Brentford Training Ground – Tuesday Morning
The buzz hadn't died down. If anything, it had intensified.
The newspapers were still printing his name. Every highlight channel, every tactical breakdown, every YouTube thumbnail — Varela, Varela, Varela. And as Thomas Frank stood beside his assistant on the training pitch, watching the players warm up under the cold grey sky, it hit him how quickly things had changed.
The assistant leaned in.
"The whole world knows his name now. Feels like it happened overnight."
Frank didn't look over. Just exhaled through his nose.
"That's because it did."
"Clubs are already gunning for him. No chance he stays, right?"
A pause.
Then a small shrug from Frank.
"Doubt it. Dortmund, Leverkusen, Marseille — they've already reached out, just softly at first. Nothing formal yet, but it's coming. Only a matter of time before the bigger names circle. Liverpool, probably City. You know how this works."
The assistant shook his head slowly.
"Mad. Fifteen. Feels like we blinked and he turned into a hundred-million-pound player."
Frank cracked a faint smile, the kind that didn't reach his eyes.
"He's not far off that valuation already."
Silence fell between them for a moment — just the thud of boots on grass and distant shouts from the warm-up drills.
Then the assistant spoke again.
"Maybe this is a good thing though…?"
Frank raised an eyebrow.
"Go on."
"We're pushing for Champions League. If we ride this momentum, let him start most of the games, keep feeding the hype… by the end of the season his market value could hit £80 million, easy. We sell him — reluctantly, obviously — and reinvest where we need it most. The backline's thin. You've said it yourself."
Thomas looked down at the pitch, watching Varela ping passes in a rondo drill. Casual. Effortless.
"Not a bad shout," he said quietly. "Make the most of him while he's ours. Sell him at the peak."
Another pause.
"But losing him would hurt."
The assistant nodded slowly.
"Yeah. It would."
Frank's gaze lingered on Nico.
There was a weight in his expression — not just pride, but something deeper. The burden of knowing he was watching a player too big for the walls they'd built. A comet passing through, not a fixture.
"He's the kind of kid you build a team around," Frank murmured. "But we'll probably end up being the club that launched him."
He clapped his hands once and shouted toward the players.
"Alright! That's enough warm-up — bring it in!"
Nico jogged over with the others, eyes bright, still riding the high.
Frank smiled again, this time with a little more heart.
"Let's enjoy the time we've got with him," he muttered to his assistant. "Because he won't be ours for long."
…
Floor-to-ceiling windows, skyline view, a half-empty espresso cup sitting beside a glowing laptop. Harvey Specter sat leaned back in his leather chair, phone in hand, one leg crossed over the other. He was scrolling Twitter — a habit he didn't usually indulge in during working hours.
But today?
Today was different.
The tweets were flying.
At the top of his feed, a familiar blue checkmark and a tweet that was already racking up over 100,000 likes in under an hour.
@FabrizioRomano
EXCL: Watch out for Nico Varela — many clubs are now in the race for the 15-year-old sensation who lit up Old Trafford.
Sources say Marseille and Borussia Dortmund are preparing serious offers.
This could be the transfer saga of the season.
#Varela #Transfers
Harvey didn't even blink. He swiped down. The quote tweets were rolling in like a flood.
@FootyFabrics
Marseille and Dortmund already? At this rate, Real Madrid will be on the phone by Thursday.
#NicoVarela
@CFCTalkNow
Chelsea have to get involved. This kid is a midfielder built in a lab.
#CFC #Varela
@BundesligaBuzz
Of course Dortmund are going for him. Their scouting department probably set up an alert during the first half at Old Trafford.
#VarelaToBVB?
@Ligue1Ultra
Marseille cooking something serious. Varela in Ligue 1 would be electric.
@NeutralPundit
Only 15 and we're talking about "transfer saga of the season."
Nico Varela's gravity is unreal.
Harvey smirked.
He'd seen this storm before — with CEOs, with corporations, with billion-dollar portfolios. But rarely did it unfold like this, in sport, and never over a player so young.
"Transfer saga of the season," he repeated aloud, just to taste the words. He leaned forward, dropped his phone on the desk, and tapped a message into his iPad.
TO: Nico Varela
Hope you're ready. We're entering the shark tank.
I'll handle it. You just keep playing.
We talk tonight.
He looked back down at his phone. A new tweet popped up.
@TheTransferHawk
Varela's value is going to shoot past £80m before he turns 17.
And whoever gets him, gets a midfield era.
Harvey leaned back, clasped his hands behind his head, and let the corner of his mouth curl.
"Good," he murmured. "Let them circle."
Then he opened his laptop.
And started planning how to run the biggest transfer in Europe.
…
The training pitches were mostly empty now. A thin mist hovered over the grass, cold and quiet under the fading grey light. All the noise — the headlines, the scouts, the camera clicks — felt miles away.
Nico Varela stood just outside the box with a rack of footballs at his feet and a single free-kick mannequin propped up in front of the goal. He'd been out there for nearly forty minutes.
The ball wasn't doing what he wanted it to.
He adjusted again, took three steps back, one to the left. Tried to breathe.
Then struck.
It had the right bend. The right curl. It even dipped at the perfect angle.
Bang.
Crossbar.
Again.
He hissed through his teeth, jogged over, placed another ball. He went for more precision this time — less power. Curled it clean, floated like silk.
But this one was too tame. The keeper would've reached it. Comfortable height. Predictable.
He threw his hands up, frustrated.
"System," he muttered under his breath. "Got anything for me?"
The screen flickered faintly in his mind, almost like it was smirking.
No.
"Figures."
He stepped back again, this time slower, and picked up his phone from the grass beside his water bottle. A new notification lit the screen.
Harvey Specter:
Hope you're ready. We're entering the shark tank.
I'll handle it. You just keep playing.
We talk tonight.
Nico stared at it, thumb hovering over the reply icon. He didn't type anything — not yet.
He turned his gaze back toward the goal, but his mind had drifted somewhere else.
Marseille. Dortmund. Leverkusen. Madrid probably watching. Liverpool next. Everyone wanted him. Which was strange, considering just a few months ago, no one even noticed him.
His eyes flicked up toward the clouds already thinking about the next dilemma.
Which country?
It had been eating away at him for days. Spain. Morocco. Italy. Brazil. England. All circling. All making calls.
But Spain was out. That much, he'd already decided.
They'd shown interest — sure — but they saw him as a Pedri backup. Not a future. Just a cog.
"Not interested," he muttered.
He bent down, placed another ball.
Took his steps again.
Breathed in.
This time he didn't think about the scouts or the tweets or the contracts.
He thought about his dad. He thought about the first time they set up cones in the park. He thought about all the things that still felt raw. Undecided. Real.
Then he struck.
Clean. Fast. Curling.
It tucked itself neatly into the top corner — just beneath the bar, beyond where a hand could reach.
He watched it nestle into the net, then closed his eyes.
Still no answers.
The wind had picked up slightly, ruffling the corners of the goal net and sending a faint rustle through the nearby hedges. The pitch lights buzzed softly overhead, casting long shadows as the evening set in.
Nico was about to collect the last ball when he heard boots crunching softly behind him.
"Still here?"
Ivan Toney. Hands tucked into the sleeves of his thermal top, chin tilted in amusement.
Nico gave a short nod, brushing his curls out of his face.
"Yeah. Just needed a few more reps. It's getting late though — I'll head in soon."
Ivan looked toward the goal, then the scattered balls around it.
"You still going to that U18 camp?"
"Yeah," Nico said, pulling his track jacket from the ground and slinging it over his shoulder. "Shame I'm missing the Fulham and Everton games."
Toney smirked.
"Going to miss those passes."
Nico laughed lightly, shaking his head.
"Make sure not to drop any points while I'm gone."
"Ego building already, huh?" Ivan nudged him. "Kid has one good month and starts giving out orders."
Nico grinned but didn't deny it.
Then Ivan sighed, rolling his eyes toward the floodlights.
"Still don't get why that camp has to cut into our fixtures though. Feels like it was slapped on without thinking."
Nico shrugged, kicking a stray ball lightly toward the rack.
"Not many U18 players actually in the Prem. It's basically just me. And that Nwaneri guy at Arsenal."
Ivan paused for a beat.
"Still crazy to think you're fifteen."
Nico didn't reply right away. He just glanced down at the turf, then back toward the net.
"Feels older than that most days."
"Yeah," Ivan said, voice lower now. "You play like it."
There was a moment of silence between them. Not awkward — just mutual understanding.
"Go do your thing," Ivan said, finally turning back toward the building. "We'll hold it down here."
"Cheers, big bro," Nico called after him.
"Don't get used to people calling you that wonderkid stuff too fast," Ivan tossed back over his shoulder. "It's not the name they remember. It's what you do when people start expecting it."
Nico stood for a moment longer, watching his teammate disappear into the tunnel.
Then he turned, slung his jacket fully over his shoulder, and headed in too.
…
St. George's Park – Burton upon Trent
The car ride had been quiet. The kind of silence that buzzed with potential energy, like a bowstring pulled taut. Nico watched out the tinted window as the winding country roads gave way to sleek fencing and manicured green expanses.
Then it came into view.
St. George's Park.
Sprawling. Pristine. England's footballing fortress. The architecture was modern yet understated, surrounded by symmetrical training fields so green they almost didn't seem real. Logos embedded into walls. The FA crest shimmering in brushed steel. Cameras mounted on corners. Motion sensors along fences.
It looked more like a tech campus or an Olympic complex than anything he'd trained at before.
He stepped out, Nike duffle over one shoulder, fitted Brentford tracksuit clinging to his tall frame. The air was crisp — that kind of British cold that bit gently but didn't linger.
He walked toward the main building, automatic doors sliding open with a soft whoosh. Marble floor. Tinted glass. Digital screens cycling through England highlights — Kane, Saka, Bellingham… and now, even a photo of him appeared mid-scroll.
"Ah, Nico Varela."
The voice came from a few paces to his left.
Jonathan Pendlebury. Blazer with the England crest stitched over his heart. Broad smile. Balding slightly, but eyes full of quiet warmth and energy.
He extended a hand.
"Pleasure to meet you."
Nico smiled and shook it firmly. "Nice to meet you too… Coach Pendlebury?"
"How'd you figure that out?" Pendlebury asked with mock surprise.
Nico nodded at his chest, grinning. "Your badge gave it away."
"Ah, yes," the coach chuckled. "Sharp lad."
He stepped aside, gesturing toward the corridor.
"You're early — the other boys won't be here for about an hour."
"Wanted to make a good first impression," Nico replied.
Pendlebury smiled, but his gaze sharpened slightly — like he was reading deeper than just the words.
"Oh, you've already made quite the impression. World's talking about you. Now the only thing left is to show us what you do when the shirt's red and white."
He gave a slight nod, then stepped back.
"Explore the place. You're free to use anything you'd like — weight room, game room, cryo suite, pitch monitors. It's all yours."
"Thanks, coach."
"No problem, chap. See you soon."
Pendlebury disappeared into one of the staff wings.
Nico stood for a second, just soaking it in — the space, the stillness, the weight of the history between these walls.
Then he started walking.
The corridors were lined with framed shirts — England through the decades. Charlton. Gascoigne. Beckham. Gerrard. Rooney. Now it was Bellingham, Saka, Rice.
Would his name ever hang here?
He passed the cryo room — saw a few physios setting up. A hydrotherapy pool glistened behind a glass panel. Digital clocks glowed in quiet corners. One hallway had photos of every England squad since 2000 — U16s, U18s, seniors — names scribbled beneath in faded gold ink.
As he turned into a hallway leading to the game room, he suddenly heard a,
"Smile."
Click.
Nico blinked.
The England team photographer lowered his camera and grinned.
"Perfect. Instagram's gonna love this. Catch you later, starboy."
Nico laughed under his breath as the man disappeared down the hallway.
He pushed into the players' lounge — a spacious game room kitted out with PS5s, pool tables, VR setups, massage chairs, vending machines stacked with protein bars and fruit.
He sat down at one of the leather couches, his duffle bag resting beside him, and finally — for the first time all day — just exhaled.
Then it happened.
A soft tone in his head.
System Notification:
Reward for Manchester United performance:
New Ability Unlocked: Set Piece Specialist
— Free Kick Curve +6
— Dead Ball Vision +4
— Composure Boost (Set Pieces)
He blinked.
"About time."
The ball hitting the bar from earlier — now he knew why. He wasn't quite ready.
The game room door eased open with a quiet click.
Nico glanced up from the couch as a figure stepped in, hoodie up, backpack slung loosely over one shoulder. The face was instantly familiar — already a known name in English football circles.
Ethan Nwaneri.
He spotted Nico and offered a casual nod.
"Hey."
"What's up, bro," Nico replied, standing to dap him up.
"First call-up?" Ethan asked, dropping his bag beside the sofa.
"Yeah. You?"
"Same," Ethan nodded, grinning. "I saw you play against my team, by the way."
"Yeah?"
"You kinda destroyed us. Midfield was gone, bro."
Nico laughed, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Appreciate it. You lot were sharp though, proper movement off the ball."
Ethan chuckled and flopped onto the couch.
Nico motioned toward the PlayStation setup glowing in the corner.
"You tryna hop on FIFA?"
Ethan perked up.
"Say less. But I'm Real Madrid though."
Nico grinned.
"Cool. I'm PSG then."
Controllers in hand, they settled into the gaming chairs. Teams picked, kickoff loaded. Mbappé vs. Viní Jr., quick subs, custom tactics. The room buzzed softly with the sounds of button mashing and light trash talk.
For a little while, everything else — the pressure, the camps, the cameras — faded away.
It was just football.
And friendship forming one pass at a time.
…
The sun broke faintly through the mist that clung to the surrounding trees as the players filed out toward the pitch. Fresh white England training kits. Grass trimmed to perfection. Coaches in navy windbreakers watching with clipboards in hand.
Nico pulled his boots tight on the edge of the touchline, taking in the scene. The pitches were immaculate — designed with champions in mind. But the moment the ball started moving, he felt it.
Something was… off.
Too slow.
The passing patterns were neat but lethargic. Pressing was half-committed. Touches lacked urgency. It was England U18 level — not academy football at Brentford, and certainly not the Premier League. Nico received his first ball, scanned once, and played a sharp line-breaking pass between two defenders before his teammate was even ready.
It zipped past him, out of play.
Focus, Nico thought. Don't get cocky.
But the pattern continued.
Rondos. Nico barely had to try. The moment he stepped in, he nicked it with one read. When it was his turn in the circle, they barely got close to dispossessing him.
Possession drills. He noticed every wrong angle. Every mistimed overlap. Midfielders taking an extra touch when it wasn't needed, passing sideways instead of into space. He could see it all — before it happened.
The game was moving in slow motion for him.
"Varela, nice weight!" one of the coaches called after he slid a perfectly judged ball into a run no one else had seen coming.
Ethan jogged up beside him as they switched stations.
"Yo," he said, slightly out of breath. "Come meet my guy — Myles."
Nico turned as Myles Lewis-Skelly approached. Strong frame, sharp eyes. Arsenal through and through.
"Myles, Nico. Nico, Myles."
They dapped each other up.
"So you're the one making Prem midfielders look like Year 9s," Myles grinned.
Nico laughed lightly.
"I'm just doing what I do."
"You've made it look easy out here still," Myles added. "You read the pitch like a chessboard."
"To be honest," Nico said, glancing back at the drill. "Feels a bit slow."
"That's 'cause it is," Ethan chimed in. "Half these guys are coming from U18 club ball. You've been dropping dimes on De Gea."
"Don't let Pendlebury hear that," Myles said with a smirk. "He loves a 'team unity' talk."
They all laughed as a new whistle blew, calling them into an 11v11 full-pitch scrimmage.
But as Nico walked back into formation, he couldn't shake it.
He wasn't being tested.
Everything felt two steps behind. The touch, the tempo, the movement. He was reacting before the play even developed. And worse — he could feel himself dialing down. Like a high-performance car cruising in second gear.
He kept his cool, hit the right passes, supported the midfield.
But in his mind?
He was already longing for the real thing again.
…
The scrimmage had finished over an hour ago, but the coaches remained inside one of the tactical analysis rooms, sipping lukewarm coffees and reviewing clips on a wide multi-screen setup. Jonathan Pendlebury leaned forward in his chair, watching a slow-motion replay of Nico sliding a disguised through ball between three midfielders, directly into the stride of a winger who wasn't ready for it.
The pass was perfect. The run… wasn't.
"That's the fifth time he's seen a picture the others don't," said Assistant Coach Reynolds, scratching at his beard. "The tempo in his head is just… different."
"It's two levels up," another added. "He's already thinking like a senior."
Pendlebury didn't say anything immediately. He let the video run on.
Another clip. Nico pressing, then intercepting a pass before the opponent had even fully committed to it.
Then one more: a sweeping outside-foot ball from deep — 40 yards — landing exactly in the corner of the 18-yard box. Nobody else on the pitch could have hit that. Certainly not at 15.
"He's playing a different game," Reynolds said again, a little quieter this time. "Do we… move him?"
Pendlebury finally leaned back and spoke.
"No."
The room went quiet.
"Not yet."
One of the assistants raised an eyebrow. "He's too good. You said it yourself."
Pendlebury nodded. "I did. And he is."
He looked back toward the screen, where Nico's latest touch was paused mid-frame. Calm body shape. Head up. Awareness radiating off the image.
"But if we promote him now — isolate him — the others don't grow. They get left behind. And he gets bored, yes… but he's still playing football. He's not above the badge."
Reynolds frowned. "Won't he see through that?"
"Eventually. But not yet."
Pendlebury sipped his coffee, then added:
"Let him raise the level. Let them chase him. If he's that good, he'll still be two steps ahead when he's with the U21s… or the senior squad in two years."
The others exchanged glances, silently agreeing.
One coach chuckled.
"Kid's making us rethink our age groups."
Pendlebury turned off the screen, stood, and tucked his hands into his jacket.
"He's not just special. He's magnetic. And sometimes… a player like that does more for the team by staying still."
"We've got France in seven days," he said, almost to himself, but the room heard it.
One of the coaches looked up. "They'll come with intensity. Different level of pressure."
Pendlebury nodded. "Exactly. That's when we'll see what he really is. And whether the rest of them can keep up."
He stood, pausing a moment before adding—
"This next week… it's his audition. For all of them."