The afternoon sky over St Mary's was bleak — overcast and low, with wind gusting from the Solent. But the only storm Southampton had to worry about wasn't in the sky.
It was Nico Varela.
Thomas Frank had deployed Brentford in a sharp 4-2-3-1, with Varela in the heart of the attacking midfield — a floating, free-moving 10 behind Ivan Toney. And from the moment the whistle blew, it was clear that something special was brewing.
Southampton tried to press early. Their midfield pushed up, eager to rattle the 15-year-old, to remind him this was the Premier League, not youth football. But Varela played like he'd seen it all before.
In the 6th minute, he received a fast, zipped pass from Norgaard under pressure, a Southampton player already lunging at his back. With one touch — a subtle, silky Cruyff turn — he slid away into space and immediately drove at the backline. He spotted Wissa darting down the left and slid a perfectly weighted pass between the lines. Wissa's cutback was sharp, and Toney was there to meet it.
1–0.
The Brentford away end exploded.
Varela didn't celebrate wildly. Just a nod. Composed. Business as usual.
Southampton barely had time to regroup before he carved them open again. This time in the 18th minute. Picking the ball up in the right half-space, he played a give-and-go with Dasilva, shifted his weight past two defenders, and flicked a delicate through ball between Southampton's disoriented centre-backs.
Mbeumo latched on, touched once to steady, and buried it into the far corner.
2–0.
By now, the Southampton midfield looked shellshocked — as if they didn't know whether to man-mark, sit deep, or hope Varela tripped on his own laces. He didn't.
He toyed with them. Playing passes no one saw coming. Dropping deep when needed. Showing up at the top of the box seconds later.
Then came his goal.
It was in the 33rd minute, and it started from a throw-in near the Brentford bench. Henry tossed it in toward Norgaard, who cushioned it toward Varela on the half-turn. With his first touch, Nico swept it around his marker and burst into space. The entire pitch opened in front of him. Toney dragged a defender wide. Mbeumo pulled another out of position.
That was all he needed.
A shimmy. A step. Then a left-footed shot, whipped clean across the face of goal into the bottom right corner.
3–0.
Nico didn't need to celebrate. His teammates did it for him, mobbing him near the corner flag.
By halftime, Brentford looked like a team possessed — not just efficient, but electrifying. Thomas Frank's tactics had clicked perfectly, but it was Varela pulling every string.
Second half? It didn't slow down.
Varela didn't get more assists — but he should have. He nearly had a second goal too, a curling effort from outside the box that rattled the bar.
Instead, Brentford's 4th and 5th goals came from corners and a late breakaway — Zanka thumping in a header from a Jensen cross, and substitute Schade finishing off a lightning-quick counter led by Toney.
But the man of the match?
Undisputed.
One goal. Two assists. Dozens of touches. Countless passes threaded through lines like they didn't exist.
As the final whistle blew, the Southampton fans streamed out, heads low. Brentford fans sang through the rain.
And Nico Varela walked off with another statement made — another club dismantled — and another chapter sealed in what was quickly becoming a season no one would forget.
The full-time whistle rang across St Mary's like a mercy bell. Brentford had torn Southampton apart — 5–0, away from home — and in the middle of it all stood Nico Varela, 15 years old, shirt stained, socks rolled down, and boots still carrying grass from every blade of that pitch.
He didn't raise his arms. He didn't scream. He just nodded, turned to his teammates, and clapped them together into a circle — his expression unreadable, as if he hadn't just delivered one of the most outrageous midfield performances of the season.
Up in the Sky Sports commentary booth, the reaction was almost comical in contrast.
Gary Neville exhaled sharply. "Look, I don't want to jump on the hype train… but this train's already left the station and is flying through Europe at 200mph."
Jamie Carragher laughed, leaning forward. "This lad, man. I mean… Brentford have something unreal on their hands. I've watched seasoned pros struggle to dictate games at this level. Varela just did it while looking like he was choosing GCSE subjects on the side."
"Every time he touched the ball," Neville added, "you felt something was about to happen. He plays like someone who's already done this ten years in La Liga."
Micah Richards jumped in, grinning wide. "You see that Cruyff turn in the first half? That's not just skill — that's disrespectful. It's poetry. It's violence. It's both!"
Jamie nodded. "And it's not flashy for the sake of it. It's functional. Everything has intent. That second assist — the ball weight, the timing, the awareness… come on."
"And he's 15," Gary said again, almost like he was trying to convince himself.
"Fifteen and better than half the Premier League," Micah replied without hesitation.
Jamie checked his stats. "He completed 93% of his passes. Created six chances. One goal. Two assists. Most touches in the final third."
Gary chuckled darkly. "The real problem is… how long do Brentford get to enjoy him?"
…
Meanwhile…
The internet didn't wait to answer.
Twitter, Instagram, TikTok — everything went nuclear the moment the final whistle blew. Not just because Brentford had demolished a fellow Premier League side, but because of who led the demolition.
Varela's highlights were already being chopped up by fan accounts, synced to drill beats and anime music, replayed in slow motion with captions like:
"He's not 15. He's a hologram made in Catalonia."
On Twitter:
@PLBible
"Nico Varela is 15. FIFTEEN. And he's out here sending Premier League midfielders to the gulag."
@JordsFootyTakes
"We're actually gonna see Brentford in the Champions League next season. I can't believe my life."
@BallControl101
"Nico Varela plays football like it's jazz. Just vibes and destruction."
@TheLadNext2VAR
"Me explaining to my kids how Brentford won the treble in 2028 because a teenager snapped Southampton in half during a random April fixture."
@BTechModric
"I'm 23. This kid is 15. What am I doing with my life? I tripped over my shoelace this morning."
@HotTakesOnly
"Southampton players queuing up at half-time to ask Varela for his shirt us crazy."
@FootyAnimeEdits
"That Cruyff turn he hit in the 18th minute was straight out of Blue Lock."
@BundesligaW
"Leverkusen watching this match like: 'Please, Harvey. Name your price.'"
@NicoVarelaSZN
"Can we just fast forward to the Ballon d'Or shortlist?"
@NeutralFanInPain
"Watching Varela dominate like that is beautiful… until you realise your team still hasn't replaced its midfield since 2015."
Even Fabrizio Romano couldn't help himself.
@FabrizioRomano
"15-year-old Nico Varela with 1 goal and 2 assists today. Top European clubs are watching closely. The interest will only grow. Remember the name."
And in a quiet corner of the changing room, Nico sat quietly, a towel over his neck, not saying much as his teammates buzzed around him.
The noise was outside.
Inside?
He was already thinking about the next one.
The Brentford team bus hummed gently beneath Nico's feet as it rolled through the dusky stretch of southern motorway, winding its way back to London. A soft playlist mumbled through the overhead speakers — some low-tempo rap, probably from someone's phone connected to Bluetooth. Most of the boys were dozing or chatting quietly, the high of the 5–0 win still lingering in the air like static.
Nico sat near the middle, hoodie up, forehead resting against the cool glass of the window. Outside, the world blurred into streaks of grey and orange.
His body ached, but it was the good kind of ache — the one that told him every pass, tackle, and dribble had counted for something. A small smile tugged at his lips.
Then, with a soft flicker only he could see, the system returned.
MATCH COMPLETE
Performance assessed.
New Playstyle Unlocked: Aerial
Nico blinked. Aerial?
He sat up a bit straighter and opened the notification fully.
"You've shown increased spatial timing and leaping ability. Aerial duels now more favourable. Use with positional awareness for full effect."
He frowned slightly. It wasn't the most glamorous unlock. No flashy flair badge or legendary pass trait. No sparkly "game-changer" label. Just… aerial.
"Jumping," he muttered under his breath. "Sick."
Sure, it made sense. He was tall for his age — already 6'1" — and timing had always been part of his game. But leaping? Winning headers? That wasn't exactly what got fans chanting.
He leaned back, eyes flicking up toward the ceiling of the bus, thinking it over. A few extra headers won. Some key interceptions maybe. Dominance in midfield wasn't always about nutmegs and trivela passes.
Alright, he thought. Maybe it's not the flashiest. But I'll take what I can get.
He grinned faintly, closing the system window. Outside, the lights of London began to appear on the horizon — home again, but different every time. He pulled his hood down and sat up, quietly rehearsing the backheel assist in his head one more time.
Tomorrow, the headlines would still be buzzing.
But right now?
He just wanted to sleep.
The corridor was quiet when Nico returned to his dorm.
He unlocked the door with one hand, boot bag slung over the other shoulder. The handle clicked, and he stepped inside, shutting it softly behind him.
The room was cold, untouched since the morning. His bed, still unmade. A hoodie he hadn't worn in days hanging limply on the back of a chair. He tossed the bag into the corner, peeled off his Brentford zip-top, and dropped onto the edge of the mattress.
The silence hit all at once.
He rubbed his hands down his face.
5–0.
Southampton never stood a chance. From the first whistle, Brentford were sharper, quicker, more ruthless. Nico had played as if the match belonged to him — because, in truth, it had. He dictated the tempo. Slipped between lines. Scored one. Set up two. And each time the ball left his boot, the game bent to his rhythm.
But now, alone in the stillness, it all felt distant. As if someone else had lived that match, and he was only left with the ghost of it — the afterglow of adrenaline and pride.
He lay back, head hitting the pillow, body finally starting to wind down.
His phone buzzed.
Then buzzed again.
He turned over and picked it up.
Jayden:
U home??
Cristiano:
Man just text when you're back safe, innit. Don't go dying on us after putting on a masterclass.
Nico smirked and dropped a reply.
Nico:
Yeah I'm back. Just tired as hell.
The typing bubbles appeared almost immediately.
Cristiano:
Rest? Nah bro. We need to talk about that game.
You backheeled an assist.
You made the 5th goal look like futsal.
Jayden:
Still can't believe it. That pass to Wissa? And the goal??? I thought I was watching a Brazil highlight comp.
Cristiano:
You're actually moving different. This ain't even football anymore. It's art.
Nico's lips curled. These were his people. The ones who watched not because they wanted something from him — but because they'd known him long before any of this.
He texted back.
Nico:
It's just football, bro.
Cristiano:
Stop being humble. You're going to Europe at this rate.
Jayden:
Gonna tell my kids I used to kick ball with that varela guy.
Nico shook his head, laughing quietly to himself. He stretched his legs out on the bed, the muscles tight but satisfied.
The glow of the screen dimmed in his hands. His eyes flicked around the room.
From dorm to stadium. From dreams to reality. The shift had been fast — but it was happening.
…
The light in Nico's dorm room was soft and grey, filtering through the curtains with a quiet stillness. The air was still heavy with the calm after the Southampton game. His limbs ached in that familiar, post-match way, and he wasn't in a rush to move. Just five more minutes, he thought, tugging the covers over his face.
But then his phone buzzed.
Once. Twice. Then a series of chimes in rapid succession.
He groaned and blindly reached for it, eyes barely open as the lock screen flooded with notifications: Instagram tags, Twitter mentions, reposts, WhatsApp pings from group chats exploding with laughing emojis and fire reactions.
He unlocked the screen.
It was Instagram that caught his eye first. His most recent post — a still from training — him mid-rainbow flick, the ball just cresting over Jensen's head. The caption had been casual:
"Just a bit of fun."
The likes were already through the roof, but it was the top comment that made Nico sit bolt upright in bed.
@neymarjr:
"Garoto… esse é o futuro."
("Kid… this is the future.")
The comment had nearly half a million likes on it already. And it had only been thirty minutes.
Nico blinked, rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. His thumb hesitated, then tapped to view the rest of the comments — journalists, influencers, former players — all flooding in, all echoing the same thing: this kid is different.
He flipped over to Twitter, still half in disbelief.
The top post on his timeline was a retweet.
@Pirlo_official:
"This pass from @nicovarela06…"
The clip was from the Southampton match. Nico threading a pass between four defenders like it had been drawn in chalk before the game. It had that signature Pirlo energy: effortless, exact, poetic.
He stared at the screen, not even sure what to feel. His name was trending in four different countries.
Then his phone rang. Harvey.
Nico answered without thinking.
"Yo."
"Morning," came the crisp, smooth voice on the other end. "You seen your socials yet?"
Nico huffed a half-laugh, leaning back against the headboard.
"Yeah… Neymar and Pirlo? Is this real life or am I dreaming?"
"You're not dreaming," Harvey said, calm but firm. "This is what happens when you cook like that. But I'm calling for more than congratulations."
Nico could tell from his tone this wasn't just small talk.
Harvey continued, "Brazil and Italy aren't just admiring anymore. They're activating. This is how it starts — a repost here, a comment there. Next thing you know, you're the face of a national team ad campaign before you've even worn the shirt."
Nico didn't respond right away. His heart beat a little faster now.
Harvey filled the silence. "You think Neymar just randomly stumbled across your post? Come on. They know exactly what they're doing. So do Italy. This Pirlo repost? Coordinated."
"Coordinated?" Nico repeated, blinking.
"They're staking a claim. Making it public. They want people to associate your name with their nation — even before you do. Spain and Morocco are playing it quiet, but they're watching. All of them are. Hell, if this keeps going, England will have no choice but to fast-track you."
Nico rubbed the back of his neck. He'd known this was coming. He just didn't expect it to feel like this.
"So…" he said slowly. "What do I do?"
There was a pause on the line.
Then Harvey's voice, lower and more serious now.
"You need to start thinking about who you want to represent. Not casually. Not someday. Now."
Nico shifted upright. His gaze fell on the Pirlo repost again.
Harvey pressed on. "It's not just about which shirt looks cooler. You have to ask yourself — where do you see your story fitting best? Whose football philosophy matches yours? Whose future can you shape — and who can shape yours in return?"
Nico was silent, staring out the window now.
Harvey continued. "You wait too long, and it turns into noise. Pressure. People accusing you of disloyalty. Of indecision. Some of these countries already think you're theirs. If you pick the 'wrong' one — in their eyes — you'll lose support, lose goodwill. Maybe even worse."
"I get it," Nico said finally, voice quiet.
"I don't want to scare you," Harvey added, softening. "But this kind of attention? It's a gift and a curse. The world loves to crown kings — but they love tearing them down even more if they feel snubbed."
Nico glanced back at his phone. The Neymar comment. The Pirlo repost. The comment sections underneath them — overflowing with flags, chants, declarations.
He took a breath.
"I'm not ready to choose yet."
"You don't have to make it public," Harvey said. "Not yet. But you need to know. For yourself. Because soon… the world's going to ask."
They sat in silence for a moment. The only sound was the faint hum of traffic outside Nico's dorm window and the notification chimes that still hadn't stopped.
"I'll think about it," Nico said at last.
Harvey's tone softened. "Good. That's all I'm asking."
They hung up.
Nico sat there for a while, letting the weight of the call settle in. He set his phone down on the nightstand, finally, and leaned back again. Staring at the ceiling.
Above him, the sky was grey and clouded — but it didn't feel heavy. It felt… real.
He closed his eyes.
His mind was racing.
With flags. With futures.
With choice.
And the entire world waiting for his answer.
——
Alright now the country selection will be done soon:
English or Spanish. Not happening. So vote for who you want nico to represent:
Italy.
Morocco.
Brazil.