Chapter 45 - Arrival on the grandest stage

** Bonus chapter for you guys as we are doing very good in the rankings as usual. I humbly thank you for the overwhelming support and encouragement I received from day 1. It's only been 2 weeks since I started this story, but the data stats are insane and greater than 90% books !! That does put a smile on my face. 😁 Enjoy ! **

As I made my way down the corridor toward the locker room, I could already feel the change in atmosphere. There was a low buzz of voices, laughter mixing with the thud of boots and the rustling of gear bags. A ripple of anticipation moved through the hallway. It was more than just another training session—this was the first tactical meeting ahead of the World Cup. Everyone knew it would set the tone for what was coming.

Inside the locker room, familiar faces had already gathered. Bruno Fernandes leaned against a locker, engaged in a debate with João Cancelo about whose assist stats were better last season. Moutinho was tying his laces nearby, shaking his head and laughing.

"Assist stats? Mate, I've seen you both miss sitters from six yards," Bernardo muttered, earning a snort from Pepe, who was sitting with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable but clearly listening.

Bruno shot back, grinning, "Missed sitters? You're the one who crosses like he's aiming for the corner flag."

João didn't let that slide. "Better than your corners that don't beat the first man."

I chuckled quietly as I passed them, heading for my own locker. There was tension in the air, but it was the kind that sharpens people rather than unravels them. Focused, competitive energy.

Then, as if on cue, the room shifted.

The door opened, and in stepped Cristiano Ronaldo.

The room didn't go silent—this wasn't some cinematic hush—but it did change. Subtle. Everyone straightened up just a bit. Conversations softened. The awareness of his presence was immediate and instinctive. He nodded at a few of us, quiet but commanding.

He didn't need to say anything. Just being there reminded us all: this was serious now.

Cristiano exchanged a few brief words with Pepe and Rui Patricio, then moved toward his locker, where his gear was already laid out with practiced precision. I gave him a nod as he passed. He met my gaze for a moment and nodded back. Just that—acknowledgment, mutual respect.

Ten minutes later, we were called into the conference room.

The space overlooked the training pitches, glass-walled and filled with the late afternoon light. Shadows stretched long across the field outside, and the room itself felt like a war room—clean, focused, every chair facing forward toward the head of the table.

Coach Fernando Santos stood waiting. Dressed sharply, posture straight, arms folded, his presence was serious but never overbearing. He didn't raise his voice or bang the table. He didn't need to.

He waited for us to settle in, then looked slowly around the room, making eye contact with each of us. When his eyes met mine, I felt that familiar weight of expectation, the kind that didn't ask for permission—just results.

"Gentlemen," he began, his voice level, with just the right amount of steel. "This is it. No more trial runs. No more rotations. We're now preparing for the World Cup. And everything we do from this point forward will build toward that."

He clicked a button, and the large screen behind him lit up with a tactical diagram: 4-3-3. Standard, familiar.

"We'll play in a 4-3-3 base," he said. "Attacking formation. But with a variation."

A few heads tilted. No one spoke. Everyone was listening.

"We're going with a dual core strategy," Santos continued. "That means our attack won't revolve around a single focal point. Instead, it will shift depending on match conditions, opponent structure, and—most importantly—how they try to contain us."

He turned toward Ronaldo. "Cristiano, you'll be our primary attacking core. That's no surprise to anyone. Your ability to read space, your movement, your finishing—it's still the best in the world."

Ronaldo gave a small nod, focused.

"But," Santos added, turning to face me now, "we know how teams will plan. They'll man-mark, double up, sit deep. When that happens—and it will happen—we'll shift our emphasis."

He pointed at me.

"Adriano. You become the secondary core. You drop in behind the front line, link up play, create openings, and—when the time's right—take the shot yourself. You've proven in both club and international games that you can deliver under pressure. I want you ready to pivot the momentum when the defense collapses around Cristiano."

A few players turned to look at me, some with interest, a couple with raised eyebrows. Bruno gave me a subtle thumbs-up. Bernardo just smirked.

I felt the weight of what was being said. Not pressure, exactly. Responsibility.

I nodded once. "I'll give it everything I've got, Coach. Always."

Coach Santos gave a slight nod back. Then silence. Everyone waited to see how Ronaldo would react.

There was a pause. Then Ronaldo leaned forward slightly, arms resting on the table.

"I understand," he said, calm and direct. "I'm here to win. If they try to shut me down and we shift through Adriano, that's what we'll do."

He looked straight at me.

"You've got good vision. Just don't try to nutmeg me in training again."

That broke the tension. Laughter spread around the table.

"Come on," I said, smiling, "it worked once."

"Once," Ronaldo replied, grinning now. "You think I forgot?"

Bruno leaned in. "I've got it on video, actually. We should play it before every session. Keep the man humble."

Pepe chimed in from across the room. "Just don't show the part where Cristiano chased him halfway down the pitch afterward."

The laughter got louder. Even Coach Santos allowed a small smile.

"All right," he said, raising a hand to refocus us. "The strategy will require coordination, especially in transition. Adriano, when we're under pressure, you drop deeper to collect. Cristiano, if we win the ball back in the middle third, you push high immediately. Our wingers will rotate depending on which side we're attacking through. João and Nuno, I want overlapping runs, but only when we have clear midfield cover."

He pointed at the board again.

"We're not just relying on talent. We have it—but talent without structure is chaos. This plan depends on trust. Each of you has a role, and none of it works if even one part breaks."

There was a moment of stillness as everyone processed it.

"Questions?" Santos asked.

Bruno raised a hand lazily. "What's the fine for scoring an own goal in training?"

Coach didn't miss a beat. "You get benched and mocked by Pepe for the rest of the week."

"Fair," Bernardo said, already smirking.

"No more questions?" Santos glanced around. "Good. Tomorrow we begin rehearsals. Set-piece variations, dynamic pressing, counter pivots. Adriano, see me after this. The rest of you—training in the morning. Full intensity."

As chairs scraped and the room emptied, Ronaldo caught my shoulder briefly.

"You're ready for this," he said quietly. "But remember—don't just play smart. Play sharp. No room for hesitation when the real thing starts."

I nodded. "Got it."

Coach Santos let the last slide disappear from the screen, then clicked to a fresh diagram—a view of our defensive shape. The 4-3-3 remained intact, but this time the arrows and highlights painted a different story. Red zones marked potential threats, blue ones the safe channels we'd aim to dominate.

He turned from the screen, stepping closer to the table where we all sat.

"Let's talk defense," he said, his tone sharpening. "Our shape is built for aggression. That's the way we'll play. But none of that matters if we don't stay disciplined off the ball. We attack with purpose—but we defend with unity."

He paused, letting that settle.

"The midfield," he continued, tapping the diagram with the end of a pen, "is the engine of our defense. You three in the middle—whether it's Carvalho, Bruno, Moutinho, or Adriano—you will dictate our defensive posture. Not the back line. You."

Bruno leaned back in his chair, arms folded. "So we're the shield?"

Santos nodded. "The shield and the sword, depending on the moment. If our midfield gets bypassed, our back four are dead men."

João Palhinha muttered under his breath, "No pressure then."

"Exactly," said Coach, dryly, catching it. A few chuckles echoed across the room.

"Closing spaces. That's priority one," he went on. "I want tight pressing. Two seconds or less to engage the man with the ball. Don't let them breathe. Force turnovers in their half when possible—if not, delay, regroup, and shut down passing lanes."

He turned to the screen again. A clip played—one of our friendlies from months ago, where we conceded a soft goal on a counter.

"Look at that gap between midfield and defense," Santos said, rewinding the clip. "We lost shape. Midfield didn't track the runner. Simple ball over the top—goal. We can't afford that. Not at this level. Not in Qatar."

He turned back to face us. His eyes were sharp now, intense.

Then he looked at me.

"Adriano."

I straightened up a little in my chair. Everyone turned their heads toward me. Coach's voice lowered slightly—still clear, but more personal.

"I'm placing the heaviest responsibility on you."

I didn't move, but I felt the shift inside me. The room quieted.

"You're not just part of the midfield. You're the connector. The glue," he said. "You'll need to maintain balance. Hold the tempo. Drop when needed. Push when the opportunity's right. You're the pivot between defense and attack—and if you don't deliver, we lose our forward rhythm."

Bruno leaned sideways toward me and whispered, "No pressure, huh?"

I gave a small grin but stayed focused.

Coach wasn't finished.

"Your vision, your positioning, your work rate—they'll determine whether we control the game or chase it. You're our conductor. Understand?"

His eyes stayed locked on mine, not in a challenging way—but with full intent.

I met his gaze. I didn't let myself hesitate.

"Yes, Coach. I understand," I said. "You can count on me. I'll give everything. I want to win as much as you do."

There was a pause. Not a dramatic silence—just that small, heavy space after a commitment has been made.

Coach nodded once, satisfied. "I know you will."

He looked across the rest of the group.

"And I know the rest of you will too. Because if you all give everything—not just when the ball's at your feet, but every second—you'll achieve something great in this World Cup. I believe that."

The weight of his words hung in the air.

Pepe, arms still crossed, broke the silence. "Coach," he said, "just one question."

Santos raised an eyebrow.

Pepe leaned forward slightly, his voice dry. "If Adriano is the conductor… does that make the rest of us background dancers?"

Rui Patricio immediately chimed in. "Speak for yourself. I'm the guy playing drums in the back who saves everyone's ass when the dancers forget their steps."

"More like the triangle," Bernardo Silva added with a smirk. "You hit it once every ten minutes."

The room broke into laughter. Even Coach cracked a small grin.

"Keep joking," Patricio shot back. "When you get chipped from midfield, I'll remember this moment."

"Then chip me," Bernardo said, grinning. "Let's see who celebrates harder."

Bruno tapped the table. "Alright, alright—who's composing this symphony now?"

"Not you," João Cancelo said. "Your free kicks go straight to the moon."

Coach raised a hand to bring it back.

"Enough. Banter ends here. Tomorrow we test everything. I want to see it in motion—the transitions, the pressure triggers, the defensive reactions. You all know what's expected."

The atmosphere settled again. Lighter than before, but still focused.

Coach added, "We're not playing for a paycheck. We're not playing for followers. We're playing for the crest."

He tapped the badge on his chest.

"For Portugal."

That was it.

There was a silence then—not awkward, not forced—but the kind that meant everyone understood. The kind of silence where you don't need to speak because the mission is clear.

Then suddenly—clap. One player started, then another. A wave of applause broke out. Not loud. Not for the tactics. It wasn't about that. It was mutual respect—for the work ahead, for each other, for the belief forming inside that room.

I felt it too.

I looked around and saw it in the eyes of my teammates. Ronaldo wasn't smiling, but he gave me a nod—brief, approving. Bruno reached out and ruffled the back of my head as we stood.

"Conductor, huh?" he said with a grin. "Don't screw it up. I don't want to chase wingers all game because you lost the ball."

"Try not giving it away yourself and I won't have to," I shot back.

"That's fair," he laughed. "But seriously—you're ready. We've seen it. Just keep doing what you do."

Ronaldo, passing by, added under his breath, "Lead well. The tempo starts with you."

That stuck with me.

As we filed out of the room, the sun had dipped lower. The shadows across the training ground outside were long and golden now. The stadium lights flickered on, catching particles of dust in the air like stars.

Next week, the real work would begin.

***

After the meeting room emptied, we made our way into the players' lounge—a wide, open space filled with oversized couches, soft lighting, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee and toasted pastries. A big TV on the wall was playing highlights from past World Cups on mute, and the far corner had a foosball table already drawing a crowd.

The shift in energy was immediate. The intensity of tactics, formations, and pressure lifted, replaced by the kind of relaxed camaraderie that only comes when you're off the clock but still surrounded by the people who live in the same fire as you.

I dropped onto a leather couch near the window, nursing a strong cup of Portuguese espresso. A few seconds later, Cristiano Ronaldo sat down beside me, coffee in hand, his posture loose, one leg crossed casually over the other.

He took a slow sip, then looked over with that familiar mix of confidence and ease. "You know," he said, "you've got something rare, Adriano."

I raised an eyebrow, not quite sure where he was going.

"In midfield. The way you read the game. You don't chase the play—you shape it," he added, tapping his index finger against his temple. "And your timing… it's smart. Not just instinct—controlled."

Coming from him, that meant something. I set my cup down and nodded, trying to stay cool. "Appreciate that. I've been watching your runs since I was a kid. Still am, honestly. If I can get in sync with you—predict where you'll be, slip those passes into the gaps before defenders react—I think we could cause real damage."

Cristiano grinned, setting his cup down too. "We will. They'll double-mark me anyway. Always do. That just means more space for someone like you to ghost into."

"You're the decoy now?" I asked, half-joking.

He leaned back with a mock sigh. "Apparently. Age, fame, abs—comes with a price."

We both laughed.

Then his tone shifted slightly, becoming more thoughtful. "But seriously. You're more than just talented. You've got that edge. Like you're playing with something to prove."

I nodded slowly. "I am."

He didn't press. He just gave a small nod back, as if to say, Yeah, I know that feeling.

Before we could go any deeper, Bruno Fernandes strolled over, coffee in one hand, a pastel de nata in the other, and sat on the arm of the couch.

"Deep conversations already?" he asked, mouth half-full. "This is supposed to be the calm before the chaos."

"I'm just explaining to Adriano how I plan to retire as a decoy while he does all the running," Ronaldo said.

Bruno rolled his eyes. "That's rich, coming from the guy who still sprints 40 meters to yell at someone for a bad cross."

"Passion," Ronaldo shrugged. "Leadership."

"Ego," Bruno corrected, grinning.

I shook my head, laughing. "You two really argue like brothers."

"That's because we are," Bruno said. "Brothers in suffering. Especially when the physio shows up with ice baths."

"Or when the press asks who's taking the penalties," Ronaldo added, shooting Bruno a look.

"I won one rock-paper-scissors," Bruno defended. "One."

Cristiano held up three fingers. "Three times. You celebrated like you scored the winner in a final."

"It was a final. For my pride," Bruno said dramatically.

João Félix joined us next, dropping onto the floor in front of the couch with a bowl of fruit. "Did I hear penalty trauma?"

"Just history lessons," I said.

Félix grinned. "Good. I'll need the tips. I'm still trying to survive João Cancelo's 'friendly fire' crosses."

"Oi!" Cancelo called from across the room. "My crosses are accurate. The problem is your head's shaped like a pineapple."

Félix yelled back without turning, "Then aim for the pineapple, genius!"

The room cracked up again.

The banter continued as more players filtered in, sitting on cushions, leaning against tables, or sprawled out across beanbags.

There was a beat of silence. Then Cristiano turned to me again. "You ever play with fear?"

I blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Fear of messing up. Of letting people down. Especially when they expect something big from you."

I thought about it for a second. "Yeah. Sometimes. It's hard not to."

Cristiano nodded. "I used to. Back when I first came to United. The pressure was unreal. One mistake and they'd write you off. But I learned something."

He leaned in slightly.

"You can't fight pressure. You use it. Let it sharpen you. Pressure's just proof that you matter."

I stood, ready to leave them to the chaos. Cristiano looked up at me.

"Rest well tonight," he said. "Tomorrow, we start writing something that'll be remembered."

I nodded. "See you out there, Captain."

As I walked out, I paused by the lounge door and glanced back.

Laughter echoed again—someone had just lost a game of FIFA and was protesting wildly while the others booed and jeered. In that moment, surrounded by people from different backgrounds, experiences, and journeys, I saw something more than just a team.

I saw a unit—a family.

Everyone in that room had made sacrifices. Missed birthdays. Fought injuries. Faced headlines and doubters. Some grew up with nothing, others were prodigies, but all of us had bled the same on the pitch.

And now, in this strange bubble of hotel lounges, espresso shots, FIFA matches, and tactical briefings—we were bound together by the same dream.

The tournament hadn't even started, but I could feel it already.

We weren't just there to play.

We were there to win.

***

Before long, it was time to board our flight to Brazil—the final stretch before the tournament. There was a sense of purpose in the air, but it wasn't heavy. If anything, the atmosphere was calm. Focused, yes, but relaxed. No one needed to be reminded of what was at stake anymore. We all knew.

The team boarded the chartered flight in staggered groups, luggage slung over shoulders, boarding passes barely glanced at, familiarity etched into every movement. The plane wasn't massive, but it was comfortable—rows of plush seating with extra legroom, enough space to stretch without bumping elbows. Everyone had their routine: music, neck pillows, preferred window or aisle. The quiet professionalism of frequent travel.

Cristiano sat near the front with the coaches, headphones on, already halfway into his pre-flight mental zone. Further down the aisle, Bruno was joking with Nani and João Moutinho about who snored loudest on long-haul flights. João Cancelo, in typical fashion, had already swapped seats twice, angling for a spot with the best legroom and closest proximity to the snack tray.

I ended up seated across from Bruno and Postiga. Between bursts of laughter, Bruno leaned over with a mock whisper. "Just wait. Moutinho's gonna fall asleep within ten minutes of takeoff and deny it later."

"Lies," Moutinho called out from across the row without even turning. "I've never slept on a flight in my life."

"Bro, you slept through turbulence in Tokyo," Postiga added, grinning. "They had to check your pulse."

That kicked off a round of light-hearted jabs and friendly roasting. Cancelo chimed in about how Félix once left his passport in the hotel minibar. Nani recounted a time he nearly missed a flight because he stopped to take selfies with fans outside the airport, only realizing too late that security wasn't letting him back in. Laughter rolled down the aisle, easy and unforced.

Even I got pulled in. Bruno turned to me. "What about you, Adriano? Any rookie travel mistakes we should know about?"

I shook my head, smirking. "First trip with the U21s, I packed two left boots. Had to borrow from the physio."

Postiga chuckled. "At least you didn't forget your kit. Pepe once turned up with nothing but flip-flops and vibes."

Pepe, who had been quietly reading a newspaper a few rows back, raised his voice without looking up. "And I still trained harder than all of you."

The plane took off to more laughter and casual chatter. Over time, the noise died down. Some guys put in headphones, others opened books or tablets. Bruno pulled out a deck of cards and somehow roped Cancelo, Félix, and Nani into a round of Sueca. From what I could gather, half of them were cheating, and the other half were too distracted to care.

I leaned back, gazing out the window at the fading daylight. High above the clouds, it hit me how close we were to it all—to the tournament, to history. But what stuck with me most wasn't the thought of stadium lights or roaring crowds. It was the simple sense of belonging. Of being surrounded by people who understood the same pressures, who trained until their legs gave out, who had taken similar blows—on the pitch and off it.

These weren't just teammates. They were guys who knew what it felt like to represent something bigger than yourself. Men who had made the same sacrifices. Missed birthdays. Missed family. Missed life sometimes, just to chase this game.

When we finally touched down in Brazil, it was late afternoon. The heat hit us the second we stepped onto the tarmac—a thick, humid wall of tropical air, sticky and alive with noise. Airport staff in fluorescent vests stood nearby, some snapping photos discreetly with their phones. A few fans had already gathered behind barriers, waving flags and shouting names.

We didn't linger. Within minutes, we were moving again—bags loaded, security tight, an escort leading us straight to the terminal.

From there, it was a short drive to the press venue. Word had already spread. Journalists were packed into the room when we arrived, cameras flashing before we even stepped onto the stage. The space was buzzing—reporters in multiple languages, translators murmuring to themselves, everyone trying to piece together their headlines before we'd even spoken.

We filed into our seats at the long press table. Cristiano sat in the middle, flanked by Nani, Coach Santos, and me on the end. I could feel the eyes on us. Not just the press. The whole country, waiting to hear how prepared we were. Waiting to believe that this might be our year.

***

The press conference room was charged with anticipation, a sea of reporters buzzing with curiosity, lenses trained on the podium, and recorders ready to capture every word. After the long flight and the warm Brazilian welcome, this was our first official step into the spotlight. The World Cup was here, and we were no longer preparing—we were performing.

Coach Fernando Santos stepped up first, calm and composed, his eyes sweeping over the room before he spoke. "We are not just 23 individuals wearing the same jersey. We are one heartbeat, one ambition, one team. Our tactical system, a flexible 4-3-3 with dual pivots in midfield, is built on adaptability. We're not here to play one style—we're here to win, whatever the game demands."

He let the silence sit for a beat, letting the weight of his words settle. "Our greatest strength lies in our unity. In our discipline. In the understanding that no one player wins a match—Portugal wins it together."

Then it was my turn.

As I approached the microphone, the room seemed to tighten around me. Flashbulbs popped. Pens hovered over notepads. I took a breath, steady and deep, and began.

"Every one of us knows what it means to wear this badge," I said, glancing briefly at the red and green crest on my chest. "We understand our roles. We've trained for every scenario—every pressure, every formation shift, every break in momentum. But beyond all that, we trust each other. We know that when it gets tough, we won't look to the sidelines—we'll look to one another."

I could feel their attention sharpen. There were nods. Scribbles. Raised eyebrows.

"We've spent months fine-tuning our chemistry. This isn't just a team of stars—it's a unit built on sacrifice and trust. And when we step onto that pitch, that's exactly what you'll see."

Ronaldo sat beside me, arms crossed, nodding slowly. When it was his turn to speak, he didn't hesitate.

"I've played alongside many great players," he began, his voice calm but authoritative. "And I can tell you that what we have now is special. I believe in this team. I believe in Coach's vision. And I believe in the link-up we're building in the final third. Adriano brings a level of composure and creativity that complements my game. If I draw defenders, I know he'll be there to exploit the space. He's earned his place. He has my full support."

That statement sent a small wave through the room—cameras clicked faster, whispers buzzed from corner to corner.

More questions followed: how we'd handle the South American climate, how we'd adapt to physical opponents, whether we feared injury or burnout. Every answer was a demonstration of unity, not rehearsed but instinctive. We backed each other, every player reinforcing the same message: we weren't in Brazil for the spectacle. We were here to compete.

When the press conference finally drew to a close, there was a quiet energy among us as we stood and exited the room. The bright lights and buzzing questions faded behind us, replaced by something heavier—but not burdensome. A shared sense of responsibility.

Later that evening, in a quieter setting with only the players and staff, the tension eased. Dinner was casual, the talk relaxed. Jokes flew, stories unfolded, and laughter filled the air—reminders that we were more than a tactical machine. We were friends. Brothers. Each one of us shouldering the same dream.

In a quiet corner of the room, Ronaldo and I sat again, this time without the eyes of the media.

"When the pressure's on, Adriano," he said, his tone lower, "they're going to double-mark me. You'll need to take the space. Don't hesitate. Read me, and I'll read you. If I move wide, slip in. If I'm boxed in, drag them and strike."

I nodded, the strategy already forming in my mind. "We'll flow between lines. I'll adjust, find the gaps. If they cut one of us off, the other becomes the blade."

He smiled—brief, but genuine. "That's the spirit. I don't care who scores. I care that Portugal wins."

Those moments, away from the spotlight, meant more to me than any headline. We weren't just preparing for a tournament—we were preparing for war. And I knew, as I looked around the room at my teammates, that I wouldn't want to face it with anyone else.

Portugal World Cup Squad 2014

1 Eduardo goalkeeper, Braga

2 Bruno Alves defender, Fenerbahçe

3 Pepe defender, Real Madrid

4 Miguel Veloso midfielder, Dynamo Kyiv

5 Fábio Coentrão defender, Real Madrid

6 William Carvalho midfielder, Sporting

7 Cristiano Ronaldo (captain) forward, Real Madrid

8 João Moutinho midfielder, Monaco

9 Hugo Almeida forward, Besiktas

10 Joao Cancello midfielder, Atletico madrid

11 Éder forward, Braga

12 Rui Patrício goalkeeper, Sporting

13 Ricardo Costa defender, Valencia

14 Luís Neto defender, Zenit Saint Petersburg

15 Adriano Riveiro, midfielder, Malaga

16 Raul Meireles, midfielder, Fenerbahce

17 Nani midfielder, Manchester United

18 Bruno Fernandes, midfielder, Porto

19 André Almeida defender, Benfica

20 Rúben Amorim midfielder, Benfica

21 João Pereira defender, Valencia

22 Beto goalkeeper, Sevilla

23 Hélder Postiga forward, Lazio