The sun crept through a break in the clouds, casting golden strips across the pitch at the Brentford Community Stadium. The stands were slowly filling — red and white shirts, warm scarves, kids with paint on their cheeks and cardboard signs in their hands. Energy rippled through the air, not frantic, but heavy. Like everyone knew today wasn't just another game.
From the dressing room tunnel, players emerged into the light, the murmur of anticipation swelling into applause. Brentford in red. Palace in navy. And Nico Varela — boots tied tight, eyes forward — stepping out for his first Premier League start.
He didn't look at the away dugout.
Didn't look at the familiar crest stitched on the Palace warm-up gear.
He just walked.
Focused.
Locked in.
Somewhere above the pitch, in the sky-blue press box, the matchday broadcast began.
"Well, what can we expect from this game, Alex?"
The commentator's voice played over slow-motion replays of the players warming up — Nico juggling near the touchline, pinging sharp one-touch passes with Jensen.
"Well, Mark, early signs show Brentford lining up in a 4-2-3-1 today. And what stands out is Nico Varela — yes, that Nico Varela — starting just behind Ivan Toney. Looks like he'll be playing in more of a shadow striker role this afternoon."
The camera panned to the touchline, where Thomas Frank stood arms folded, speaking quietly into his earpiece, eyes scanning the field. Nico stood a few paces ahead, glancing down at the turf, boots bouncing on the spot.
"It's a bold choice," the second commentator added. "It's a position that demands not just creativity, but maturity. Varela — still only fifteen — has mainly played deeper roles at academy level: defensive, central, even box-to-box. This is a different kind of responsibility."
"To have this kind of versatility already?" the reply came. "It shows you're not just talented — you're intelligent. It suggests he's got the mental agility to adapt on the fly. A very rare quality."
Below, Nico took in the stadium. He'd walked into it as a fan once. Watched Brentford play from the stands, coat zipped up to his chin. But now he stood on the grass, floodlights overhead, fans chanting his name.
"It's also a tactical switch from how Brentford approached Arsenal," the voice continued. "No wing-backs today. Thomas Frank is using traditional wingers to stretch the pitch — likely to give Varela more room in those inside channels. Let him link up, drift, pull strings."
"Almost poetic, isn't it?"
A pause.
"Varela's first start… and it's against the team that released him."
Nico's jaw tightened slightly. But he didn't flinch.
He took his position behind Toney, hands at his sides.
"Crystal Palace — no wins in 2023, and we're now closing in on late February. Pressure is mounting on Patrick Vieira to turn their season around. But facing this Brentford side, full of confidence and fresh off an away win at Arsenal… it's not looking promising."
"You can see it in Varela's body language," Alex said. "He's calm. Sharp. But there's fire in those eyes. You don't forget being dropped. Not at fifteen. And certainly not when the football world starts calling your name right after."
Kickoff was moments away.
Thomas Frank gave Nico a quiet nod from the touchline. No words. Just that steady look. You're here because you belong.
Nico glanced once — only once — at the Palace bench.
He recognised two of the coaches. One of them had spoken to him the day they cut him loose.
"Not technical enough."
Nico looked away.
Today wasn't about revenge.
It was about showing them.
…
The winter air sat thick over Brentford Community Stadium, and every breath misted in front of mouths like smoke. Fans packed the stands shoulder to shoulder, scarves wrapped high, the buzz of conversation pulsing above the beat of pre-match drums. But on the pitch, it was still. Focused. Ready.
Nico Varela stood near the halfway line, gloves on, head bowed just slightly as the whistle pierced the sky.
Kickoff.
Jensen rolled the ball to him immediately.
His first touch was weightless.
He let it roll across his body, shifting the Palace midfielder off balance with the faintest body lean, then nudged it to his right, just enough to create space. A soft turn. Clean. The kind of move that didn't need a reaction — it simply said: I'm here.
He wasn't rushing.
He didn't need to.
The game was stretching out in front of him, slow and clear.
The ball came back to him minutes later — this time with more pressure. Palace were eager to disrupt. Their number six stepped tight, hands on Nico's back, legs coiled to intercept.
But Nico welcomed the contact.
He let the ball run across him again, timed his weight perfectly, and rolled it back with his sole — then clipped it behind his planted foot and spun, ball still stuck to him like it was stitched into his boot.
Gasps rose from the crowd. The Palace midfielder looked over his shoulder, bewildered.
Nico didn't look back.
He moved forward.
Half-turn. Flick to his left. Now drifting into the half-space, he spotted Mbeumo making a diagonal run behind the fullback. Without pausing, he pinged a crisp, left-footed pass that curled just around the defender's hip and into Mbeumo's path.
First chance.
Mbeumo drilled it low, hard — but the Palace keeper parried it wide.
Brentford corner.
Nico jogged toward the edge of the box, not celebrating, not even gesturing. Just resetting.
Two minutes later, he was at it again.
This time, he dropped deeper to collect. Jensen played him in near the centre circle, and Nico immediately drew the press. Two men. High line. Perfect.
He feinted right — then glided left, slipping between them, brushing shoulders and skipping out of the double-team like a dancer between spotlights. He didn't sprint — he just moved. Efficient. Fluid. Thiago's rhythm, Kante's alertness, Dembele's centre of gravity — all stitched into one.
Near the top of the box now, he spotted space opening on the left. He slid a disguised ball to Rico Henry, continued his run, and darted between Palace's retreating line.
Henry cut it back — low, bouncing.
Nico didn't hesitate.
One touch out of his feet.
The second — a snap shot, low, rifled toward the bottom corner.
It screamed just wide.
The crowd groaned in unison.
He exhaled and turned back, eyes already scanning.
No celebration. Not yet.
Midway through the 15th minute, Brentford won a throw just past the halfway line. Palace tried stepping up to squeeze space — one of their midfielders pressed hard on Varela's blind side.
Big mistake.
Nico let the ball roll to his back foot.
Waited half a second.
Then pulled off a no-look nutmeg, dragging the ball behind him and darting past before the defender realised he'd been sold.
The crowd exploded — laughter, cheers, hands slapped against scarves.
It wasn't flashy for the sake of it.
It was clean. Clinical. Brazen.
He collected the ball again seconds later, dragged two defenders with him near the edge of the box, then flicked it behind with his heel, threading it through a narrow channel where no one else saw space.
The crowd didn't even know where to look.
Then it came — the moment.
21:34
Palace lost the ball in transition. Nørgaard scooped it up, looked up once, and fired a direct pass toward Nico, who had already drifted in between Palace's back line and midfield.
He let the ball come to him like gravity had changed.
Palace's centre-back stepped — too slow.
The fullback held his position — too wide.
And Nico, without breaking stride, threaded a through ball.
Outside of the boot. Flat. Fast.
Right into Mbeumo's path.
The winger didn't need to break his run. He took one touch and buried it.
1-0. Brentford.
The stadium erupted.
But Nico didn't roar.
He just stood there, chest rising and falling, staring into the night sky as his teammates flooded past him.
The match resumed with a touch of desperation from Crystal Palace.
They pushed up their back line, started closing down quicker, adding weight to their tackles, trying to turn the match into a scrap. But it didn't rattle Nico. If anything, it sharpened him.
He lived in tight spaces.
In the 27th minute, Brentford worked the ball back into midfield under pressure. A poor pass came fizzing toward Nico's feet, knee height and awkward, with a Palace midfielder closing fast.
He didn't panic.
He cushioned the ball with a thigh, then used his shoulder to shield, drawing in the press like bait. As two men converged, he dipped low — shifted the ball from his left to right in one movement — then burst through the middle, bursting forward with a quick double touch.
Quickstep.
The ground seemed to tilt with him. He didn't move like a 15-year-old. He didn't hesitate like one either. He played like he'd done this a hundred times already.
Now, approaching the box, he slowed. Not because he lacked options — but because he wanted the defenders to move. He let them make the first mistake.
The centre-back stepped forward.
That was all he needed.
Nico disguised his body shape like he was about to shoot… then spun and passed with his back to goal — a backheel that slid perfectly between two Palace defenders.
It rolled into the feet of Toney, who didn't even need a touch. He whipped it first-time into the top corner.
2–0.
The stadium exploded again. But this time, the celebration focused squarely on Varela.
Fans stood. People clapped not for the goal, but for the vision, the arrogance, the coolness of it all. The cheek of a backheel assist like that — in a Premier League match — from a boy who wasn't even old enough to drive.
Toney ran over to Nico, shaking his head in disbelief. "Nah, you're different."
Nico only smiled.
Then got back into position.
There was more game to play.
..
The next 15 minutes were his.
Not just moments — entire stretches of control.
Palace tried changing markers. They pressed him with different players. But Nico danced through them all. Not always with flash. Sometimes just with timing. With subtle touches. Delays. Perfectly weighted passes. He was dictating the rhythm now — Thiago flow turned up to full.
When Palace looked to counter, he was the one sliding into tackles. Tracking back. Putting a shoulder in. Winning the second ball. Twice in that stretch he sprinted thirty yards to intercept a pass that would've left the backline exposed.
He wasn't just creating.
He was protecting the team too.
That's what made him different.
He was artistry and grit in equal measure.
As the first half began to wind down, the tempo settled. Brentford were in control. Palace looked rattled — like they hadn't expected to be outplayed this badly by a boy who used to wear their kit.
Nico floated in the space between midfield and attack. Everything went through him. One-twos. Switches of play. Dummies. Little no-look flicks that oozed with confidence.
In the 44th minute, he clipped a soft ball over the top of the defence — not to create a chance, but just to make them run.
It was psychological.
He wanted them tired. Panicked.
And they were.
By the time the whistle blew for halftime, Palace were walking off with heads low. Thomas Frank called out to his players with calm instructions, but when Nico jogged past, he gave him a quick pat on the back and a nod that meant something different.
You've already done enough.
Nico didn't speak.
But the look in his eyes said he wasn't finished yet.
…
The door slammed shut behind the last player.
Patrick Vieira stood in front of the whiteboard, arms crossed, jaw locked, the sound of studs clattering onto tiled floor echoing off the walls. The silence was heavy. Disappointment hung thick in the air. His side was two-nil down and had barely laid a glove on Brentford.
And one name was burning on his tongue.
He turned slowly, eyes landing on his two midfielders.
"Doucouré. Lokonga."
They looked up, tense.
"You see what that kid is doing out there?"
No response.
Vieira stepped forward. His voice was low but hard, scraping the air.
"He's fifteen. Fifteen. And he's running your midfield."
Still silence.
"He may look tall. He may look sharp. But he's still a boy. So treat him like one."
He let the words settle.
"Don't just stand off and watch him pass. Push him. Shove him. Pull his shirt. Step on his boots. You want to stay in this league?" He pointed to the pitch through the concrete wall. "You show him what the Premier League really looks like."
He turned, grabbed the magnetic board, and slammed it onto the table.
"Eze — you're on. Ayew, sit down."
Jordan didn't argue.
Vieira moved the magnetic pieces, dragging Eze's marker into the central zone.
"I want you floating. Between him and Olise. Keep switching. Make him think twice every time he receives the ball. You track him. You follow him. You force him to look over his shoulder. And if he beats you, you go again."
He looked around the room — fire behind his eyes.
"No more watching. We disrupt. We bully. You hear me?"
Nods.
"Now go out there. And turn this game into a fight."
…
The whistle blew for the restart.
And Nico felt it instantly.
There was a new edge to the air. A change in temperature — not from the wind, but from how tight Palace pressed around him now.
Olise hovered close, breathing down his neck. Doucouré stepped late, shoulder heavy. Lokonga jabbed a knee into his back as the ball came near.
They were testing him.
Pushing him.
Pulling his shirt when the referee wasn't looking. Arms wrapped around his waist during turns. Foot stomps that lingered too long. Vieira's instructions were written across every foul that didn't quite cross the line.
But Nico didn't shrink.
He just adjusted.
He let the first few touches go wide, let the markers overcommit. He let them feel like they were controlling him.
Then he responded.
Possession moved from Nørgaard to Jensen to Henry. Brentford recycled, looking for space.
Then the ball came to Nico — centre of the pitch, 35 yards out.
Three players pressed at once.
Doucouré in front. Lokonga behind. Olise from the side.
He didn't panic.
He flicked the ball up softly — just off the ground, enough to change its rhythm — then jabbed it sharply with the outside of his boot into a pocket of space to his right.
Jensen had drifted there, unnoticed.
Free.
The pass landed cleanly in his stride. One touch, and Jensen opened up the pitch with a sharp switch out wide to Wissa on the left flank.
Wissa took it down, cut inside.
Nico was already on the move again — ghosting behind the congested midfield, shaking off Lokonga with a low body feint and dragging Olise wider than he wanted to be.
He wasn't just beating them with the ball anymore.
He was beating them with positioning.
Brentford were growing back into control. Palace's aggression hadn't thrown Nico off — it had only challenged him to find another gear.
And he did.
In the 59th minute, Jensen slipped a short pass into Nico's feet near the centre circle. He took it on the half-turn, quick and fluid, with Doucouré tight to his back again. But this time Nico didn't pass. He drove.
He pushed forward, straight down the middle of the pitch — each stride building momentum like a wave curling into itself. Lokonga stepped forward to meet him, but Nico dropped a shoulder and slid past him like silk, leaving the midfielder stumbling behind.
Now the Palace defence backpedalled in panic.
Olise, tracking back too late, lunged in desperation. But Nico shifted left — then snapped the ball back to his right. He was flying now.
Palace's centre-back stepped out, too late — and clipped Nico's shin just as he tried to poke the ball forward.
Thud.
Nico went down hard, body twisting in mid-air before skidding on the turf.
The whistle shrieked.
Free kick.
The Brentford fans surged to their feet, roaring at the official for a booking, but the referee simply pointed to the spot on the grass — 25 yards out, dead centre, ideal range for a right-footed shot.
Nico stood slowly, brushing the grass from his sleeves, wincing slightly as he tested his ankle. He waved off the physio.
He was fine.
Mbeumo stepped up, hand raised, eyeing the far corner. Nico walked past him, gave a nod.
"Take it."
Mbeumo exhaled and stepped up as the ref blew his whistle.
He struck it clean — the ball dipped and swerved beautifully — but smacked the underside of the crossbar with a thunderous clang, then bounced just over the line and out for a goal kick.
Groans echoed around the stadium.
Hands flew to heads. Fans slumped in seats.
So close.
Nico stood near the edge of the box, expression unreadable. But inside, he felt the tide turning.
Palace were rattled.
…
The ball had barely settled on the ground behind the goal when Vicente Guaita, Palace's veteran goalkeeper, sprinted forward, waving his defenders away.
No time wasted.
He placed it quickly, took one look, and launched a long, driving goal kick deep into Brentford's half — a missile of a pass.
It soared over the midfield, slicing through Brentford's high line.
Jean-Philippe Mateta was already on the move.
He positioned himself perfectly between the centre-backs, rose with ease, and brought the ball down on his chest — one touch to control, second to push it forward into the open space.
Roars from the away fans now.
Nørgaard scrambled back, but he was two steps too slow. Mateta steadied himself just inside the box, then calmly slotted the ball low past Raya, who had charged out desperately to close the angle.
Goal. 2–1.
A sharp gasp cut through the stadium. Brentford fans who'd just watched Mbeumo rattle the crossbar now had their heads in their hands.
The Palace players rushed toward the corner flag, fists pumping. All the aggression and pressing finally yielded something — not through patience or buildup, but a single, ruthless counter.
Nico jogged back into position, jaw clenched.
That flicker of complacency?
It was gone now.
He could feel it in his gut — if this game was going to be won, he'd have to take it himself.
…
The atmosphere had changed.
Palace's goal hung in the air like thick fog — not enough to choke Brentford, but just enough to cloud their rhythm. For a few minutes, everything felt heavier. Passes were slower. Decisions half a second late. The crowd still cheered, still clapped, but the nervous energy had crept back in.
Except in Nico.
He hadn't changed pace. Hadn't blinked.
He stood near the centre circle, gently bouncing on his toes as the ball moved across Brentford's back line. His eyes scanned the pitch with quiet precision, noting where Lokonga had shifted. Where Eze now hovered. Where Olise had drifted too wide.
Then the ball came.
A sharp pass from Nørgaard into Nico's feet, just inside the halfway circle.
In one smooth motion, he let the ball run across his body — then planted his right foot, spun with his left — and executed a roulette that sent the stadium gasping.
The ball rolled behind him, curling under his control like it was attached by string.
Lokonga lunged but was left turning in circles.
Doucouré tried to step in and intercept — but the spin had already sent Nico gliding past him.
He emerged into space like a figure slipping through smoke.
The crowd rose — slowly at first, then like a wave — seats emptying as fans leaned forward. The run was on.
He kept the ball close, weaving now, body low, each stride measured, not frantic — precise.
Eze stepped up — legs wide, arms stretched. Nico didn't even feint. He just dipped slightly at the hip and slid the ball across with the outside of his right foot. Eze twisted his weight — gone.
Andersen came next.
The big centre-back lunged to the right, trying to close the lane.
Nico dragged the ball to his left. Let it roll.
One touch. Two.
Now he was inside the box.
Guaita was already sprinting off his line, gloves up, knees pumping.
Time slowed.
Nico took one extra step — just one — as if daring the keeper to commit.
Then he lifted his right foot, leaned back slightly, and scooped the ball with the softest flick of his toes.
It wasn't power.
It wasn't luck.
It was art.
The chip lifted from his foot like it had its own soul.
It floated — smooth, soft, impossible.
Guaita leapt, arms stretched high and wide, eyes burning through the air.
Too late.
The ball kissed the sky, dropped just beyond his reach, and landed softly in the back of the net.
3–1.
And then came the noise.
The Brentford End erupted. Not just loud — violent. Joy that hit like thunder, like something primal. People on their feet, scarves flung in the air, shouts swallowed by the chaos.
Nico didn't pause to watch it roll in.
He turned the second he saw Guaita beaten — sprinting full pace to the corner flag, cutting across the penalty box, boots pounding into the turf.
And then — at full speed — he dropped one leg, leaned back, and slid.
Knee-first into the grass, arms wide, chest forward, heart thumping so loud he swore he could hear it in the roar.
Turf sprayed behind him like sparks.
Toney was already chasing him, roaring with laughter, Jensen right behind, pointing and yelling. The whole bench exploded in motion — players, staff, everyone pouring down the touchline.
Nico sat back on his heels, fists clenched, eyes wild, face alive.
That wasn't just a goal.
That was everything.
That was the release.
That was vindication.
…
"Wow… did you see that?"
A beat.
"A goal for the ages. A fifteen-year-old just danced through a Premier League midfield, sat down a goalkeeper, and chipped it like he was playing on a playground."
"That'll be all over the reels before the final whistle's even blown. My word — this kid is special."
"And the calm… the composure… he knew what he wanted to do five steps before it happened. That's not just instinct — that's vision, courage, arrogance of the highest quality. He's not just a prospect, he's already one of the most watchable players on the pitch."
"Thomas Frank… he must be grinning ear to ear right now."
…
And indeed, Thomas Frank stood at the edge of his technical area, arms crossed, eyes narrowed behind a grin that he couldn't quite contain.
He turned toward the bench.
"Josh," he called.
Josh Dasilva rose quickly, adjusting his shin pads.
A moment later, the fourth official raised the board.
Number 37 off. Number 10 on.
The crowd picked it up instantly.
Applause.
Then it grew.
From polite appreciation to a full stadium ovation.
Nico, sweat gleaming on his temples, looked toward the sideline as Jensen clapped him on the back.
He jogged slowly, taking it in — the claps, the rising chants, a small group of kids waving homemade signs with his name on them. Even some of the Palace fans were shaking their heads in disbelief, a few caught clapping against their will.
As he reached the sideline, Thomas Frank stepped forward.
He didn't say a word.
Just reached up and ruffled Nico's hair like a proud uncle and gave him a quick pat between the shoulder blades.
"Take a seat," he murmured. "You've done enough."
Nico nodded, grinning, breath still heavy. He dropped into the space on the bench, towel over his shoulders, heart still racing.
But not from the run.
From the feeling.
The feeling that this — this right here — was only the beginning.
——
Was in a good made so another update.
For the sake of this book, I am going to have to bend some of Fifa's regulations on transfers with underage players. So younger players can be sold and transferred just like how senior players are.
I hope you guys dont mind this, but it's necessary for this book.