It was break time, and the school playground was loud as ever — all half-eaten sausage rolls, dodgeball flying too close to Year 7s, and people pretending to not be watching Nico juggle a ball effortlessly near the benches.
He wasn't even trying. Just soft touches with the laces, letting it rise and fall like the ball was made of nothing.
Cristiano was standing nearby, hands in his blazer pockets, eyeing Nico like he was seeing a hologram. Jayden leaned against the fence, arms crossed, mouth half open.
"Wait, what — so the Brentford manager wants to speak to you?" Jayden said, squinting.
"Yeah," Nico replied, like he was saying he'd just got asked to read in assembly.
Cristiano spun toward him. "No way. We're gonna see Nico in the Prem before I even pass a biology test."
"Chill out," Nico laughed. "He probably just wants to talk."
"Talk?" Jayden raised an eyebrow. "About what? That little masterclass against Palace yesterday?"
Nico shrugged, sheepish. "Yh… probably."
Cristiano snorted. "What's there to talk about? Bro, Twitter's already done the talking. You're viral again. That's what, the third time now?"
Nico caught the ball mid-air with the top of his foot, balanced it, then let it drop. "I don't even check anymore."
"Don't even check," Cristiano mimicked in a posh voice, fake accent on. "Look at this guy. Big man now."
Jayden smiled, then turned serious. "Maybe he wants to invite you to train with the first team."
Nico glanced over. "Nah, man. No way."
"Why not?" Jayden shot back. "Every club has them youngers that train with the older team. You know, like that Ethan Nwaneri kid?"
Cristiano clicked his fingers. "Oh yeah! The one from Arsenal! Man made his Prem debut at fifteen."
"Didn't he play against Brentford?" Nico asked, tilting his head.
"Yh. Apparently he had coursework due the next day as well," Jayden added.
Cristiano burst out laughing. "Imagine dropping a shoulder on grown men at 3PM and then submitting geography at midnight."
"Well," Nico said, kicking the ball back up into the air and trapping it dead on his thigh, "I'm not skipping the U23s and playing straight with the first team. That'd be mad."
Jayden tilted his head. "Why not? You've basically completed this age group already."
"I haven't completed anything," Nico said, trying to sound normal, but the truth was buzzing behind his teeth.
Cristiano stepped in front of him. "Bro, you don't even know how good you are at football."
Nico laughed. "I know."
"No," Cristiano said, real serious now. "Like… actually. You're not just cold. You're levels. What you did yesterday? That wasn't normal. That was some Xavi meets Dembele type midfield takeover. I've never seen a youth game where one guy ran it like that."
Jayden nodded. "People in the crowd were talking. Like grown men. Talking like, 'who's that?' and taking out their phones."
Nico went quiet. Not from pressure — just from not knowing how to explain it. How it felt out there. Like the game slowed down around him. Like he could see everything before it happened.
"I dunno," he said finally. "I just locked in. You know when the game's calm, and everything moves the way you want it to?"
Cristiano made a face. "Yeah, I don't know that feeling, bro. I panic after two touches."
Jayden laughed. "You panic tying your laces."
Cristiano pointed. "It's muscle memory. I don't need knots, I need flair."
Nico smiled, but the thought of Thomas Frank still hovered somewhere in the back of his mind. Brentford's actual first-team manager wanting to talk? It didn't feel real. Not yet.
But he'd know soon enough.
Jayden suddenly nudged Nico with his elbow. "Oi… look. Those sixth form girls keep looking over here."
Cristiano's spine straightened like a soldier called to attention. "Where? Who?"
Jayden tilted his head subtly. "By the benches. Amber, Jess, all them."
"Jess your sister?" Cristiano questioned excitedly.
"Nah, Jess my granny." Jayden replied sarcastically.
Cristiano smoothed down his collar like he was prepping for a red carpet. "Swear?"
Nico laughed under his breath. "You're so obvious, bro."
"No, but like—wait." Cristiano paused. "Are they—bruv. They're actually walking over here."
Nico squinted. "Looks like it."
"Oh shit, they are," Cristiano muttered, reaching into his blazer pocket in panic. He pulled out a tiny black bottle of cologne and gave himself two quick sprays on the neck and one in the air like a halo.
"You're actually insane," Jayden whispered, covering a smirk.
The girls approached — confident, casual, chatting between themselves like they hadn't just crossed the entire playground to get here.
Jess stepped forward first, smiling. "Hey guys. So… me and Amber are throwing a joint birthday party on the 14th. Just a little thing, nothing mad."
Cristiano blinked. "Feb 14th?" he said, pretending to think about it for a full half-second. "Yeah, I'd love to come."
Jess laughed, then glanced at Jayden. "Jayden's already coming by default, obviously."
"Unfortunately," Jayden mumbled, crossing his arms.
Then all eyes turned.
Nico was the last one to respond, leaning lightly on the wall, a quiet look in his eyes. "I'll think about it," he said. "Got a game a couple days after."
Amber smiled. "Well… hope to see you there."
The girls turned, laughed about something between themselves, and walked off across the yard, the scent of their perfume trailing behind like they'd just floated off stage.
Cristiano stared after them, still half-frozen.
Jayden looked at him sideways. "Did I sound too excited?" Cristiano asked, rubbing his wrist.
"Like a dog waiting for his treat," Jayden replied.
Nico burst out laughing, nearly dropping the ball from his foot. Cristiano shoved Jayden gently and grinned. "Man said 'treat' like I barked."
"You practically did," Nico said. "I saw the cologne come out before they even opened their mouths."
Cristiano shrugged. "You never know who's filming these days, bro."
…
PE was chaos, as usual.
Half the class was in bibs that looked like they'd been through a washing machine war. The footballs were already flying — one nearly took out the science teacher walking past with a stack of papers. People were shouting "man on!" like it meant anything. Some kid in goal wore Air Forces. PE at St. Luke's was basically organised anarchy.
Nico was on the side, seated on the gym bench near the wall, hoodie on, watching half-interested. He'd been told to sit this one out — "recovery day," they called it. Academy players didn't run around with schoolmates the day after a match, especially not after the shift he'd just put in.
He didn't mind. His body was still humming from yesterday anyway.
As the chaos unfolded in front of him, the screen appeared.
Floating. Silent. Just for him.
That faint blue glow curled at the edges, barely visible unless you were looking for it.
MATCH RECOGNISED: Brentford vs Crystal Palace U18
Performance Rating: 9.6
Highest rating to date.
Nico's eyebrows lifted slightly. That was new.
He'd never cracked 9.5 before. Not even in training sessions where he'd bossed the ball for 30 minutes straight.
Then another message.
You have unlocked a reward.
But this time, it wasn't the usual spinning wheel.
Instead, three glowing boxes materialised in front of him, each marked with a pulsing white question mark.
[?] [?] [?]
Choose one.
No hints. No labels. No logic.
Just instinct.
Nico looked around — no one was watching. Jayden was screaming at someone to pass and Cristiano was trying to meg the same kid over and over.
Nico reached out mentally and selected the box on the left.
It opened with a quiet burst of energy — no loud effects, just a clean shift.
TRAIT UNLOCKED: KANTE DEFENDING (LV.1)
Boost to Interceptions, Positioning, Aggression, Defensive Recovery Speed.
Nico blinked. "Damn."
Even saying it low under his breath felt heavy.
That wasn't just any trait. That was a straight-up game-changer.
Kanté was a ball magnet, a recovery machine, the kind of player who made attackers look confused and midfielders rethink their careers. Adding that to his own game — with the control, the press resistance, the vision?
That was danger.
That was different.
He leaned back against the wall, watching the game carry on — two lads chasing one ball like it owed them money, the rest waiting for someone else to do something.
Meanwhile, Nico's game had just evolved again — and nobody even knew.
…
The next day at training, the pitch was soaked from a morning downpour, but the grass was still crisp, and Brentford's academy drills were already in full swing. Cone grids were laid out like war plans, short-sided games were ticking along on the far side, and the midfielders were going through their usual rhythm work.
Nico had his boots tied a little tighter than usual. He didn't say anything, but he could feel it — something had shifted. Like his legs were reading the game before his brain did. The Kanté trait was subtle, but powerful. His body was moving smarter. His anticipation had teeth.
In the first rondo, he intercepted a pass that hadn't even been played yet.
The guy receiving it was already opening up — Nico had stepped in before the pass left the boot. Clean touch, no overcommit, immediate outlet.
"Oi," one of the lads said. "How'd you see that coming?"
Nico just shrugged, rotated back into position.
Mendez was watching from the sideline. Arms folded. Cap low. Silent.
In the small-sided drill, it was even clearer. Nico pressed in a way that didn't look like effort. He didn't chase — he cut angles. Slid into spaces like he already knew where the ball would bounce. He broke up two plays in a row without laying a single tackle. Just timed it right, took the ball, reset the tempo.
Then, five minutes later, he recovered after a turnover and covered twenty yards like he'd been launched from a slingshot. Shoulder to shoulder, won the duel, kept possession.
Mendez didn't clap. Didn't call it out.
He just turned slightly to one of the other coaches and said quietly, "He wasn't defending like that last week."
The assistant coach nodded slowly. "Snapping onto things early. Like he's wired into it."
Mendez kept watching. "Yeah. Something's clicked."
He made a note on his clipboard.
Nico didn't hear the comment. But he could feel the looks. Not from teammates — from the staff. Those glances that lasted a second longer. The ones that meant someone was noticing.
…
The sun was starting to dip as training wrapped. The final whistle had gone ten minutes ago, but a few of the boys were still scattered across the pitch, doing extras or stretching in pairs. Nico sat on the sideline, retying his boots even though they didn't need it, just slowing his breathing.
He'd felt it all session — the shift.
He wasn't just seeing passes quicker. He was reading everything. Interceptions, cutbacks, half-space switches. His body moved like it already knew the decisions before they happened.
Coach Mendez walked over, arms folded, boots still sunk into the edge of the grass.
"You been hiding that from me?" he said, nodding slightly.
Nico looked up. "What?"
"That defensive edge. You've always read the game well, but today? You were snapping into tackles, closing angles like you were mic'd up."
Nico shrugged, trying to play it cool. "Just trying to stay sharp, coach."
Mendez narrowed his eyes, almost smiling. "Nah. That wasn't sharp. That was elite. You're starting to play like someone who's seen the next level."
Nico didn't reply. He just gave a small nod — but inside, the words settled like heat.
Then Mendez continued, voice dropping.
"And speaking of the next level…" He paused. "Frank's ready for you."
Nico's head lifted. "Thomas Frank?"
Mendez nodded. "Yeah. He's been watching closely. Wants a word."
Nico took a breath — chest rising, exhale slow.
"Relax," Mendez added, reading it. "It's good news. You've earned it."
He clapped Nico once on the shoulder, then turned and walked back toward the coaching huddle.
Nico stood up. The studs of his boots clicked quietly against the walkway as he approached the training centre. The building looked the same as it always did, but suddenly everything felt… heavier. Every framed academy photo on the wall. Every passing staff member.
He reached the office door with the small frosted label:
First Team – Manager
Raised his fist to knock.
But before he could, the door opened.
Christian Nørgaard stepped out — tall, composed, captain aura in full effect. He clocked Nico immediately.
"Ah. You must be Varela."
Nico blinked, caught off guard. "Yeah… that's me."
Nørgaard smiled, stuck out a hand. "Heard about you. Actually, I've seen you. You've caught quite a few eyes, my guy."
Nico shook his hand, trying not to overthink it. "Just playing my football, I guess."
The Brentford skipper laughed, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. "Nah, man. I've seen the clips. That's not just football — you're bullying academy mids out there."
Nico laughed, a little awkward but genuine. "Appreciate that."
Nørgaard nodded once more. "Keep going. I'll be watching. Catch you around."
He walked off, leaving the hallway quiet again — but the weight of what he said hung in the air like an aftershock.
Nico turned back to the office.
Stepped inside.
Thomas Frank stood from behind his desk, smile easy but sharp behind the eyes.
"Ah — Nico," he said warmly. "Just the man I've been wanting to see all week."
The office smelled like coffee and clean paper. No clutter, no chaos — just a calm space with neat shelves, whiteboards, a tactical board on the wall behind the desk, and a quiet hum from the overhead lights. Thomas Frank motioned for Nico to take a seat.
"Water?" he offered.
Nico shook his head. "I'm good, thanks."
Frank sat back down and folded his hands in front of him.
"I've been watching your development over the last few weeks," he began. "Not just highlights. Not just reports. Training footage. Match data. Body language. It's all been very… telling."
Nico didn't respond. He just nodded slightly.
Frank continued, "Your match against Palace was — what's the word — controlled. I don't see many players at your age who can dominate a midfield without needing to score. You dictated rhythm. Broke their shape. Gave your teammates time and space. That's real value. That's hard to teach."
Nico shifted in his seat, trying to stay composed. "Thank you."
"But," Frank added, leaning forward slightly, "I'm not here to tell you you're brilliant. I'm here to tell you that you're being considered for first-team proximity."
Nico blinked. "Wait, what does that mean?"
"It means, over the next two weeks, we're going to bring you in to observe and occasionally train with the first team. Nothing guaranteed. You'll still play with the U18s — but we want to see how you adapt when the level jumps."
Nico exhaled, a slow breath through his nose.
Frank watched him carefully. "I'm not doing this because you're popular on Twitter. Or because fans are excited. I'm doing this because the coaching staff sees a midfielder who has the tools. The awareness. The hunger."
Then, a pause.
"But let me be clear. This is just a door. Not a contract. Not a promise."
Nico nodded. "Understood."
Frank leaned back in his chair, studying him. "You're calm," he said. "That's good. You're going to need that."
There was a quiet beat between them — not tension, but respect.
Then Frank smiled again. "You'll be training with us Thursday morning. Bring the same mentality you brought against Palace."
"I will," Nico said.
"Good." Frank stood, extended his hand.
Nico stood too, shook it firm.
As he turned to leave, Frank added one last thing:
"And Nico — when you walk into that first-team dressing room… don't shrink."
Nico looked back over his shoulder. "I wasn't planning to."
…
The sky was darkening fast, that kind of deep blue that still held some light but promised streetlamps would flicker on any minute. Nico's breath came out warm in the cool air as he pedalled through the streets of West London, hoodie up, his backpack tight against his shoulders, his boots clipped onto the straps. His tyres hissed against the pavement as he weaved through the quieter side roads, muscles calm, rhythm clean.
He liked this part of the day — when everything slowed down. No noise. No drills. No questions. Just him and the road.
Until a car — no, not a car — a Rolls Royce, matte black, purring like a lion in silk — cut into the street ahead of him without indicating.
Nico swerved hard.
Tyres skidded, handlebars shook, and his back wheel lifted just slightly before he jumped off, landing on one foot and stumbling to a stop. His bike clattered sideways onto the concrete. No impact. No hit. Just… close.
Too close.
The Rolls braked immediately. Door opened.
A man stepped out, hands up, mid-forties, suit clean but not flashy, hair slicked back like he belonged in a film, not real life.
"Jeez," the man said, walking fast toward him. "I'm so sorry, kid — I didn't see you. Swear to God."
Nico dusted his hands off, checked his knee — no blood, just adrenaline. "It's alright," he said, voice calm but guarded. "Bike's barely damaged. I can fix it."
The man crouched, eyeing the bent brake lever. "Nah man, that's on me. I'll give you money for a new one."
Nico shook his head. "It's cool, honestly—"
"Wait…" the man paused, squinting. "Are you… Nico Varela?"
Nico blinked. "Yeah. How do you know my name?"
The man smiled, stepped back and stuck out a hand. "Harvey Specter. I'm a football agent. Your name's all I've been hearing these past few weeks."
Nico raised an eyebrow, half-laughing. "Harvey Specter? Like the guy from Suits?"
Harvey grinned. "Yeah, lucky to share the same name as a legend. No pinstripes, though."
Nico chuckled, still a little on edge. He glanced down at his bike again.
"That was your ride home, wasn't it?" Harvey said, hands on hips. "Shit. Sorry about that. Look, I can drive you if you want?"
Nico looked up slowly. Eyes sharp.
"Nah," he said. "I'm good."
Harvey nodded quickly, raising his hands in surrender. "Yeah, yeah — I get it. Stranger in a flash car offering you a lift — sounds like the start of a Netflix doc."
"It's not that deep," Nico said. "My house is like a 20-minute walk."
"Well, I still owe you something." Harvey pulled out his phone. "Let me call you a taxi at least. And here—" he pulled a folded £50 note from his wallet and handed it over "—for the brake or whatever else."
Nico hesitated, then took it. "Appreciate it."
While Harvey dialled the cab company, he glanced over. "You don't have an agent yet, do you?"
Nico smiled slightly. "Trying to sign me after nearly ending my career?"
Harvey froze for half a second before Nico laughed. "Relax, I'm joking. Nah — I don't have one."
Harvey laughed too, a little too relieved. "You know, others'll tell you it's ego talking, but I'm the best closer in this city. I know talent. And I know how to position it."
"You sound like a salesman," Nico said.
"I am," Harvey replied, without missing a beat. "But I close deals that make kids into names. I'd be the perfect agent for you. Think about it."
The taxi pulled up to the curb just then — a dull silver hybrid with hazard lights blinking.
Harvey opened the back and helped lift the bike into the boot with careful hands. He pulled a card from his pocket and passed it to Nico.
"Call that number when you have a chance. I don't chase talent. I just recognise it before everyone else does."
Nico took the card, slid into the back seat, and told the driver his address.
Harvey tapped the roof once. "And hey — sorry again about the near-death thing."
Nico smirked as the car pulled off.
The taxi hummed along the quiet streets, the city dimming behind steamed glass. Nico sat in the back seat, hoodie up, legs stretched slightly, watching raindrops smear sideways across the window. His bike was wedged in the boot. His hand rested in his lap, fingers rolling the corner of Harvey Specter's business card.
Then — without warning — the system appeared.
No glow. No flash. Just a clean, silent screen hovering in the edge of his vision.
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION
EXTERNAL CONTACT LOGGED: HARVEY SPECTER
AFFILIATION: Football Agent
Status: Verified
Performance Rating: Elite-Class Negotiator
Client History: Confidential (Rated Tier 1+)
Nico blinked slowly, eyes fixed on the screen.
Then another line faded in underneath.
Recommendation: HIGH
This agent is among the best you can get.
If opportunity aligns, consider partnership.
That was new.
The system had never recommended anyone before. Never commented on coaches, teammates, or scouts. It had always been about performance. Numbers. Traits. Playstyles.
But this?
This was personal.
Nico sat back, thumb brushing across the edge of the card.
"Harvey Specter," he said under his breath.
The taxi kept rolling.
And the screen faded away — like it had said all it needed to.
…
The three of them were back at their usual spot — corner of the playground near the benches, halfway through lunch. Jayden was peeling the wrapper off his chicken wrap like he was defusing a bomb. Cristiano kept kicking a crushed bottle between his feet like he was waiting for someone to shout "nutmeg." And Nico? He was just standing there, slightly zoned out, one hand in his pocket, the other flipping Harvey Specter's card between his fingers.
"So… man nearly crashes into you with a Rolls," Jayden said, half-smirking, "and then offers to be your agent?"
Cristiano snorted. "That's the most random origin story I've ever heard. Watch this be the start of a Netflix doc — 'Almost Hit by Success: The Nico Varela Story.'"
Nico rolled his eyes. "Nah, he was chill. Said he'd heard my name everywhere and thought I needed representation. Gave me a card. Paid for the taxi. Man's smooth with it."
Jayden raised a brow. "And you just took the card?"
"I mean… what was I supposed to do, call the police?"
Cristiano laughed. "He's gonna show up next week in a private jet like, 'I own PSG now, Nico. Let's get you that number 6 shirt.'"
Suddenly, a voice butted in from just behind them.
"Sorry — did you guys say Harvey Specter?"
They turned. It was Maya, one of the Year 12 girls. Hair in a high ponytail, blazer oversized like it was styled that way, half-eaten apple in her hand.
"Uh… yeah," Nico said cautiously.
She looked at them like they were dense. "As in one of London's most successful businessmen?"
"Huh?" Jayden frowned.
"Not the Suits guy," Maya continued. "There's a real Harvey Specter. He's a corporate lawyer — worked with like, half of Mayfair. Has equity in three start-ups, owns a real estate firm, and now he's apparently moving into football."
Cristiano blinked. "Wait, wait, wait. That Harvey?"
Maya rolled her eyes. "Google his net worth, idiots."
Jayden pulled out his phone, tapping away like he was speedrunning the truth.
Ten seconds later, his eyes widened. "…Bruv."
"What?" Cristiano leaned over.
"Sixty-seven million."
Nico raised both eyebrows, looking down at the card in his hand again.
Maya shook her head, biting into her apple. "And you lot thought he was some random guy with a clean suit and a smooth voice. Honestly."
She walked off, ponytail bouncing, leaving the three of them standing there like they'd just been told Santa was real and doing business in Canary Wharf.
Cristiano turned slowly to Nico.
"Bro… if you don't sign with him, I might."
Jayden still had the phone up. "Sixty. Seven. Million."
Nico just stared at the card.
"…Yeah. I might need to call that number."