The red-and-blue graphics faded into the Sky Sports Premier League studio. Behind the desk, the full-time stats glowed on the large screen: Arsenal 1 – 2 Brentford. Beneath it, one name flashed in yellow.
Player of the Match: Nico Varela
David Jones, calm as ever, turned to the camera. "Right. Let's not waste time. The football world is talking about one name tonight. Nico Varela. Fifteen years old. Premier League debut. Match-winner at the Emirates. But beyond the fairy tale headline — this wasn't just a cameo. It was domination. Gentlemen, let's break it down."
The camera cut to the panel: Micah Richards, Jamie Carragher, and Roy Keane. Each with their own posture. Micah practically vibrating. Carragher focused, already scrolling his telestrator. Roy, arms folded, eyes sharp.
David gestured to the screen. "Micah, give us the top line."
Micah leaned in. "Look. I'm gonna say it straight — this kid's not a prospect. He's already a problem. Just look at the stats."
The screen switched to a stat graphic titled:
Nico Varela – 21 minutes played
Chances Created: 4 (most in 2nd half)
Big Chances Created: 3
Dribbles Completed: 7 (game-high)
Duels Won: 8 (most in 2nd half)
Shots: 2
Goal: 1
Micah shook his head, almost laughing. "Those are numbers you see from a £100 million playmaker — not a fifteen-year-old who just left Year 11 geography."
Carragher added, "And it's where he did it that impressed me. Look at the positions he took up. He floated between Xhaka and Partey like he'd been doing it for years. Playing on the half-turn, breaking lines, drawing pressure — and then releasing it with precision."
The screen showed a pitch heatmap, the top of the diamond lit up like a flare in Arsenal's midfield.
Roy shifted in his seat. "I'm still not going to get carried away. But yes — I'll admit, he played with a maturity I didn't expect. He didn't show fear. He wanted the ball. He battled in duels. He tracked back. If he stays grounded… he's got something."
Micah leaned toward Roy, grinning. "Not so confident now, are you, Roy? Last night you said he'd be lucky to get ten minutes!"
The studio cracked up.
Roy raised an eyebrow. "He still needs to prove it over time. Let's not crown him after one game. I've seen talent go missing before."
Carragher nodded but smiled. "True, but I think what's different here is the decision-making. It's not just flair. It's intelligence. He didn't play for the cameras — he played for the win."
Micah pointed again to the stat overlay. "Created four big chances in twenty minutes. Seven successful dribbles. That's not a cameo — that's taking the Emirates and making it his home pitch."
David Jones nodded. "And while we're all celebrating Varela's breakthrough, we have to talk about the other side of this. What does this mean for Arsenal?"
The screen switched to the Premier League Table, updated live:
1. Arsenal – 54 pts (23 games)
2. Manchester City – 51 pts (23 games)
3. Manchester United – 46 pts (23 games)
6. Brentford – 39 pts (23 games)
7. Tottenham – 39 pts (23 games)
Carragher leaned in. "This wasn't just three points lost. This is Arsenal wobbling again. City will inevitably be back. Brentford might've just blown this title race wide open."
Micah added, "And let's not forget Brentford are now sixth. Level with Spurs. Frank's got them cooking. With players like Varela stepping up? European football isn't just a dream anymore."
Roy was blunt. "Arsenal looked soft. Second half, they didn't want it enough. Brentford did. Simple."
Micah tapped the screen one last time. "Varela didn't just play well — he played with flair. Seven dribbles, and I swear every one of them sent someone sliding. He's like a midfield Neymar with the discipline of a seasoned six."
David smiled into the camera. "Well said. From fifteen-year-old schoolboy to Premier League star — and potentially, a title-race disruptor. Remember the name… Nico Varela."
The segment faded to footage of Nico's backflip, frozen mid-air, arms stretched, as the words trailed underneath:
Get used to it.
…
The morning mist still clung to the grass when Nico arrived at Jersey Road. The usual buzz of early training was there — the hum of boots on concrete, staff wheeling equipment out, players drifting in with hoodies up and AirPods in. But something felt different.
It wasn't just the weather. It wasn't the fact that every single academy kid he passed did a double-take and muttered, "That's him."
It was the way the first team looked at him now.
With recognition.
With respect.
No one said it directly — not yet. But the tone had shifted. There was a nod from Janelt. A little shoulder bump from Pinnock. Even David Raya gave him a "Nice one, mate" as he passed.
When Nico entered the changing room, Toney was already mid-performance, standing on a bench like he was doing stand-up.
"Look who's here," he announced, arms wide. "Match-winner. Man of the Match. Backflip Bandit. You charging for autographs now or what?"
Laughter filled the room. Jensen tossed Nico his bib. "You still one of us, or do we bow first?"
Nico smiled, sliding onto the bench. "Shut up, man."
But inside, he was glowing.
They weren't mocking.
They were welcoming.
And in football, that meant everything.
Training began like usual. A warm-up rondo, followed by some short-possession drills. The coaches didn't let up on him. If anything, they pushed harder. One of the assistants even barked "Pressure him!" every time Nico received the ball.
But he didn't fold. If anything, he grew sharper. The touch was still there. The half-turns, the quick decisions, the disguised passes — all flowing with that quiet confidence that now hummed under his skin.
During the small-sided game, he dropped a no-look through ball between two defenders that had even the usually stoic Roerslev shouting, "No way!"
By the end of the session, he was drenched in sweat — and still floating from yesterday.
Then Thomas Frank called him over with a nod of the head.
They walked together toward the edge of the pitch, where the cones were still being packed up and the grass was damp and glistening. Frank didn't speak immediately. He gave it time. Let the silence sit like steam between them.
Finally, he said, "You slept last night?"
Nico chuckled. "Barely."
Frank nodded. "I figured. Your world changed a little."
Nico looked down at the laces of his boots. "Yeah."
Frank turned to face him, serious now. "You're going to start in our next match."
Nico blinked. "Wait—"
"I know it's fast," Frank cut in, voice steady, "and I know you're fifteen. But I'm not putting you in to make a statement. This club doesn't do stunts. That's not who we are."
Nico stayed quiet, his chest suddenly tight.
Frank continued. "But we do reward performance. And if I say that to the team every week — that training matters, that how you play matters — then I can't ignore what you did at the Emirates. If I did, I'd be lying to them. I'd be going against my own ideals."
Nico exhaled slowly. "I don't even know what to say."
"Don't say anything. Just prepare. This isn't a trial anymore. You're part of the squad now. And when you're on that pitch again — you don't have to be a star. You just have to be you."
He paused.
"That's already enough."
Nico looked up. "I'll be ready."
Frank smiled, that warm half-smile that made everything feel a little more manageable. "I know."
He clapped him on the shoulder. "Now go cool down before Toney makes you carry his boots again."
…
The rain outside had eased into a drizzle, soft enough to blur shopfronts but not enough to stop traffic. Inside the buzzing Nando's on Uxbridge Road, warmth rolled through the restaurant in waves — from the grills, from the low music, and from the low chatter of tables full of families and post-college hangouts.
In the back corner booth, tucked behind a plant wall, Nico sat in disguise: hoodie up, black cap down, and a pair of fake glasses that made him look like a budget superhero on his day off.
Jayden slid into the booth first, clocked the look, and burst out laughing.
"Oii, what's all this? Man's dressed like a secret agent trying to order lemon and herb!"
Cristiano sat opposite and folded his arms. "You trying to get recognised or dodge parking fines?"
Nico shrugged, smiling. "Harvey told me to wear it."
Jayden leaned forward. "Harvey as in… Mr Slick Agent Man?"
"Yeah," Nico said. "Told me to lay low for a bit. Said there might be some emotional Arsenal fans still out here."
Cristiano raised a brow. "You should lay low. You embarrassed my whole club."
Jayden laughed. "Bro. Nutmegged Ødegaard, flicked it over Partey, and then hit the backflip? That's personal."
"Anyone can hold smoke, boys."
Cristiano pointed a fork at him. "You served smoke with extra sauce. I'm not even mad. I'm hurt."
Their food came — Jayden's half chicken, Cristiano's burger, Nico's clean salad with lemon wedges and avocado. As they tucked in, the banter mellowed, replaced by the quiet contentment of boys who had known each other too long to impress and too well to lie.
Jayden wiped sauce off his hands and glanced at Nico. "You know… it's only a matter of time before you get the England call-up."
Cristiano snorted. "What do you mean 'matter of time'? He's trending in Brazil."
Jayden raised his hands. "Yeah, yeah, I know. But I'm saying, after that debut? The FA probably printed the letter already."
Nico chuckled, shaking his head. "I'm not getting ahead of myself."
Just then, his phone buzzed.
He checked it. Email. From the FA.
His smile dropped slightly. "No way."
"What?" Jayden leaned in.
Cristiano paused mid-bite. "That a girl from TikTok or…?"
Nico opened it. Read the header. Scanned the words. His heart knocked against his ribs.
He turned the phone around, showing the screen.
Jayden's eyes went wide. "'You have been selected for the upcoming England U18 training camp at St. George's Park…' Bro. That's official."
Cristiano blinked. "You're actually going?"
Nico nodded, still processing. "Yeah… guess I am."
Jayden sat back. "Nah that's wild. You're fifteen, G. People don't get called up that early unless they're serious."
Cristiano grinned. "You better start practicing the anthem."
But Nico didn't join in right away. He looked out toward the window — traffic rolling, people rushing past, life moving like nothing had changed. But for him, it had.
Jayden noticed the shift. "Wait… you're not sure, are you?"
Nico shrugged, honest. "It's not that I'm not grateful. I am. It's England. It's a big opportunity. But…"
He trailed off.
Cristiano tilted his head. "But you've got other options."
Jayden snapped his fingers. "Right! I forgot you're like… from half the world."
"Four countries," Nico said, eyes still on the street.
Jayden counted on his fingers. "Spain. Morocco. Italy. Brazil."
Cristiano dropped his fork. "BRAZIL?! You're half samba and you're considering England?!"
"My mum's half Spanish, half Moroccan," Nico explained quietly. "Dad's mostly Brazilian but has some Italian ancestry."
Jayden shook his head. "You could play for Spain with Pedri. Or Morocco with Amrabat. Or Italy and revive that midfield. And Brazil?! You'd be feeding Vini and Rodrygo!"
Cristiano leaned in. "I'd choose Brazil. No hesitation."
Nico finally smiled. "I was born in London, though. Raised here. My first boots were from a shop in Tooting. My first match was at Loftus Road. This place made me."
Jayden nodded slowly. "So… you're leaning England."
"I'm open," Nico said. "This isn't a final decision. It's just a camp. I want to learn. See what the setup is like."
Cristiano tapped the table. "One foot in, one step at a time."
"Exactly," Nico said. "But it's mad. Yesterday, I was playing at the Emirates. Now I've got the Three Lions in my inbox."
They all went quiet for a second.
Jayden raised his Coke. "To choices, then. And options. And Nico being good enough to confuse four national federations."
Cristiano lifted his bottle. "And to us, before we get left behind."
Nico laughed, clinking bottles with both of them. "You lot are coming with me. I just gotta figure out which anthem I'll be humming."
Cristiano smirked. "Just don't do the backflip if it's against Brazil."
Nico laughed, about to respond — but his phone buzzed on the table, screen lighting up.
Private Caller.
They all glanced at it. Nico hesitated.
Jayden raised an eyebrow. "That your mum?"
Cristiano grinned. "Or another national team calling already?"
Nico answered, pressing the phone to his ear.
"Hello?"
A familiar, smooth voice replied — casual, amused, like it had been expecting this exact moment.
A calm, crisp voice replied — full of confidence, timing as perfect as ever.
"You got the email, didn't you?"
"Harvey," Nico said, already smiling.
"Course. Who else calls on private line like I'm running MI6?" Harvey said with a light laugh. "England U18s. St. George's Park. Nice little plot twist to your week."
"Yeah… just came through," Nico said, stepping toward the window. "Didn't expect it. Not this fast."
"You should've. After the Arsenal game, your name's ringing in every room that matters."
Nico didn't respond right away. He was still processing it — the badge, the invitation, the implications.
Harvey's voice softened slightly but lost none of its sharpness.
"Listen, word is the others are going to start making moves for you soon."
Nico's stomach tightened.
"All of them?" he asked.
"They all want you in their team," Harvey confirmed. "It just depends on your choice. Spain. Italy. Morocco. Brazil. They're watching now — and they're not going to sit back for long."
Nico leaned against the glass, watching a red double-decker blur past in the rain.
"I don't even know who I'd pick."
Harvey didn't rush him. "You don't have to. Not yet. England's just giving you a look. You train. You observe. You show them what they already think they know — that you're special. Then we take it from there."
Nico nodded slowly. "And you'll handle everything else?"
"That's why I'm here," Harvey said. "You play. I protect the dream. End of story."
Nico exhaled through a smile. "Alright."
"And Nico?" Harvey added. "Whichever flag ends up on your chest, just make sure they earn it."
…
The hallway smelled like lavender and cooked rice. Same as always.
Nico slipped off his trainers by the front door and dropped his bag quietly next to the radiator. The flat was small but full — full of colour, of framed photos, of worn cushions, of scents that made you feel like time slowed when you walked in. Home hadn't changed. But he had.
His mum stepped out of the kitchen, still in her slippers, apron dusted in flour, holding a wooden spoon like she was about to scold the stove.
"There he is," she said, smiling as soon as she saw him. "Superstar."
Nico cracked a small grin and walked straight into her arms. She held him like she always did — tight, warm, like nothing outside mattered.
"Smells amazing," he said.
"You hungry?"
"Always."
"Come. Sit down."
In the kitchen, she plated him up without asking — a scoop of steaming rice, grilled chicken with lemon and thyme, sliced cucumbers, and a bowl of harira soup that filled the room with spice. She poured a glass of water and passed it over like clockwork.
Nico sat down and dug in, quiet at first, but relaxed. Like something in him had been searching for this all day.
"You're eating well there?" she asked, sitting opposite him.
"Yeah," he said. "I even ordered salad today."
"Mm. Look at you. Big football man now."
He chuckled. "The dorms are alright. Food's not too bad. Miss your cooking though."
"You miss having someone force you to eat vegetables."
He smiled, then went quiet for a second, glancing at the photos on the shelf — a framed picture of them on the beach in Brighton, another of him as a kid in a worn Palace shirt. That one made his chest ache a little.
She noticed. She always did.
"Talk to me," she said.
So he did.
About the match. The crowd. The goal. How everything had changed so quickly. The training at Brentford, the jokes in the dressing room, the fake glasses at Nando's.
She laughed at that.
"And then… the email came through," he said.
Her face shifted. "What email?"
He pulled his phone from his pocket, unlocked it, and slid it across the table.
She read silently. England's crest at the top. His name printed clearly. St. George's Park. U18 Training Camp.
She placed the phone down slowly.
"Nico…"
"I know," he said, shaking his head. "I wasn't expecting it either."
She reached over and rested her hand on his arm. "I'm proud of you. So proud."
He nodded, but the weight in his chest didn't lift.
"What is it?" she asked gently.
He looked up. "It's just… I don't know what to do."
She waited.
"I mean, it's England, Mum," he said. "That's massive. But… you know. I'm not just English."
She nodded. "No, you're not."
"Spain, Morocco, Italy… Brazil. They're all a part of me."
"And they always will be."
He paused. Then lowered his voice. "I've been thinking about Brazil."
Her expression didn't change. She just listened.
"I don't know," he said. "Part of me thinks… maybe that's how I honour him, you know? My dad. His family. He used to talk about the yellow shirt like it was sacred."
She took that in quietly.
"He said they didn't just play. They danced. That they carried joy on the ball."
Her eyes misted, but she didn't look away.
"I thought… maybe if I wore that shirt one day, he'd be proud. Even if he's not here to see it."
She reached out and held his hand.
"Nico," she said softly, "your dad would be proud of you no matter what shirt you wear. He was proud the day you kicked your first ball. He'd be proud if you wore yellow. Or blue. Or red. Or even if you wore no colours at all and just played in the park."
He blinked quickly, jaw tightening.
"It was never about the shirt for him," she continued. "It was about seeing you chase something he never could. Watching you live without fear."
Nico looked down at the table.
"And you?" He asked.
"You want to know who I'd play for?"
He looked up.
"My choice wouldn't matter either. Because we live different lives, hijo."
She pulled her scarf tighter around her shoulders.
"I grew up in Madrid. In a flat above a bakery. Your grandmother came from Morocco with no papers, no Spanish, no help. Just strength. Everything I had came from her. Your grandfather — he was Spanish, but gone before I could remember him."
She smiled softly, the kind that doesn't hide the pain underneath.
"If I had to choose? I'd pick Morocco. Not for football. For her. For everything she gave me."
She looked him in the eye.
"But you didn't grow up in Madrid. Or Casablanca. Or São Paulo. You grew up here — in Shepherd's Bush. Playing cage matches. Eating Greggs. Kicking the ball off our living room walls until the paint peeled."
He laughed quietly.
"You are all of those countries," she said. "But your choice has to come from your story. Not mine. Not your dad's. Not anyone else's."
Nico nodded slowly.
"I just don't want to mess it up."
"You won't," she said.
He took a deep breath.
"There's no wrong answer, Nico. There's only what's true. And whatever you choose — it'll be the right one if it comes from that."
They sat there in silence. Then she smiled again.
"Now finish your rice. Before I give it to the neighbour's cat."
He laughed through his nose and picked up his fork.
"Alright."
…
The studio lights beamed down on the polished desk of Globo Esporte, Brazil's leading sports broadcast. The host, dressed in navy with the CBF crest pinned to his lapel, leaned forward as the show returned from a highlight reel of Brazil's frustrating quarter-final World Cup exit.
Behind him, the screen shifted to a slideshow of Brazil's ageing midfield: Casemiro, Fred, Bruno Guimarães.
The headline: "Brazil's Next Generation: Who Leads the Future?"
"We've had the flair, the pace, the magic wide players," the host said in Portuguese, passion tightening his voice. "But in midfield… we're still searching. We don't have a Xavi. A Modrić. Someone who can control tempo and break lines."
He tapped his tablet, and a photo appeared behind him.
It was Nico Varela. In a Brentford shirt. Arms outstretched after his backflip at the Emirates.
The host turned to his guest — a former Brazil international and now youth scout for the federation.
"Você viu esse menino? O Varela?"
The scout nodded, smiling. "He's different. Tall, elegant. Controls the game with rhythm, not just energy. A rare mix. Press-resistant like Thiago. Calm like Busquets. But with Brazilian feet."
The host raised an eyebrow. "Born in England though."
"His blood runs through São Paulo," the scout replied. "His grandfather coached youth players at Corinthians. His father was Brazilian. It's there. In the way he moves. He plays like he hears music no one else hears."
"Is the CBF watching him?"
"They already are."
A beat.
"After Qatar, it's clear: we need evolution. Varela's the type of midfielder we haven't had since Ganso before the injuries. And with his age? If we don't act fast—"
Another tap on the screen. A fresh headline.
England have called him up.
The host sighed.
"If we want him in yellow," he said, "we better move now."
——
Those UCL semi finals wow. Im in awe. Inter to win UCL.
Ok story will start developing faster, i already have thoughts on the future, but feel free to give any suggestions i might include them.
This story is more popular than touchline reborn so I will be prioritizing this one but I will update that one every once in a while.