The week at camp had passed in a blur of sharp boots on wet grass, scattered laughter between drills, and long evenings where the tension of competition buzzed under the surface of every joke. St. George's Park, as pristine and professional as it looked from the outside, had been transformed into something louder — messier. The halls echoed with group banter, the occasional thud of a ball against a bedroom wall, and the constant switching between focus and frenzy.
With so many boys packed into one facility, personalities bounced off the walls like pinballs. There were the shy ones who kept their heads down, the ones who talked too loud during meals, and the ones — like Nico — who sat somewhere in the middle: not seeking attention, but unable to avoid it.
Now, the noise had finally settled for the night. Outside, the sky was a dark canvas dusted with stars. Inside Room 212, the light from a small bedside lamp cast long shadows across the carpet. Nico sat at the edge of his bed, tying the laces on his sliders, not because he needed to — just out of habit. Opposite him, Jobe Bellingham leaned back against the headboard, one knee bent, scrolling aimlessly through his phone.
"You ready for the match tomorrow?" Jobe asked, not looking up.
Nico raised his head slightly, a grin tugging at one corner of his mouth. "Born ready, bro."
Jobe glanced over, smirking. "Anyone ever told you you've got an ego?"
Nico shrugged. "Many times. Not enough to stop me, though."
Jobe chuckled. "Can't believe I'm actually starting."
"Don't act surprised," Nico said, standing and stretching his arms behind his back. "You're solid. You've been putting in work."
Jobe tilted his head, giving him a mock squint. "Means a lot coming from the next De Bruyne."
Nico shot him a look. "Relax, I've only been compared to him once."
Jobe laughed. "You said that like it's not already tattooed on your ego."
Before Nico could reply, Jobe's phone buzzed loudly on the duvet. Incoming FaceTime. He tapped to answer, and Jude Bellingham's face filled the screen, framed by the dim yellow light of what looked like a hotel room.
"Yo," Jude said. "What's good?"
Jobe leaned back and put him on speaker. "Nothing. Just chilling. Trying not to let my roommate stink up the place."
Jude raised an eyebrow. "Who'd they stick you with this time?"
Jobe turned the camera and pointed it at Nico, who raised a hand in a calm, almost too-casual wave.
"Nico Varela," he said.
Jude's face lit up. "No way. The Nico Varela? Heard a lot about you."
"All good things, I hope," Nico said, smiling.
"Is there anything bad to say about you?" Jude grinned. "Man's already causing headlines back home."
"Don't give him a big head," Jobe said, rolling his eyes. "His ego's nearly worse than yours."
"Impossible," Jude said with a laugh. "You keeping this guy humble, Nico?"
Nico grinned. "Trying my best."
There was a short pause before Jude leaned in a little closer to the screen. "You ever been to Dortmund?"
Nico shook his head. "Nah. Never been."
"You'd love it," Jude said. "Great city, mad about football. If you're ever free, you and Jobe should come out for a few days. Training, food, stadium tour — proper stuff."
Nico nodded slowly. "Sounds decent."
"Well, I gotta bounce. Got physio early. Good luck in the match tomorrow, lads. Show 'em why they should be scared of the number on your backs."
"Appreciate it, bro," Jobe said.
"Later."
The screen went black. Jobe tossed his phone down beside him and let out a deep breath.
"Could he be any more obvious?" he said with a crooked smile.
Nico raised an eyebrow, amusement in his voice. "That he's trying to recruit me?"
"Yeah. Man gave you the Dortmund pitch smoother than an agent."
Nico sat down again, thoughtful now, eyes lingering on the floor.
"Honestly?" he said. "Doesn't sound half bad."
Jobe just laughed and reached for the remote. "Don't let him turn your head too early. You've still got France to deal with first."
Nico didn't answer right away.
But his mind was already shifting back to the pitch.
Back to tomorrow.
Back to the ball at his feet — and everything that might come next.
…
Villa Park, usually buzzing with chants and thunderous applause, sat in an eerie stillness beneath the late morning sky. The iconic claret seats stretched wide and empty, interrupted only by the occasional flicker of movement — staff, security, and scattered figures in long coats and tracksuits. It wasn't a public event. No ticket sales, no packed terraces. Just a closed-door friendly.
But important eyes were watching.
A few rows above the dugouts, senior England internationals sat back in the shadows, hoodies up, nodding to familiar faces. Some had played on this pitch in front of forty thousand — now they were here to observe. Further up, tucked behind tinted glass in the directors' box, FA executives, national scouts, and even a few club representatives watched in silence, clipboards in hand, phones resting on their laps.
The pitch looked immaculate. The grass was cut short and striped like a chessboard. Sprinklers had done their job an hour earlier, and now the surface glistened under the pale Midlands sun. It was quiet enough to hear studs clicking against concrete in the tunnel, where both teams were lining up.
The England U18 squad wore their all-white strip, shirts tucked in, shoulders squared. Nico stood near the back of the line, calm, eyes steady, hands on his hips. Just ahead of him, Jobe bounced slightly on his toes, his usual nervous habit. Nico said nothing — just listened. To the pitch. To the silence. To the game already beginning in his head.
Across from them, France's U18s looked sharp. Navy kits, gold trim. Names like Zaire-Emery, Tel, and Housni didn't just carry weight — they carried pedigree. Many of them had already flirted with top-flight football. Some had played Champions League minutes. This was no soft youth game. This was a quiet battleground, set for ninety minutes of tension and talent.
A few BBC cameras zoomed in from high up in the West Stand. No commentary booth, no match-day music — just a mic'd-up pitch, ready to capture every shout, tackle, and touch.
On the sideline, Coach Pendlebury stood with arms folded, jaw clenched. He wasn't barking instructions yet. Just watching.
This wasn't about hype. This wasn't about the crowd.
This was about who could perform when the only people watching were the ones who really mattered.
And in the centre of it all, Nico Varela bounced gently on the balls of his feet as the whistle moved to the referee's lips.
The whistle blew.
Nico's first touch was calm, clipped sideways to Jobe before drifting into space. England moved cautiously at first, feeling France out with short passes and delayed runs. But within minutes, the difference in sharpness was obvious.
France pressed high — tight, aggressive, intelligent.
England stumbled.
Despite it all, Nico looked different. In possession, he was fluid, shifting the ball between his feet like it was part of him. When France collapsed on his teammates, he dropped deeper to offer support. When no one else moved, he made the run. In the sixth minute, he twisted away from two men, rolled a disguised pass into the box that curled between defenders and landed perfectly at the feet of England's No. 9 — only for the shot to scuff wide into the advertising board.
He didn't say anything. Just reset. Again.
A few minutes later, Nico intercepted a loose pass in midfield, danced past a lunging challenge, and pinged a diagonal to Samuel, the right winger for the day, who'd drifted wide. But the winger checked his run too late. Out of play.
It continued like that.
Nico pressed. Won duels. Picked passes. Covered gaps that weren't his to cover. But the rest of the squad looked overwhelmed — physically second-best and mentally half a beat behind. Jobe looked composed, but isolated. The centre-backs were rattled by France's movement. The wide players struggled to connect. It felt disjointed. Muffled. Static.
Meanwhile, France were growing.
In the 38th minute, Ethan Nwaneri attempted to break forward through the middle, but Zaire-Emery stepped across and bodied him to the ground with brutal ease. No foul. The French midfielder didn't even look down — he simply took the ball and played a sharp forward pass between the lines.
Housni picked it up on the turn, and the air changed.
He drove at the England back line like he had no intention of stopping. The defenders backed off, waiting for help that didn't come. Nico tracked back fast, sprinting to cover, but Housni cut inside before he could close the angle and let fly with a low, curling shot toward the far corner.
The net rippled. Clean. Ruthless.
1–0.
Villa Park was silent — save for a few claps from the upper tier.
The England players looked stunned. Not just at the goal, but how easily it had come. They trudged back to the centre circle with eyes down. Nico took a breath, bent slightly at the waist, hands on his thighs. His chest rose and fell slowly. Controlled.
But behind his eyes, something was starting to burn.
Halftime came five minutes later. France jogged off, relaxed, focused. England walked.
In the dressing room, you could hear studs on tile and the zip of a water bottle.
And Nico? He just sat down quietly, legs stretched out, staring at the floor in front of him.
He'd done everything he could.
But right now?
It wasn't enough.
…
Pendlebury stood just off the edge of his technical area, arms crossed, jaw set. The breeze rolled gently across the Villa Park pitch, but nothing could cool the frustration simmering beneath his collar.
He'd seen it coming. From the opening whistle, England had looked hesitant. Flat-footed. A step too slow in every phase. He'd watched with quiet disbelief as his side — drilled for a week straight — unravelled within minutes under the lights of real pressure.
Now the second half was underway, and… nothing had changed.
His halftime talk — sharp, urgent, direct — had landed with the weight of feathers. He had looked each of them in the eye, told them they were lucky to only be down by one. Told them to match France's intensity. Told them to stop relying on a single man to drag them through a match.
And yet, here they were.
Still passive. Still disjointed. Still second best.
Next to him, one of the assistant coaches let out a sharp exhale, voice low.
"It's a one-man team out there."
Pendlebury didn't respond. He didn't need to look to know who the assistant meant.
Out on the pitch, Nico Varela was everywhere. Breaking lines. Closing down space. Demanding the ball. Playing passes that the others didn't even anticipate. And defending, too — chasing back to cover mistakes that weren't his.
A blur of white in a sea of navy shirts.
The assistant continued, his voice edged with reluctant admiration.
"If it weren't for him, it'd be at least 3–0 by now."
And then — almost cruelly on cue — it happened.
France launched forward down the left flank with speed and precision. Their winger darted past England's fullback like he wasn't there. A clean one-two, a burst to the byline, and a low, deadly cross curled into the heart of the penalty area.
Pendlebury's eyes snapped to the centre of the box.
Mathys Tel was already there.
Powerful, poised, and unmarked.
He met the ball with a thunderous header — snapping his neck forward, timing it perfectly.
The sound of leather against net echoed through the hollow stands.
2–0.
Pendlebury didn't move. Just blinked once, slow and deliberate.
His team had been warned. He had told them. And still, they allowed the same story to play out again.
But as he glanced out to the midfield, he saw Nico — already collecting the ball from the net, placing it down, speaking to players, pointing, rallying.
A fifteen-year-old.
The only one who looked like he believed they could still do something about it.
And Pendlebury, for all his frustration, couldn't help but feel something shift in his chest.
Pride.
And something dangerously close to guilt.
…
The ball nestled into the England net for the second time, and for a moment, the stadium was still.
Nico didn't wait for the sighs or the shrugs or the glances of defeat. He jogged straight into the goal, scooped the ball from the net, and sprinted it back to the centre circle, ignoring the heaviness in his legs and the hollowness on his teammates' faces.
He didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
His body language screamed one thing: enough.
As the game restarted, he pointed, barked commands, and clapped with a sharpness that shook a few of his teammates out of their stupor. When the ball came to him, he demanded it like it belonged to him — because right now, it did.
Every second touch in the match seemed to land at his feet.
He dropped deeper to collect from the centre-backs, turned out of pressure without a glance. Drove forward with his chest high, shoulders wide, hips rolling over the ball like he was composing music with every step.
He sprayed one pass wide, immediately ran into the pocket to receive the return. Then played a disguised reverse pass into the channel that cut three defenders out of the picture entirely — only for the winger to mistime his run.
He clenched his jaw. No complaints. Just reset.
The rhythm of the match bent around him now.
He was the drumbeat.
France noticed. Zaire-Emery shifted tighter. Their shape pinched inward when he received the ball. Tel even dropped deeper to track passing lanes.
Didn't matter.
They closed, but couldn't catch him.
Every time they thought they had him boxed in, he'd slide away with a feint, a shoulder drop, a glide across the turf like gravity didn't quite work the same for him.
He began drifting everywhere. Left wing, right half-space, centre circle. Pulling markers. Breaking lines. Drawing fouls.
In the 63rd minute, he picked the ball up on the half-turn just outside his own box, shimmied away from two French midfielders, and drove forward like a man possessed. The pitch opened like parted seas. He dropped a shoulder, sent a third player sprawling, then curved a low ball between centre-back and fullback — threaded with surgical precision — that left the striker one-on-one.
Offside.
Nico closed his eyes briefly. Took a breath.
He wouldn't let that be the story.
Another minute. Another tackle. He recovered possession with a slide that shook the ground, popped to his feet, and launched a counterattack with a 40-yard switch.
He wasn't just playing well.
He was dominating.
On the sidelines, even the French coaching staff stood now. Pendlebury didn't speak. Didn't shift. Just watched in silence — knowing that what he was witnessing wasn't just talent.
It was will.
Pure, undeniable will.
Nico Varela was not going to let this game go quietly.
Not while he was still on the pitch.
And then it came.
The culmination of his control, his pressure, his refusal to be denied.
England were finally connecting — barely, shakily, but enough. A short sequence down the right flank opened a seam in the French midfield. Jobe slipped a clever pass into the half-space, and Nwaneri, under pressure, poked the ball back toward the edge of the box.
Nico was already there.
He didn't hesitate.
One touch to set. One to strike.
He laced it cleanly with his right foot — low, fast, venomous — skimming over the turf like it had a purpose. The French keeper barely reacted. The ball punched into the bottom left corner of the net, kissed the backboard, and settled.
2–1.
He didn't celebrate. No arms outstretched. No roar.
He just turned, jogged back toward the halfway line, face focused, eyes burning with intent.
Let the others shout if they wanted.
He was already thinking about the next one.
Behind him, Pendlebury finally allowed himself a breath.
And somewhere high in the stands, a scout scribbled three words beside the name Nico Varela:
Takes control. Finishes it.
…
As the French players trudged back into formation, momentarily rattled by the goal, Nico turned away from the centre circle and jogged toward the right touchline.
Tyler Dibling stood there, adjusting his shin pads. Fresh off the bench, still getting a feel for the rhythm. He'd come on to replace Samuel Amo-Ameyaw, but hadn't yet touched the ball. His eyes flicked up as Nico approached.
Nico didn't say much. Just rested an arm around his shoulders, like they were two teammates on a training pitch.
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"Hey, Tyler. You notice how they've been trying to play us offside every time we go early?"
Dibling nodded slowly.
"Right," Nico continued. "So next time I'm on the ball, and I look up and give you the nod — just check your run. Stay level. Don't go too early. I'll thread it past their full-back and centre-back with backspin. All you need to do is time it and get on the end of it. That's your job. Got it?"
Tyler blinked, swallowed.
"Y-yeah. Got it."
"Good," Nico said simply. Then turned and jogged away.
The whistle blew again. France kicked off. The game resumed.
Twelve minutes passed.
Nico stayed patient — orchestrating the middle of the pitch with the same cold composure, probing, pulling, recycling possession, waiting for the moment.
It came in the 77th minute.
France pressed high again, full-back pushing up too far. Jobe collected the ball off a throw-in and dropped it to Nico under pressure. Nico took one touch, scanned, then made eye contact with Tyler.
The nod.
Dibling checked his run perfectly.
Nico opened his body and clipped a perfectly weighted pass with the outside of his right foot. It curled delicately through the gap between the left centre-back and full-back, skipping once on the slick grass.
Tyler was gone.
He burst into the channel, took the ball in stride, and with the goalkeeper charging out, calmly side-footed it low into the far corner.
2–2.
From the bench, England players jumped to their feet.
On the touchline, Pendlebury didn't move. He just exhaled through his nose, eyes fixed on Nico.
Tyler had barely processed the ball hitting the net when he turned, wide-eyed, and sprinted toward the corner flag. His hands were raised, a disbelieving grin plastered across his face. He had done it — but more than that, the plan had worked exactly as Nico said it would.
Before he could even speak, Nico was already there — sprinting toward him, arms wide.
They collided in a chest bump near the flag, Tyler stumbling back slightly from the force of it. Nico caught him by the shoulders and pulled him into a quick embrace.
"That's how you do it, bro!" Nico shouted, voice cutting through the quiet stands.
Tyler laughed, still breathing heavily, head shaking. "You actually called that… like word for word."
"I told you," Nico said with a smirk, gripping the back of his neck. "Just trust me, I'll find you."
Tyler nodded, still trying to catch his breath.
The rest of the England boys jogged over to join them, and for the first time all game, the squad felt like a unit. Even those who had been struggling in the first half were feeding off the energy now — the belief Nico had willed into the match.
…
The match had reached its boiling point.
With the score tied at 2–2 and less than five minutes to play, England pressed forward with urgency but not panic. France sat deeper now, visibly rattled by how the game had swung.
The ball zipped across the edge of the box like it was dancing, flicked between Nico, Jobe, and Ethan with sharp touches and one-twos. Every pass pulled a French defender an inch out of position. The air around Villa Park held its breath.
Then it happened.
Nico received a pass on the half-turn just outside the D, scanned the space with a glance, and spotted Jayden Danns peeling away between the centre-backs. In a flash, he lifted the ball — a delicate, teasing chip that floated just over the defensive line, like a magician tossing his final card.
It dropped perfectly into Danns' path.
But just as he planted his foot to strike it cleanly, his balance betrayed him. A slight stumble, maybe a tug, maybe nerves — whatever it was, it was enough. He toe-poked the ball straight into the keeper's arms.
Gasps. Groans.
No time to dwell.
France's goalkeeper reacted instantly, punting the ball long, high and flat into space.
Wilson Odobert was already in motion.
He brought it down in stride and surged into the final third, skipping past one challenge, then another. England's retreat was chaotic — defenders scrambling, midfielders gasping for air.
He entered the box.
Cut inside.
And just as he opened his body to shoot — swept.
A leg caught his ankle. He went down.
The whistle was sharp. The stadium fell into stunned silence.
The referee pointed to the spot.
Nico stood still, hands on his hips, jaw tight. His head turned slowly toward the penalty spot where Désiré Doué, who had come on for Housni, now placed the ball.
Doué didn't hesitate.
One step. Low and clinical.
3–2.
France erupted. Their bench cheered, fists raised. Odobert collapsed to his knees, exhausted and victorious.
Nico turned and walked slowly toward the centre circle. His eyes were blank, focused not on the loss, but on the thin line between what had just happened — and what almost had.
Jayden Danns crouched near the goal, fists pressed to his forehead.
No one blamed him.
But Nico didn't need to say it.
The game was his to win.
And somehow, it had slipped.
The fourth official's board lit up: +2 minutes.
France had dropped into a low block, time-wasting tactics creeping into every throw-in, every restart. The energy had shifted — their bench was on its feet, already tasting victory. England, meanwhile, were chasing shadows, backs against the wall after what felt like a gut-punch penalty.
But Nico Varela hadn't stopped.
He didn't move like the game was lost. He moved like there was still something left to take.
And in the final minute, a lifeline appeared.
Ethan Nwaneri, darting through midfield, was clipped as he turned toward goal. The tackle wasn't malicious, but it was late. He spun to the floor, skidding a few feet across the wet grass.
The whistle blew.
A free kick.
25 yards out, dead centre.
Nwaneri sat up, rubbing his shin. Nico was already jogging over, motioning everyone else away. There was no debate. No discussion.
It was always going to be him.
He placed the ball down with clinical precision, adjusting it with the sole of his boot, then stepped back. Villa Park, as quiet as it had been all day, seemed to fall into a kind of stillness — not silence, but anticipation. Even the coaches stopped shouting.
On the sideline, Pendlebury watched without blinking.
Nico's chest rose. Fell.
Then he stepped up.
A short run. Balanced. Measured.
His foot met the ball with the cleanest strike of the match — not power, but precision, whip, intent. It curled viciously over the wall, dipping hard just as it reached the top right corner.
The French keeper stretched.
Didn't get close.
The net bulged.
3–3.
For a moment, time fractured.
Nico stood still, arms slowly lifting as the weight of the moment hit him like a wave.
Then the sound returned — the England bench exploding in disbelief, boots hammering against the dugout wall, players screaming, running toward him like he'd just won them the final of a tournament they weren't even in.
Jobe was the first to reach him, grabbing his head with both hands.
"You're not real!" he shouted, laughing, stunned.
Nico just smiled. Calm. Not smug — just deeply, deeply satisfied.
He had refused to lose.
The final whistle blew seconds later.
The scoreboard read 3–3, but everyone who had watched — coaches, scouts, teammates, and even the French — knew exactly what the real story was:
Nico Varela had taken a fractured, faltering performance…
And turned it into a declaration.
——-
Couple questions,
Hows the book so far?
What team would you like to see nico at?
(I already have his first destination planned)
Do some of the matches include too much unnecessary detail?
(Maybe the man u game but its hard to capture influence over a game without including most details)
Anyways, enjoy this chapter.