Inside one of the upstairs offices overlooking the training ground, three coaches sat around a long wooden table. Tactical boards were propped against the wall, open laptops displayed player reports, and coffee cups were scattered between spreadsheets and stat sheets.
Matthew Carr, Brentford's assistant first-team coach, leaned back in his chair, arms folded. Late 30s, sharp eyes, trimmed beard — the type who didn't waste words or time.
"So," he said flatly, "we're talking about promotions, yeah? Who from the U18s is ready to be fast-tracked?"
Jonas, the U18s coach, flipped open a folder.
"Couple names. Leon Grant, left-back. Good engine. Clean in 1v1s. Solid IQ."
"Can't beat a man," Matthew replied instantly.
"True," Jonas admitted. "But he's improving."
"Who else?"
Mike, the U23 coach, jumped in. "Julius Morgan. Winger. Bit erratic, but one-on-one, he can cook anyone."
Matthew shook his head. "Seen him twice. He runs fast and runs out of ideas."
Silence followed.
Jonas sighed. "Alright. There's talent, but no one's ready-ready. Not yet."
Matthew stood, stretched his back a little, and walked toward the window. He looked out over Pitch 2, just in time to see a small-sided match wrapping up.
A boy in a white bib clipped a disguised pass into the final third, then tracked into space and demanded the return ball. Sharp. Composed. Bossing the pace of play like a metronome.
"Who's that?" Matthew asked, eyes narrowing.
Mike stood up and joined him at the window. "White bib? One-touch pass just now?"
"Yeah."
"That's not one of ours," Jonas said, checking a list. "Hang on…"
He grabbed a nearby clipboard and flipped a few pages.
"That's Nico Varela. Trialist. Only 15. Came in off a scout tip — Russell Jefferson brought him in after some school match."
"School match?" Matthew raised an eyebrow. "He came from a school game and he's playing like that?"
"Yeah," Mike added. "Palace dropped him last month. Said he wasn't technical enough."
Matthew didn't reply. He just kept watching.
Nico was moving again. He dropped into midfield, received a pass under pressure, slipped between two pressing players with a feint, and sprayed a pass with his weaker foot out wide to feet.
"Jesus," Matthew muttered. "That kid's got rhythm. Composure."
Jonas nodded. "Did well in the rondo earlier. Two assists in that scrimmage. Made some of the starters look average."
Matthew kept watching, eyes narrowed.
"He's not just playing. He's running the game."
Another long pause.
Then he turned to them.
"Get him in with the U18s this week. No excuses. I want to see him over a bigger pitch, under proper pressure."
Mike blinked. "You sure? He's still meant to finish the week with U16s—"
"Don't care. If he crashes, he crashes," Matthew said. "But if he doesn't… we might be looking at something special."
He turned back to the window one last time as Nico stepped off the pitch, sweat on his brow, calm expression, fist-bump from a teammate.
"Sometimes talent doesn't knock," Matthew said. "It just shows up and takes the ball."
…
The session wound down with a short cooldown jog and some static stretching. The players were gassed, sweat clinging to bibs and shirts, laughter and tired chatter breaking out as they filed toward the changing rooms.
Nico grabbed his bottle, took a long sip, and started walking with the rest — until he heard his name.
"Varela."
He turned. Coach Doyle was standing near the edge of the pitch, phone still in his hand, the screen dimming.
"Hang back a sec."
Nico nodded and jogged over.
Doyle tucked the phone into his jacket pocket and looked at him with something different in his eyes this time — not evaluation, but approval.
"Well," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "You've made an impression."
Nico raised an eyebrow, breathing still steady from the session. "Yeah?"
Doyle gave a small grin.
"Make sure you're here Thursday."
Nico nodded quickly. "Yes, sir."
Doyle let out a light chuckle, shaking his head. "Shame though."
"Shame?"
"Yeah," he said, stepping slightly closer. "Shame you've already been snatched from me."
Nico blinked. "Huh?"
Doyle crossed his arms and gave a half-shrug.
"You're with the U18s on Thursday."
Nico just stared at him for a second, trying to process it.
"I told you," Doyle added, "you made an impression. The assistant first-team coach saw the 8v8. They want a closer look."
Nico's mouth parted slightly. He wasn't sure what to say.
Doyle clapped him lightly on the shoulder.
"Don't let the moment get too big," he said. "You've earned it. Now go show them why."
Nico nodded, still quiet.
"I will."
Doyle gave him a final nod. "Go change, boss. You've had a day."
Nico turned and walked back toward the building. Every step felt just a bit lighter.
And every door in front of him felt just a bit more open.
…
That night, Nico lay back on his bed, one sock still half on, the rest of his training gear tossed across the floor. His body was tired, but his mind was wired — looping through everything from the rondo to the 8v8, to Doyle's voice saying: You'll be with the U18s on Thursday.
He hadn't even told his mum yet. He was still letting it sink in.
Then came the flicker.
That soft, digital shimmer in the corner of his vision.
The system.
It hovered silently above him, no sound, no flash — just that cool glow and a new prompt:
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION
First Academy Session Complete
Training Rating: 9.7
Your tempo control, spatial awareness, and execution under pressure exceeded expectations.
TRAIT UPGRADES UNLOCKED
Thiago Flow – Level 6
Your rhythm in tight spaces has become second nature. You manipulate tempo with minimal effort.
Dribbling: +4
First Touch: +3
Passing (Short & Medium): +5
New Effect:
Minimized ball bounce on reception. Enhanced fluidity when exiting pressure zones.
Press Resistance – Level 8
You remain composed under high pressure. Physical and mental calm has evolved into dominance.
Balance: +4
Strength on the ball: +3
Composure: +5
New Effect:
Auto-adjust body orientation when receiving under pressure. +15% success rate when shielding in crowded midfield areas.
Reward Unlocked: 1x FIFA PlayStyle Spin
Nico raised an eyebrow.
"FIFA playstyles now?"
He chuckled under his breath. "What next, chemistry links?"
Still, he sat up and tapped [SPIN].
The familiar golden wheel appeared, rotating smoothly in the air. The names around the rim pulsed gently with each tick:
Tiki Taka
Quick Step
Flair
Pinged Pass
Rapid
Incisive Pass
Press Proven
Finesse Shot
Anticipate
Relentless
The wheel spun fast, then slowed.
Tick… tick… tick…
CLICK.
It stopped.
PLAYSTYLE UNLOCKED: Quick Step (Lv. 1)
Description:
Boosts initial burst over short distances. +7% acceleration in tight spaces. Ideal for midfielders breaking pressure or creating separation.
Bonus Applied:
Agility: +3
Acceleration: +4
Ball Control in motion: +2
Nico felt it immediately — not as a full-body rush, but like something shifted in his legs, deep in the muscle memory. It was subtle, but real. His limbs felt lighter. Like if he needed to beat someone to a loose ball, he'd get there first. If he needed to create a half-yard of space? It was his.
He leaned back against the headboard, still staring at the system prompt.
"So that's what we're doing now," he said to himself. "Explosiveness."
His lips curled into the faintest grin.
"Yeah… they're gonna feel that on Thursday."
The window faded.
And somewhere in the background, the system silently logged:
U18 session scheduled. Performance tracking: ACTIVE.
….
Thursday Afternoon.
The final bell hadn't rung yet, but the energy in Maths was already falling apart. Students slouched in their seats, half-listening, half-counting down the seconds. The only person fully alert was Mr. Barnes, who was slowly pacing up the rows, dropping marked papers on desks like he was handing out destiny.
Nico sat near the back, hoodie up, one earbud half tucked into his jumper collar, though it wasn't playing anything. Cristiano was next to him, tapping his pen against the table in random rhythms.
"Bro," Cristiano whispered, "you think Jess followed me back last night 'cause of the goal or the sliding knee celebration?"
Nico kept his eyes on the front, smirking. "You slid on grass that was basically concrete. It definitely wasn't the celebration."
Cristiano shrugged. "Nah, I looked cold."
"She followed you back though?"
Cristiano grinned. "Damn right."
Nico chuckled.
Mr. Barnes reached their row and placed two papers face-down in front of them.
"Past paper results," he said. "Some of you should be proud. Some of you… need to revise with both eyes open."
Nico flipped his sheet over.
74 out of 80.
Not perfect, but solid.
He nodded slightly to himself, then glanced at Cristiano's — which was still untouched on the desk.
Cristiano finally turned his over and stared.
37 out of 80.
"Yikes," Nico muttered, holding back a grin.
Cristiano slumped into his chair. "Seriously — how are you good at football and maths?"
"I'm a genius, bro."
Cristiano gave him the side-eye. "Nah, like real talk. You read equations the way you read the pitch. That's not normal."
Nico shrugged. "You're good at maths too. You just don't lock in."
Cristiano leaned back, arms folded. "What, you think I'm gonna start revising like you?"
"You wanna stay on the team and keep Jess interested? Might be time."
Cristiano sighed dramatically, like Nico had just told him to climb Everest. "This is why you get scouted."
"This is why I don't have to do retakes," Nico shot back.
They both laughed, Mr. Barnes sending a look their way but not bothering to say anything.
As the classroom settled again, Nico glanced at the clock.
Only a few more hours till U18 training.
A different kind of test was waiting.
And he knew exactly how to pass it.
…
The whistle cut through the cold air.
Coach Mendez stood on the edge of the centre circle, clipboard in hand, stopwatch looped around his wrist. Players gathered around, breath visible in short, controlled puffs.
"Four-zone possession," he said. "Two-touch max. Midfield focus. Pressure has to be real. If you're walking, you're off. Rotate every three minutes."
He looked up.
"Varela, you're middle box. You're the link. Keep us ticking."
Nico didn't nod. Didn't smile. He just stepped into the grid.
The cones formed a tight, four-square grid — two defenders pressing, three midfielders keeping the ball moving. It was small. Tight. No space to hide. Every bad touch was exposed.
The ball started with Trey in the far square. He zipped it hard into Nico's feet.
First touch came fast. Nico let it run across his body, pressed from the back, then used a subtle lean to sell a turn — and burst forward with a short, explosive touch.
Quick Step activated.
The defender overcommitted. Nico slipped past him and laid the ball off into the next square before the press could catch up.
"Play!"
The tempo shot up.
Ball flying. Voices rising.
The red bibs were barking, chasing. Nico kept scanning — one touch, two touch. Shoulder checks before every receive. The ball never stood still.
He saw the pressure coming again. A defender lunged. Nico barely shifted weight, let the ball roll under his boot, and used a La Croqueta to move it across and away. Then slipped a fast diagonal pass through the edge of the square — perfectly weighted.
Press Resistance (Lv.8) — stabilizing movement under pressure.
Thiago Flow (Lv.6) — soft control, fast exits.
The pass found the winger's foot in stride.
"Nice!" someone shouted.
"Who's the new kid?"
Another defender upped the pressure. No space now.
Ball came into Nico's left foot. He killed it dead with his instep, defender charging.
Then — burst.
Quick Step.
He accelerated off the turn, left the marker behind with one sharp movement, and zipped a disguised pass into Trey's path.
Another round. No turnovers. No panic. Just flow.
Coach Mendez watched silently. No notes yet. Just eyes.
The three minutes flew by.
When the whistle blew again, the groups rotated. Players jogged off, high-fiving or shaking heads.
Trey walked past Nico, low voice.
"Alright. You're not just hype."
Nico exhaled, not even smiling. Just focused.
"Not here for hype," he said.
Trey gave a nod. "Good. Let's keep playing then."
From the sideline, Mendez flipped to a new page on his clipboard.
He had something to write down now.
Coach Mendez clapped his hands, drawing everyone in.
"Alright. We're moving into match play," he called out. "Full 11v11. Starters in red. Subs in white."
The boys started moving, some already reaching for fresh bibs.
"Two 20-minute halves. Keep it clean, keep it quick. I want to see decision-making — not just touches. Nico—" he turned slightly, eyes cutting through the group, "—you're on the sub team. White bib."
Nico nodded without flinching.
No complaints. No reaction.
He jogged to the sideline, slipped on the white, and joined the group.
The pitch stretched out in front of them under the glowing buzz of the floodlights. Full size. Full squad. A staff member stood near halfway with a whistle and stopwatch.
The starters were already taking their positions — the regulars. Strong back line. Technical midfielders. Quick, aggressive wide men. These were players who'd been here for seasons, who already understood their system, their roles.
The white team — the subs — looked mixed. One or two fringe players, a few younger guys, and now Nico. The underdog side.
Nico jogged into position: central midfield. Deep, where the game breathes — or breaks.
Trey lined up ahead of him in the eight role, gave him a glance and a short nod. "Let's make them work."
The whistle blew.
And the game began.
The starters came out fast. Movement sharp. Press high. They weren't playing friendly. The reds were trying to dominate, to put this game away early. Maybe even prove a point.
First few minutes were cagey. Possession split. Nico kept it simple — two-touch, checking over his shoulder, always open, always moving. He didn't force anything.
But then it started to click.
Ball turned over in midfield. Nico snapped it wide to the winger in one motion — opened up his body and clipped it with the inside of his foot, bending it right into the runner's stride.
Perfect weight. Touch. Rhythm.
Ten seconds later, the white team was in the final third.
Coach Mendez watched closely from the touchline.
"Nico, deeper!" he shouted. "Control the zone, not just the pass."
Nico dropped five yards. Read the flow. Saw the red midfielder shaping up to switch play — stepped in, intercepted the pass, turned out of pressure with a clean pirouette, and reset the move.
That drew a reaction from both benches.
From the sideline, someone muttered, "This kid don't miss."
Red team started to adjust — man-marked him tighter. Nico took the pressure, let it come, and then started slipping away from it with those Quick Step bursts — little glides into space, popping up between the lines.
One pass broke two red lines.
Another split their press.
The subs were growing in confidence.
The half ended 0–0, but Nico had changed the tempo — and everyone knew it.
Coach Mendez blew the whistle and motioned the players toward the benches.
"Quick drinks, swap ends," he barked. "Second half, let's raise it."
As the players walked off, Trey gave Nico a light nudge with his elbow.
"You're not supposed to look that comfortable, you know."
Nico just exhaled, calm. "Comfort's not the goal."
Trey grinned. "So what is?"
"Control."
As the players switched sides and grabbed water, Coach Mendez stepped back toward the sideline where Matthew Carr stood, arms folded, eyes locked on the pitch.
"You seeing this?" Mendez asked, voice low but certain.
Matthew didn't take his eyes off Nico, who was already talking with his centre-back, pointing, adjusting positions like he'd been wearing the armband all season.
"Yeah," Matthew said. "The kid's a star."
Mendez nodded slowly. "Didn't flinch once. Not in the rondo. Not under pressure. Just plays. Like the game's at his pace."
Matthew exhaled through his nose, still watching. "Reads two passes ahead. Turns out of pressure like it's nothing. And that weight of pass? That's pro level."
"He just turned 16," Mendez added. "Got dropped from Palace last month."
Matthew raised an eyebrow. "Their loss."
Silence.
The players began jogging back onto the pitch.
Matthew turned slightly toward Mendez.
"Offer him a contract."
Mendez blinked. "Now?"
"Now," Matthew said. "Fast-track him into the program. He's not a prospect. He's a priority."
Mendez gave a short nod. "You think he can handle that kind of step?"
Matthew finally smiled — just a little.
"He's going to the very top."
…
The whistle blew for the second half.
The floodlights burned brighter now as the sky darkened. The pitch felt heavier, the tempo sharper. Both sides knew this half meant something — even if no one said it.
The red team came out aggressive. Their press pushed higher. They weren't playing it cool anymore — Nico had embarrassed them in silence, and now they wanted to shut it down.
But he didn't shrink.
He found the rhythm again almost instantly, dropping deeper to collect, playing simple at first. One-two touches. Switches. Letting the game breathe.
Then it opened up.
Minute 7 of the second half. Trey dropped into the pocket ahead of him. The red midfield turned just a second too late.
Nico shaped his body like he was about to go wide — and then threaded a pass between the lines.
Flat. Clean. Timed to perfection.
Trey took one touch around his marker and slotted it near post.
1–0.
Trey turned and pointed straight back at him. "That's you."
Nico didn't celebrate. He just jogged back with his head down, focused, calm.
But the lead didn't last.
The reds responded quick — long ball down the left, switch of play, cross whipped in hard. Their striker beat the centre-back to the ball and flicked it inside the far post.
1–1.
The pitch got louder. More tackles. More talking. More urgency.
Coach Mendez stood on the sideline, arms folded, saying nothing.
Nico's face didn't change.
He just adjusted.
And then — with five minutes to go — the ball broke to him in midfield.
He took it on the half-turn, flicked it past the onrushing midfielder, and drove forward. Space opened. Just a crack.
He shifted it onto his right.
From 25 yards, without overthinking, he let it fly.
Laces. Dipped. Curled late.
The keeper dove.
No chance.
Top bins.
It hit the net with that perfect whip-pop sound — no bar, no bounce. Just net.
Gasps from the sideline.
Even the red team stopped moving for a second.
Nico stood still, chest rising, eyes locked on the goal. No knee slide. No scream. Just a quiet walk back toward halfway.
2–1.
Coach Mendez didn't smile. But he scribbled something down, fast.
On the sideline, Matthew Carr just said one word.
"Contract."
The final whistle blew shortly after.
The subs had won.
And Nico Varela had arrived.
….
They were walking down the road, school bags half-zipped, ties loose, blazers open.
Jayden looked at Nico. "So what, they gave you the number 6?"
"Yeah," Nico nodded. "The guy before got moved up to the 23s."
Jayden raised his eyebrows. "Swear? That's hard."
Cristiano glanced over. "Can't lie, it's good seeing you back in an academy. Don't know what Palace were thinking, man."
Nico shrugged. "I don't even care about that no more."
Jayden side-eyed him. "That quick?"
"Yeah," Nico said. "Plus… we're playing them next month."
Cristiano's head spun. "Wait, Palace?"
"Yeah. Closed-door friendly."
Jayden laughed. "Oi. You better do them dirty."
"That's the plan."
Cristiano grinned. "You already know I'm pulling up."
Jayden nodded. "Yeah, man. We're there."
Cristiano paused. "Actually… I dunno if I'm allowed."
Nico looked at him. "What now?"
Cristiano scratched his head. "Mum saw my maths result. 37 outta 80. She's on war mode. Told me I'm grounded till I get atleast 50."
Jayden started laughing. "You're moving like school's optional, bro."
Cristiano shook his head. "She said no footy, no mandem, no nothing. Just equations and pain."
Nico smirked. "Guess you better start revising, innit."
Cristiano sighed. "Man's gonna be on Hegarty Maths while you're lacing top bins."
They all started laughing, the sound bouncing off the brick walls as they turned up the road.
Nico didn't say anything else.
But that Palace match?
He was already locked in.