm good with it."
He didn't look at Harvey.
He didn't need to.
He just sat taller.
Because in that moment, he didn't feel like a kid waiting to be chosen.
He felt like a player shaping his own future.
….
The corridor was quieter than usual. Most of the students had already gone, and the end-of-day hum had faded to distant chatter and the occasional squeak of trainers on the tile floor. Nico stood by his locker, door wide open, pulling out old books, a half-squashed protein bar, and a worn-out copy of Macbeth with a cracked spine.
Jayden leaned against the lockers beside him, arms crossed, hoodie up.
"You're actually clearing it out, huh?" he said. "Mad."
"Can't exactly leave it all here like a ghost," Nico replied, dropping an old water bottle into his bag. "Wouldn't surprise me if half this school thought I already left."
Jayden smirked. "Some of 'em do. Rayan told his form group you transferred to Spain."
"Spain?"
"Apparently you signed for Barcelona U17s."
Nico laughed. "I need to meet his imagination."
He closed the locker door gently, giving it one last look. It felt weird — like saying goodbye to a place you never thought you'd miss, until you realised it held more memories than you gave it credit for.
Jayden nudged him. "So what's it like, then? Being a full-time baller?"
Nico slung his bag over his shoulder. "Still getting used to it. The training's mad intense. But Harvey—he's serious. Like serious serious."
"Your agent guy?"
"Yeah," Nico nodded. "Handled the contract like it was a court case. Walked into that meeting like he owned the place. Had the club lawyer tripping over his own clauses."
Jayden chuckled. "And you just sat there chillin', huh?"
"Didn't say a word. Just let him cook."
Jayden whistled. "Man's got a proper team around him now."
Nico paused for a second, his smile fading just slightly.
"Where's Cristiano?"
Jayden raised an eyebrow. "Detention."
Nico blinked. "What? Why?"
"Late again. Missed roll call for form. That's like… his third time this week."
Nico shook his head, half laughing. "He'd be late to his own funeral."
Jayden grinned. "He said he'll meet you after. Told me not to let you disappear without him."
Nico looked back at his empty locker, then up the corridor.
Everything felt quieter.
He'd waited years to leave this place behind — but now that he was doing it, it hit a little harder than expected.
He looked at Jayden. "You think I'm ready for this?"
Jayden shrugged. "You've been ready. Since Year 8. We just needed the world to catch up."
Nico nodded slowly.
"Come on," Jayden said, pushing off the lockers. "Let's wait for the late king to get out of detention before you ride off into the sunset."
"Yeah," Nico said, managing a grin. "Wouldn't feel right leaving without him."
And with that, they walked down the hallway together, echoing steps behind them — a chapter closing, but not forgotten.
….
The door clicked shut behind him.
Nico dropped his duffel bag by the foot of the bed, took a slow look around the room — his new room. Clean, compact, functional. A single bed in the corner, desk by the window, wardrobe with fresh club kit folded neatly on the top shelf. The walls were blank, and the air smelled faintly of new paint and training boots.
This was it now. No more school. No more Jayden and Cristiano in the corridor. This was academy life — full-time.
And he had training in three hours.
He didn't sit long. Unpacked quick, laid out his gear, showered again just to shake off the travel grime, and made sure everything was lined up. His boots were spotless. Kit pressed. Bag zipped. Mind focused.
Training hit hard.
Fast tempo. Big voices. Everyone knew their job. Nico kept his head down and stayed sharp — moved the ball quickly, scanned constantly, covered ground like he had something to prove. Because he did.
The drills were heavier than academy. The pressure was real. And every misplaced pass felt louder.
But he held his own.
Sweating, drained, focused — he stood with his hands on his hips as the session wrapped. Then Coach Doyle called over from the sideline:
"Frank wants everyone in the meeting room in twenty. Wash up and get there sharp."
Nico nodded, chest still rising and falling.
He headed to the showers, then changed into the Brentford first-team tracksuit they'd handed him earlier — black with red trim, the badge stitched tight over his chest. It fit snug across his shoulders, down his long arms, and hung perfectly over his frame. Clean. Sharp. Like it was made for him.
As he walked the corridor toward the meeting room, he passed a few senior players. No one said much — just head nods, slight glances. He didn't expect handshakes or back-pats. Not yet.
He stepped into the meeting room and took a seat near the back — not out of fear, just respect. He was new. He'd earn his seat closer to the front.
The room filled gradually — boots squeaking, chairs sliding, water bottles hitting desks. Some players joked quietly. Others looked at their phones. The atmosphere was chilled, but focused.
Then the door opened.
Thomas Frank walked in.
The room quieted instantly.
"Alright," Frank said, voice clear. "Good session today. Energy was right. Let's keep it there. We've got Arsenal away this weekend — tough place, sharp side, lots of speed on the flanks."
He turned toward the projector, clicking it to life. A squad list popped up on the screen — black background, red and white font.
Travelling Squad:
Ivan Toney
Bryan Mbeumo
Mathias Jensen
Christian Nørgaard
Vitaly Janelt
Rico Henry
Ben Mee
Ethan Pinnock
Kristoffer Ajer
Mads Roerslev
David Raya
Frank paused. "On the bench —"
Josh Dasilva
Yoane Wissa
Kevin Schade
Matthew Cox
Aaron Hickey
Zanka
Mikkel Damsgaard
Shandon Baptiste
And finally… Varela.
Nico blinked.
His spine straightened. Breath caught. He glanced around, trying to see if anyone else reacted, but everyone stayed focused, professional — though a few heads turned his way. He couldn't tell if they were surprised. He was too busy processing it himself.
Frank continued like it was nothing. Tactical talk. Training schedule. Meal plan for travel day.
But Nico barely heard it.
His name was on the bench. For Brentford. Against Arsenal. At the Emirates.
Not a reserve match. Not a development squad friendly.
The Premier League.
His mind buzzed, but his face stayed calm. He'd trained for this. Dreamed of this. Fought for this. And now it was happening.
He didn't smile. Not yet.
He just sat a little taller in his chair.
And waited for the moment to come.
…
The walk back to the dorms was quiet. The sun had dipped low, painting the buildings in soft gold and shadow. Nico's legs ached from training, but it was the good kind — earned. Earned in silence, in focus, in sweat.
Back in his room, he dropped his bag, flopped onto the bed still in half-kit, and stared at the ceiling for a moment. The buzz of the day was still in his chest — the squad list echoing in his head on loop.
He picked up his phone and opened the group chat:
[Nico]:
i'm on the bench against arsenal
Jayden replied first:
[Jayden]:
no way
fr?
[Nico]:
yh
A moment passed. Then Cristiano dropped in:
[Cristiano]:
you better not score against my club
[Nico]:
relax it doesn't mean i'll actually play lol
probs just a PR thing
[Cristiano]:
if you DO get on that pitch i want a goal
[Nico]:
i'm a defensive midfielder???
[Jayden]:
whatever. make it a screamer then
Nico smiled at the screen, his thumb hovering for a second before typing again:
[Nico]:
i'll try not to embarrass you lot on live tv
[Cristiano]:
too late. your hairline's been doing that since year 9
[Jayden]:
cold
Nico laughed under his breath, then tossed the phone beside him on the bed. They always knew how to balance him — pride, pressure, and jokes in equal measure.
…
Twitter – Thursday Night, 9:24 PM
@BeesBreakdown
Word on the street is that academy talent Nico Varela will be on the bench vs Arsenal this weekend. 15 years old.
#BrentfordFC #BFC #VarelaWatch
@BeesDan33
No way the 15 year old???
@jensensleftboot
he's class. watched him at u18s last month, kid controls the tempo like he's 28.
@TheGTechFaithful
This Thomas Frank's way of one-upping the whole Nwaneri situation?
@ReeceKnowsBall
palace are probably fuming they let him go now
@FPLWorries
I don't care how old he is, if he comes on and gets an assist i'm putting him in my dream team for vibes alone.
@BeesAndHoney95
feel like we're watching a future star get handed the keys in real time.
@ThisIsBrentford
Lads 6'1", press resistant, can pick a pass. Watching him cook at the Emirates would be crazy.
@londonsRedSide
Arsenal fan here. Respectfully… pls not another wonderkid debut against us. We're tired.
@BeesAcademyPlug
for context: varela's not just being hyped. he's been training w the first team for two weeks now. this ain't PR.
….
Matchday – The Coach to the Emirates
Friday, 4:58 pm
The rain slid down the windows in long, tired streaks, racing each other down the glass. The Brentford team coach hummed gently along the North Circular, tyres whispering over the wet tarmac. Outside, North London rolled past in flashes — tower blocks, kebab shops, distant train tracks, graffiti-tagged underpasses, all bathed in the cold grey light of a winter morning.
Inside, the air was calm but alert.
Some players had headphones on. Some scrolled their phones. Others leaned back with eyes closed, going over matchups in their heads. There was that silent understanding — you don't speak unless it matters.
Nico sat by the window, hoodie up, legs slightly bouncing. Not out of nerves. Energy. Rhythm. He had a pair of wired earbuds in — always wired — and Drake's "Pound Cake" echoed in his ears. That slow, contemplative beat. Bar for bar. Lyrics he'd memorised years ago, when this was still a dream and YouTube was the closest he got to Premier League grass.
Now he was on the bus to the Emirates.
The Emirates.
He exhaled through his nose, leaned his head against the window.
Then it happened.
A soft flicker in his vision — too smooth to be real, but too familiar to question. The system had returned.
No sound. Just presence.
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION
Milestone Achieved:
First Premier League Matchday Squad — Arsenal (A)
REWARD UNLOCKED: TITLE
Three glowing icons hovered midair — more elegant than usual. Not boxes. Not flashy. Just floating symbols that felt older somehow, more like tradition than software.
Nico blinked, then tapped the far right.
The glow expanded slowly, unfolding in gold lines like a scroll being revealed.
TITLE UNLOCKED:
The Last Joga Bonito
"You carry the soul of the beautiful game. Rhythm. Flair. Disrespect for fear. The art lives on through you."
There were no stat boosts this time.
No numbers, no meters.
Just a weight. A presence. A feeling in his chest that something had shifted — like the street game was now stitched into his DNA.
Nico stared ahead, lips parting slightly. It was like someone had passed him the torch — the spirit of R10, of Neymar, of the forgotten street kings who spun through defenders not to win, but to express. To paint. To remind the world that football could be a dance.
The screen faded, leaving one final line:
"When others play to win, you play to remember."
Nico whispered, barely audible, "Joga Bonito…"
He smiled to himself — slow, steady.
Then the seat in front of him shifted.
Ivan Toney turned around, one earbud out, half-curious, half-smirking.
"You good back there?" he asked. "You're grinning like you've already scored."
Nico blinked, snapped out of it, and sat up. "Yeah… yeah, I'm good."
Ivan squinted at him for a second. "First matchday nerves?"
Nico shook his head. "Not really. I should be nervous, I know… but I'm just excited."
Ivan chuckled. "That's a good sign. Means you belong."
Nico hesitated, then leaned forward slightly. "Can I ask you something?"
"Shoot."
"When you got your first Premier League call-up… what were you thinking?"
Ivan leaned his arm on the back of the seat. "Honestly? I was thinking, 'Don't mess up my first touch.' Then I was thinking, 'Don't trip walking into the tunnel.'"
They both laughed.
"But seriously," Ivan continued, "I wanted to prove I deserved to be there. Not just once. Every week. That's the difference. Getting there's hard. Staying there? That's war."
Nico nodded, soaking it in.
"You got a celebration ready?" Ivan added casually.
Nico raised an eyebrow. "Celebration?"
Ivan grinned. "In case you come on and score."
"I didn't even think about scoring," Nico admitted. "Didn't think I'd actually get on."
"That's your mistake," Ivan said. "You're on the bench. That means you're one twist of the game away from being on the pitch. Be ready."
Nico shrugged. "Alright… what would you suggest then?"
Ivan's grin widened. "Backflip."
Nico blinked. "Huh?"
"A backflip. Clean one. Emirates crowd. Cameras on you. Boom."
"I can do one, yeah… but—"
"No but. You get the goal, you flip. Trust me — that moment would live forever. 15 years old. Arsenal away. Flair kid off the bench pulling a Neymar and landing a full backflip? Headlines. Viral. Iconic."
Nico sat back, nodding slowly. "If I score…"
Ivan pointed at him. "When you score."
The bus took a soft turn. The Emirates rose into view — gleaming steel curves, red banners, cannon logos. One of the shrines of English football.
And Nico?
He didn't flinch.
Because now, it wasn't just about playing well.
It was about playing beautifully.
…
The studio lights beamed softly over the desk. Outside the glass panels behind them, the Emirates Stadium towered in the background — proud, iconic, and drenched in grey North London drizzle. Inside, the tension was low-level but unmistakable — the kind that simmers just under surface banter.
Cameras rolled.
Monitors blinked.
David Jones, seated centre-stage, glanced at his screen, his voice steady as always.
"We're about thirty-nine minutes from kickoff here at the Emirates," he said. "A huge game in the title race — Arsenal looking to maintain control at the top, Brentford in form. But there's something on the team sheet that's raised a few eyebrows… a surprise inclusion from Thomas Frank."
He looked to his left. "Fifteen-year-old Nico Varela. Named on the bench."
Roy Keane, arms folded, leaned back in his chair, unimpressed.
Jamie Carragher raised his brows. "Fifteen."
Micah Richards, sitting to David's right, let out a low whistle, half-amused, half-impressed. "Fifteen. And already on a Premier League bench? That's wild."
David continued. "This is a player who, until a month ago, was still attending secondary school in west London. Now, here he is — squad-listed against the league leaders. Roy… thoughts?"
Roy didn't wait.
"It's ridiculous."
Micah grinned. "Straight in."
Roy leaned forward, his face unmoving, voice sharp. "Listen. It's not a fairy tale. It's not a feel-good film. It's the Premier League. You don't put a fifteen-year-old on the bench away to Arsenal unless you've lost your head or you're making a point. Maybe both."
Carragher laughed, shaking his head. "It's not that deep, Roy."
"It is that deep," Keane replied. "You're telling me this boy — and I'm saying boy, not player — is ready to come on in the middle of a game if someone pulls a hamstring? What if he has to mark Odegaard? What if he gets crunched by Xhaka in midfield? What then?"
Micah leaned forward, more serious now. "But that's assuming he will come on. I think we're missing the point. This might be about giving the kid a taste of the environment — letting him soak it in. That dressing room, that tunnel, those lights. That stuff matters."
Keane cut him off. "You want to give a fifteen-year-old experience? Let him clean the boots after a win. Let him travel with the squad but not be on the squad. There's a difference."
Carragher stepped in. "He's not wrong that it's a massive risk, but I'm with Micah. The game's moved. Young players are coming through quicker now. They're ready younger. Look at Bellingham. Gavi. Musiala. Nwaneri."
Keane scoffed. "Oh please. Don't start."
"What?" Carragher challenged.
"Don't throw every teenage name at me like it's the same thing," Roy said, glaring across the desk. "Bellingham had 50 Championship appearances before Dortmund signed him. Nwaneri played two minutes against Brentford and hasn't been seen since. I'm not saying this Varela kid isn't talented — I'm saying this moment isn't about him."
Micah tilted his head. "So what is it about then?"
"Revenge. Thomas Frank is a clever man. Arsenal embarrassed him earlier this season by subbing on a fifteen-year-old when they were already winning. Frank saw that. Now, he's doing the same — naming his fifteen-year-old at their ground. It's petty."
Carragher looked skeptical. "You think Thomas Frank — one of the smartest managers in the league — is playing games with squad selections just to make a point?"
Keane shrugged. "You tell me."
Micah chimed in, calm but firm. "I've seen clips of this kid. Nico Varela. He's not a gimmick. He's not here for Instagram. He's been training with the first team for weeks, and by all accounts, he's holding his own. At fifteen. He's not just a PR stunt — he's the real deal."
Roy gave a dry laugh. "Clips. Come on, Micah. We've all seen wonderkid montages with fancy music and cut transitions. That's not the Premier League. That's YouTube."
Carragher smirked. "Roy's allergic to flair."
Roy shot back. "I'm allergic to hype without substance."
Micah raised a hand. "But this has substance. There's been murmurs in the youth scouting scene for a while — this kid's got press resistance, balance, vision. He's 6'1, calm under pressure, and he's already moving the ball quicker than most of the senior boys. And he's a midfielder, not a flashy winger. You don't find many fifteen-year-olds who can dictate tempo."
Keane didn't flinch. "None of that matters if he gets run over in his first ten minutes. This league doesn't care about your touch. It cares about your toughness. Mentally. Physically. And if the kid's not ready, he'll learn the hard way. And the people putting him in this position — they'll vanish when it goes wrong."
Carragher shook his head. "But what if it doesn't? What if he comes on and plays well? What if he's as calm as he's looked in training, in youth matches, in closed-door friendlies?"
Roy pointed at him. "If. That's the word. If. We don't gamble with a kid's career for an if."
David Jones glanced down at his tablet. "Lots of reaction online already — Brentford fans seem split. Some calling it brave, others calling it reckless."
Micah smiled. "And that's the game now. Brave looks reckless until it works."
Keane leaned back again, arms folded. "And reckless looks brave until it fails."
The three of them sat, eyes locked, the Emirates glowing behind them like a silent witness.
—-
Hope you guys enjoy this chapter, i'll try to update atleast once a day but school is making that kinda hard.