The marble floors of the FIGC headquarters echoed with quiet footsteps and hushed conversation. Inside a modern glass-walled conference room, the Italy FA board sat around a long oval table. Blinds drawn. Laptops open. Espresso cups half-full and forgotten.
A large screen at the far end replayed match highlights — specifically one clip: Nico Varela's solo goal against Crystal Palace. The room was still, except for the sound of his studs tearing up turf, the chip floating over the keeper, and the roar of Brentford fans rising behind him.
When the clip ended, no one spoke for a second.
Then one of the directors broke the silence.
"Did you see his last game? Two assists. One goal. Total control. That midfield was his from the first whistle to the moment he walked off."
Another nodded, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
"We've been waiting for someone like him. Someone with that mix of flair and composure. He doesn't just play — he commands. We haven't had a midfielder like that since… what? Pirlo? Verratti at his peak?"
"We have good players," said another, a little defensive. "But not that. Not someone who looks like he was born to carry a team on his back."
A technical advisor scrolled through a dossier on Nico's youth background.
"The challenge is, of course… he's hardly Italian. Three-quarters by blood, maybe, but no cultural link. Born in England. Raised in London. Already called up by England's U18s. And Brazil and Spain are watching him closely."
The room went quiet again.
Until the head of the table leaned forward — sharp suit, silver cufflinks, old but alert.
"Spain doesn't need him. They're rich in midfielders — they always have been. Same with Brazil. He'll be one of many there. Promising, yes, but never the one."
He tapped the table twice for emphasis.
"We can offer him something they can't."
All eyes turned.
"We can make him the face of a new Italy. The heartbeat of a new generation. The country that bet on him fully — not as a backup, not as insurance, but as our main man."
A younger scout chimed in, eyes bright.
"He fits our identity too — tactically sharp, technically elegant, disciplined. You build a midfield around him and he'll define our football for a decade."
The head of international player engagement stood and turned off the projector.
"We have a meeting with his agent next week. Harvey Specter."
A few heads nodded in recognition.
"We'll present our long-term plan. Not just a call-up. A role. A vision. Legacy."
Then, with quiet certainty, he added:
"This isn't just recruitment. This is a rescue mission. He's what we've been missing."
…
Royal Moroccan Football Federation – Rabat
The office was quiet, sun casting a golden hue through the tall windows overlooking the training complex. A low hum from the air conditioner buzzed in the background, but Walid Regragui didn't notice it. His eyes were locked on the screen in front of him.
He'd already watched the clip three times.
And now, for the fourth, he hit replay.
The footage rolled.
Nico Varela, number 37 in red, picked up the ball just past halfway. He spun — roulette, clean and sharp — then danced through two defenders. Another twist, another feint. Then the chip.
The ball soared. The keeper stretched. Missed.
Net.
Regragui leaned back in his chair.
"Wow," he whispered.
It wasn't the kind of goal you watched with admiration — it was the kind you watched with need. There was something raw in it. Refined, yes — technically gorgeous — but unfiltered in its intent. The kid didn't just want to score. He wanted to own the moment.
Walid's hands slowly curled into fists on the edge of the desk.
That was what they were missing.
Morocco had gone to war in Qatar. They'd shocked the world, they'd won hearts — beaten Spain, taken down Portugal. But when they met France, something had been missing.
Not heart.
Not belief.
Just that little bit of uncontainable quality. The thing you couldn't teach. The thing that that boy had.
And the best part?
He was theirs.
By blood, by heritage, by roots. Nico Varela — a name whispered with Spanish flair and Brazilian rhythm — had Moroccan fire running through him.
He didn't care about the noise. About England. About Brazil. About Italy with their promises.
He wanted him.
Regragui paused the screen. The frame froze — Nico mid-celebration, knee sliding, face alive with defiance.
He stood, walked slowly to the window, phone in hand.
"Get me his agent," he said. "Harvey Specter. Today."
He didn't need to offer the world.
Just a vision.
And a place where Nico wouldn't be another one of many.
He'd be the one.
…
The skyline outside was silver and gold, streaked with late afternoon light. Through the vast glass walls of the 42nd floor, London looked like it belonged to someone else. Inside, it did.
Harvey Specter's office was sleek and silent — marble floors, a floor-to-ceiling wine rack, and a glass desk so spotless it looked like it floated. Behind him, leather-bound books, shelves of rare watches, a vintage Champions League ball encased in crystal.
He stood with his back to the view, suit jacket unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, a coffee untouched next to four papers laid out on the glass: Italy. Morocco. Spain. Brazil. All neatly tabbed. All signed with intent.
He had just sat down when he heard the knock.
Soft, rhythmic.
He looked up.
Nico Varela stood on the other side of the double glass doors, hoodie up, black jeans, boot bag slung over one shoulder like it weighed nothing.
"Come in," Harvey called, smiling.
Nico stepped through, eyes drifting across the polished room.
"Was the driver really necessary?" he asked, smirking. "I could've just taken the new bike you bought me."
Harvey didn't even look up from the desk. "You do realise your face is known across half of London, right?"
Nico shrugged.
"Anything can happen," Harvey said. "You're a celebrity now. Live with it."
Nico dropped into the seat opposite him, stretching his legs out.
"Celebrity is crazy. You're the one with a glass office in a skyscraper. Central London. Leather everything. How rich are you?"
Harvey grinned, leaned back, hands folded.
"Ehh," he said. "You'll catch up in, what… four years?"
Nico laughed. "So why are you even my agent if you're already balling like this?"
Harvey's eyes narrowed with a softer gleam.
"Because football's always been my passion. I was never good at it, but I've always known how to bet on the right people. I couldn't be the player — but I can be the guy who backs the one that is."
A beat.
"Alright," Harvey said, switching gears. "Come sit properly. We've got a lot to talk about."
Nico sat forward, elbows on knees.
Harvey gestured to the four documents spread across the desk.
"These?" he said. "These are from Italy, Morocco, Spain, and Brazil. England haven't formally pitched yet — but these four? They're already in play."
Nico blinked. "All this… just for me?"
Harvey chuckled.
Harvey tapped the folder with the Spanish crest.
"Let's start with Spain."
He slid it across the glass. Nico picked it up, eyes narrowing as he read the sharp summary Harvey had typed out in bold ink.
Country: Spain
Presented By: RFEF (Royal Spanish Football Federation)
Meeting Location: Madrid, Private Conference – Federation HQ
Proposal Type: U18 Invitation → U21 Integration → Senior Shadow Program
Summary:
- Spain sees Nico as a long-term fit within their midfield system.
- Proposed role: a backup/deputy to Pedri, with potential to rotate based on performance.
- Emphasis on technical development, positional rotation, and progressive involvement.
- Likely U21 tournament exposure by 2026.
- High regard for his vision and press resistance.
- Strong cultural fit, due to maternal heritage and fluency in Spanish.
Harvey's Notes:
"They rate you. No question. But you won't walk in as the star. Pedri is their golden boy. Their Xavi 2.0. You'd be the next in line — not the one carrying the team."
Nico looked up.
"So I'd be on the bench."
Harvey shrugged. "At first? Most likely, yeah. They respect you — but not enough to hand over the keys. Not yet."
Nico leaned back in the chair, lips tightening in thought.
"I've got Spanish blood," he said. "I speak the language. But I don't know…"
Harvey nodded. "It's a power move. Stable, elite, historic. But it's also safe. They're not betting on you. They're padding their bench."
He let the words sit there for a second.
Then reached for the next folder.
"You want to see Italy's?"
Harvey slid the Azzurri-blue folder across the table. The Italian crest was embossed on the cover, heavy and proud.
"They're not hiding how much they want you," he said.
Nico flipped it open.
Country: Italy
Presented By: FIGC (Federazione Italiana Giuoco Calcio)
Meeting Location: Rome – Boardroom, Stadio Olimpico
Proposal Type: U19 Call-Up with Direct Senior Team Integration Plan
Summary:
- Italy views Nico as a foundational piece for their national rebuild.
- Proposed role: starting midfielder within two years. Fast-tracked integration with the senior team.
- Midfield identity built around him — creativity, strength, versatility.
- Cited lack of emerging young midfielders in current pipeline.
- Offer includes leadership grooming, mentorship under Jorginho & Barella, with an eye to 2026.
- Acknowledgement of mixed heritage, but emphasis on lineage and opportunity.
- Emotional appeal: "Be our number six, number 8, number 10. Our future."
Harvey's Notes:
"They're not offering you a role — they're offering you an era. You'd be the face of their transition. They believe they've found the one player who can carry them into the next generation of Italian football."
Nico raised an eyebrow. "Even over someone born and raised in Italy?"
Harvey shrugged. "They've looked. You're it. You're everything they've been missing. Elegance, power, clarity in possession. And more importantly — ambition. You wouldn't be the Pedri next to their system. You'd be the system."
Nico stared at the summary, fingers resting lightly on the page.
"They sound desperate."
"They are," Harvey replied calmly. "But not in a bad way. In the way a country gets when they've won before… and they know what they're missing."
He gave a small grin. "They want to build their midfield around a Varela. You just have to decide if you want to be their Varela."
Nico closed the folder slowly.
"Alright," he said. "Who's next?"
Harvey tapped the green folder — Morocco.
Harvey picked up the deep green folder, stamped with the crescent moon and star. It was slimmer than the others, less polished — but somehow it felt heavier.
He slid it across the table toward Nico.
"This one," Harvey said, "came from a man who didn't bring a boardroom. Just brought conviction."
Nico opened it.
Country: Morocco
Presented By: Royal Moroccan Football Federation (FRMF)
Meeting Location: Private video call with Head Coach Walid Regragui
Proposal Type: Immediate U20 Invitation / Senior Integration Consideration
Summary:
- Morocco sees Nico as an heir to their midfield — a player who can carry the pride of a nation, help them achieve things they never have.
- Proposed fast-track to senior side, with 2026 World Cup in clear view.
- Coach Regragui personally committed to building around Nico's unique blend of technique and physicality.
- Emphasis on his mother's Moroccan heritage — "You don't wear the shirt, you carry it."
- Full cultural support: language immersion, heritage programs, community involvement.
- Unique opportunity to represent Africa and the Arab world on the global stage.
- Emotional weight: "Be the heart we lacked against France."
Harvey's Notes:
"This isn't just about football. It's about identity. Regragui's exact words were: 'He is us. We are him.' They don't care where you were born — they see what's in your blood."
Nico leaned back slightly, slower this time. The words hit different.
He looked out the glass wall of the skyscraper, down at the sprawl of London below.
"I don't even know how to speak Arabic properly," he muttered.
"You don't need to," Harvey said. "They're not asking you to be fluent. They're asking you to come home."
Nico nodded slowly, fingers tapping the edge of the folder.
"So Italy want to build around me. Morocco want me to carry the weight. Spain want me to wait my turn."
"Exactly," Harvey said.
Then he picked up the last folder — yellow and green.
"Now… let's talk about Brazil."
Harvey didn't speak for a second.
He just held the final folder — bold yellow, trimmed in green, stamped with five stars across the top.
Then he laid it gently in front of Nico.
"The most iconic shirt in the sport," he said. "And they're calling."
Nico didn't reach for it right away.
He just stared at it.
Brazil.
Country: Brazil
Presented By: CBF (Confederação Brasileira de Futebol)
Meeting Location: Private video call with CBF technical director
Proposal Type: Monitoring for Olympic Squad 2024 → Copa America 2025 Probable
Summary:
- Brazil is currently watching Nico as part of their dual-national scouting initiative.
- Recognise his unique profile: press-resistant, physical yet elegant — rare for Brazilian-born hybrids.
- No guarantees — but open acknowledgment that his style blends well with the future plans of the senior side.
- Mentioned comparisons to a young Paulinho, with flashes of Lucas Paquetá and Moussa Dembélé.
- Long-term vision includes Copa America and 2026 World Cup build-up.
- Appeal to legacy: "You'd be the first Varela to wear yellow. First to carry the name to a sixth star."
- Emotional hook: "You honour your father's blood when you wear this shirt."
Harvey's Notes:
"This one's poetic. Heavy on legacy. Light on promises. You'll have to earn every inch. But if you break through, you'll be walking among gods. That's the pressure. That's the privilege."
Nico flipped through the folder slowly, breathing a little deeper.
He stopped on the quote highlighted in green ink:
"We don't promise dreams. We offer the chance to make them real."
He let that sit for a while.
Then looked up at Harvey.
"This one's emotional," he said quietly. "I think my dad would've wanted this."
Harvey didn't interrupt.
"I still remember his yellow shirt," Nico said, tapping the page. "Used to sleep in it when I was six."
Silence stretched a little.
Then Harvey leaned forward.
"Legacy is one thing. But you've got four futures in front of you. None of them wrong. Just different doors."
…
The dorm was still. Outside, a streetlamp flickered against the frost-slicked pavement, casting soft light through the window slats. Nico lay on his back, one arm tucked under his head, eyes locked on the bare white ceiling above.
The silence wasn't peaceful.
It was loud.
Every breath, every shift in his bedsheets, felt like it echoed in the stillness. His mind had been racing for hours — four folders, four countries, four versions of himself all battling in his chest.
He'd called his mum earlier.
Told her everything.
All she'd said was:
"I love you. But this is yours. This choice, this burden — it belongs to you now."
And now, alone in a small dorm bed with cracked paint on the walls and two matches behind him that had changed everything… Nico Varela didn't feel like a kid anymore.
He felt like a man with too much future in front of him.
Then—
The flicker.
That cold blue light pulsed into his vision.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
Late reward: Crystal Palace match
Final match rating: 9.4
Pick your reward.
Three black boxes appeared — floating just above his bed like something out of a dream. No labels. No hints.
He exhaled once.
Then tapped the middle one.
The box dissolved in a shimmer of light — and reformed into words that held weight far beyond anything he'd seen so far.
REWARD UNLOCKED: PIRLO'S PULSE (LV.1)
Enhanced passing vision, long-range distribution, and first-touch orchestration unlocked.
Influence increases in deeper midfield roles.
Nico blinked.
Then blinked again.
The letters pulsed for a moment longer, then faded gently into the darkness.
His chest rose.
Pirlo.
Not just a name. A blueprint. A maestro.
He closed his eyes, finally letting the tension drain from his body.
Whatever country he chose…
Wherever he played…
One thing was now certain.
He'd see the whole pitch differently.
The glowing text faded from his vision like mist dissolving in dawn.
Nico lay there, still staring at the ceiling, but something had shifted. Not just in his game. In his purpose.
This… this was perfect timing.
Because tomorrow — under the lights — Brentford would host Manchester United.
A team currently sitting third in the league. Full of internationals. Speed. Strength. Firepower. The type of side that punished hesitation. That turned weak moments into goals.
And Thomas Frank had given Nico the keys.
No shadow striker role this time.
He'd be starting in central midfield — deeper on the pitch, where the game pulsed hardest. Where passes had to be made before you received the ball. Where control was everything.
Josh Dasilva would move further forward into the number 10 role, tasked with breaking lines and pressing high.
But the heartbeat?
That would be Nico.
He was entrusted to set the rhythm. To absorb pressure. To dictate the tempo against one of the most aggressive midfields in the Premier League.
Frank had said it simply at the end of the last training session:
"I want to see how you cope… when there's fire around you."
Nico had nodded.
Now, as he rolled over and closed his eyes, one thought lingered behind the quiet hum of his dorm room.
Let them bring the fire.
He had Pirlo's Pulse now.
And he'd show them how to dance in the middle of it.
….
The studio lights glowed crisp and clinical against the midnight-blue set, Super Sunday's red and white logo rotating lazily behind the desk. Cameras rolled. The live feed was clean. And seated under the floodlights were four of football's most recognisable voices.
Jamie Carragher. Gary Neville. Roy Keane. Micah Richards.
All sat slightly forward in their seats — not out of nerves, but because tomorrow's clash had weight. History. Stakes.
3rd vs 5th. Old Trafford.
The host leaned in.
"Alright lads — tomorrow, it's Brentford away to Manchester United. A huge fixture in the context of the table, and one no one would've predicted to be this tight back in August. Gary — what are you expecting?"
Neville, in his classic sharp-nosed poise, gave a small breath before answering.
"I think it's a proper test for both sides. United are third, yes, but they've looked vulnerable. Brentford, on the other hand — they've got momentum, they're well-drilled, and now they've got something different in midfield."
He turned slightly, glancing toward Carragher with a knowing smirk.
Carragher didn't miss a beat.
"They've got Nico Varela," he said simply.
Micah laughed quietly, shaking his head. "Here we go…"
Carragher sat up straighter, a glint in his eye.
"Look, I know people might think we're getting carried away. But let's be honest — his last performance? That wasn't luck. That was control. He got a goal and two assists, ran Palace ragged. That backheel assist? The chip? That wasn't just flair — it was intelligence. The boy knows exactly what he's doing."
Roy Keane raised an eyebrow.
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Jamie," he muttered, arms folded tight across his chest. "He's had two games. You want to see a midfielder? Let's see him at Old Trafford. Against real pressure. Against Casemiro breathing down his neck."
Carragher chuckled. "And what if he thrives, Roy?"
Keane's lip twitched — the faintest grin.
"Then I'll be the first to say he's the real deal. But until then, save me the love letters."
Micah finally leaned in, wide smile on his face.
"He's already got the streets, Roy. Man's got fans making YouTube comps, kids copying his roulette in the playground. And the way he runs games? It's smooth. Old-school with new-school energy."
Neville nodded slightly, tapping the desk.
"What excites me most is what Thomas Frank's doing. Varela's not just in the team — he's being trusted to control the game tomorrow. Dasilva's being pushed further forward. That means Varela's in the engine room, at Old Trafford, tasked with matching — or outclassing — a midfield of Bruno, Casemiro, and Eriksen."
The host turned toward the graphic screen, which now showed the Premier League table:
Premier League Table – Top 7 (After 24 Games)
3. Manchester United – 49 pts
4. Newcastle – 44 pts
5. Brentford – 42 pts
6. Tottenham – 42 pts
7. Brighton – 41 pts
8. Liverpool – 39 pts
"That race for top four is wide open," the host said. "Micah?"
Micah's eyes lit up. "Every point matters now. And Brentford — I can't believe I'm saying this — are in it. A result at Old Trafford? And the whole top-four picture explodes."
Carragher leaned in again.
"If Varela shows up the way he did last week… I'd put money on it."
Keane simply stared at the screen, quiet for a second, then muttered:
"He's going to get kicked. Hard. Let's see if he kicks back."
The table faded from the screen, replaced by the Old Trafford skyline under Sunday sun.
Tomorrow wasn't just another Super Sunday.
It was the next chapter in Nico Varela's story.
And every pundit in that room — even Roy — would be watching.