The Sky Sports studio lights glowed warmly in the aftermath of another chaotic Premier League weekend. The ticker at the bottom of the screen displayed full-time scores from across the country.
Brentford 3 – 2 Fulham flashed briefly.
Jamie Carragher leaned forward, glancing at the updated table on the studio screen.
"Look at that — Brentford now up to 48 points. That puts them 5th, and importantly, gives them a bit of breathing room over Tottenham, who are sitting on 45. They're not just knocking on the door anymore — they're fully in the race for Champions League football."
Micah Richards nodded. "And they've still got momentum. That win over United wasn't a fluke — they dominated the midfield. Varela, again, making all the difference."
Gary Neville frowned slightly. "It's impressive, but let's not forget — the pressure builds now. They're being taken seriously. The run-in won't be easy."
Carragher grinned. "Sure. But if you're Brentford right now, you're dreaming big. And with Varela playing like he is? Why not?"
Gary Neville leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes still lingering on the highlights from the Brentford match.
"Tell you what," he said. "Brentford looked shaky without Varela in there. They missed that midfield control. They could've used him today."
Jamie Carragher nodded, chuckling.
"Speaking of that lad," he said, glancing toward the camera. "There was a closed-doors England U18 friendly this week. England vs France. Not much press around it, but it ended 3–3 — apparently a proper entertaining one."
Micah Richards leaned forward. "Wait, wait — was this the one where Varela did something mad?"
Jamie grinned. "Exactly that. Now — we've just been given permission to show a clip. Only one, mind you. And we had to pick carefully."
The feed cut to a clip marked Exclusive: England U18 vs France U18 (Closed Doors) in the corner of the screen.
"This is the last-minute equaliser. A free kick. And trust me — this isn't your average youth highlight."
The footage rolled.
Nico stood over the ball, 25 yards out, calm as ice. A wall of French players stood ready. The ball was struck — whipped with finesse and venom, curling over the wall and nestling perfectly in the top corner. No chance for the keeper. The net bulged. The England players swarmed.
Back in the studio, the clip faded.
Gary whistled. "That… is perfection."
Jamie nodded, eyebrows raised. "That's a Premier League-level free kick, right there. That's not hype — that's technique, confidence, and execution. And he's what, fifteen?"
Micah chuckled. "That boy's cooking already."
Jamie added, "Apparently he scored one, assisted another, ran the midfield. France had Zaire-Emery, Tel, Doué — and Varela was still the standout."
Gary leaned back. "There's no way Brentford hold onto him for long."
Jamie grinned. "Not if that's what he's pulling off in youth internationals."
The conversation turned to upcoming England youth fixtures — but the studio was still buzzing with one name.
Nico Varela.
…
The FA's top floor meeting room gleamed in soft morning light, glass walls overlooking the manicured pitches of St. George's Park. Around the long, oval table sat the men responsible for shaping the future of English football — coaches, scouts, analysts, department heads. A paused clip of Nico Varela's free kick sat frozen on every tablet screen in the room.
Gareth Southgate leaned forward, arms folded, voice firm yet calm.
"So Pendlebury — your thoughts?"
Jonathan Pendlebury, U18s coach, cleared his throat and began, "Well, it was a tough ga—"
Southgate cut him off gently, but decisively.
"No. I want your thoughts on the boy. Varela. Is he ready?"
Pendlebury shared a quick glance with his assistant before answering.
"We don't believe he is."
Murmurs passed quietly down the table. Southgate didn't blink.
"And why is that?"
Pendlebury spoke slowly, choosing his words with care.
"Nico thrives when the game runs through him. That's how he dominates. He's not the kind of player you tuck into a corner of the pitch and wait for a moment. He needs control. At senior level — with players like Bellingham, Foden, Kane, and Saka — he wouldn't get that space. He's too young, too inexperienced. The physicality, the pace… he'd get lost."
"We think the best thing for his development is to keep him in the U18s for now. Maybe fast-track him to the U21s by the end of the season. Let him grow. Let him lead before he has to follow."
Southgate leaned back, neutral. But the silence that followed didn't last.
Lee Carsley, the U21s manager, broke it.
"I disagree."
The heads around the table turned toward him.
"I've been watching a lot of his games this past month — not just that France match. Club footage. Academy sessions. He's already at the level of some of the lads in my squad. Honestly, I'd argue he's beyond a few. If Jude ever needs a rest, we don't have many who can step in and truly influence a game. Varela can. Even off the bench."
One of the technical coaches scoffed lightly and leaned forward.
"What's he doing that someone like Mason Mount or Curtis Jones isn't?"
Carsley turned to face him directly.
"You're not serious, are you?"
A few brows rose.
"That kid's generational. You don't sit on that. You don't shelve it and hope he waits around. You let him know he's part of the future. Because if we don't, someone else will. Spain, Italy, Brazil — they're already circling."
Another coach, more senior, folded his arms.
"No one's bigger than our country. If he wants to walk away from England to play for whoever, let him. We don't gift senior caps just to keep a player loyal. This isn't politics, it's football."
"That kind of stubbornness," Carsley fired back, "is why we lose players. If you can't see the talent dripping off this boy, then you're blind."
The room tightened.
Southgate raised a hand. "Alright, let's settle down."
The tension simmered.
"Lee, no one's denying his talent. That's clear. But we have to think about the team dynamic. You don't throw a 15-year-old into a senior side that's being built around players like Foden, Bellingham, and Kane. Chemistry matters. Balance matters. We need to manage him properly."
Carsley muttered under his breath, just loud enough for the others to hear:
"We're going to regret this. Badly."
Southgate held his gaze for a beat, then stood.
"Meeting over. Thank you, everyone."
Chairs shifted, tablets clicked closed. The coaches filed out, some in quiet conversation, others alone in thought. Carsley was the last to leave, jaw tight, frustration written across his face.
Behind them all, on the screen still glowing at the centre of the table, Nico Varela stood frozen in mid-celebration — arms half-raised, eyes lit with fire, as if daring someone to underestimate him again.
…
The hotel room was packed.
Six boys, two beds, one PS5 — the air buzzing with laughter, jeers, and half-finished insults. The TV blared FIFA commentary as Tyler tried (and failed) to defend against Jobe, who was ruthlessly spamming skill moves with Mbappé.
Nico sat on the floor, back against the bed, scrolling through his phone while waiting for his turn.
"Can't believe no one gets to watch my masterclass, man," he muttered, thumb flicking idly across the screen. "My friends back home are begging for the highlights."
"Wait, what do you mean?" Jayden asked, pausing his sip of Lucozade. "We couldn't share the game around?"
Myles looked up from his phone. "Nah. Coach said it was exclusive. Internal use only. Don't tell me you leaked it?"
Jayden blinked, laughed nervously. "I may have… sent it to my old man back home."
Everyone groaned.
"Jayden!" Tyler said, throwing a balled-up sock at him.
"Not gonna lie," Jobe added with a sheepish grin, "I sent it to my brother too."
Ethan raised an eyebrow. "You guys are unserious. I sent it to Saka. And a couple boys from Hale End. But like… privately."
Nico laughed, eyes still on his phone. "If coach finds out, you man are finished."
"Too late," Tyler muttered.
Everyone looked up.
"What?" Ethan said.
"Look." Tyler flipped his phone around. On his screen, a video was playing. A Twitter post. High quality. Crisp editing. The caption:
"Exclusive: England vs France U18s Highlights (3–3 Draw)"
Underneath: 401.7K views — and climbing.
"Flip," Jobe muttered. "Already?"
Jayden's jaw dropped. "I swear it wasn't me—well, not properly me."
"Yo, scroll the replies," Ethan said, leaning in.
Tyler did. The boys huddled around as the comments flew past.
"Who is that #6? Varela?? That boy is a freak."
"This is why England have to cap early. Brazil, Spain, Morocco — they're watching."
"If this kid's 15 I'm deleting FIFA and learning carpentry."
"He's playing like it's his pitch and everyone else is just renting time."
"This isn't a highlight reel. This is proof he's HIM."
"Yo…" Jayden said, eyes wide. "You're famous. Again."
"Proper viral," Myles added. "People are already putting together comps."
Nico didn't say anything for a few seconds. He just stared at the clip of his free kick on loop — the curve, the net ripple, the crowd of players swarming him.
Then he chuckled, sitting back against the mattress.
"Suppose it wasn't so exclusive after all."
Tyler laughed. "Should we tell Coach?"
"Nope," Ethan said. "Let him find out naturally. I value my legs."
Jayden groaned, rolling onto the bed dramatically. "Coach is gonna grill me. If we end up doing laps tomorrow, I'll actually swing for my dad."
"Don't blame us when Pendlebury's making you carry cones all week," Jobe said.
"Cones are light," Jayden muttered. "It's the guilt that's heavy."
They all cracked up.
Then Nico's phone buzzed — a direct message.
He opened it.
Blue tick.
@CBF_Futebol:
"Keep doing your thing, garoto. The yellow shirt is waiting."
Nico stared at the message.
His smile faded slightly — not out of fear, but weight. The gravity of it.
The boys kept arguing about FIFA tactics in the background, but Nico just watched the screen, thumb hovering over the reply button.
One viral game, one leaked video…
And the world was watching.
Again.
He dropped onto the bed next to Jobe, grabbing a controller.
"What's the score?"
"2–0 to Myles," Ethan said. "You're next."
Nico smiled. "Light work."
The controller buzzed in his hand.
…
The soft morning light pushed its way through the thin white curtains of the dorm room, casting a pale glow over the scattered boots and crumpled kits. The usual chatter and thuds of football boots being packed into duffel bags echoed faintly through the hallway — a sign that camp was ending. Today was the last day. Players were heading home. Some already gone, others saying rushed goodbyes in the corridor. The place felt less like St. George's Park and more like a school on the final day of term — only quieter.
Nico sat at the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, scrolling slowly through the football app on his phone. The duvet behind him was barely disturbed — he hadn't slept much.
The last week had dragged in a way he hadn't expected. Training had continued, but nothing had come close to the high of the France match. The drills felt slower. The sessions lacked edge. Even the friendly against the U21s — a game that had some buzz around it — felt hollow. Nico hadn't played. Pendlebury had pulled him aside and told him it was about giving others minutes. "You've already shown enough," he'd said with a polite smile.
Nico had nodded and stayed silent, but the sting of being left out still burned. He'd watched from the sideline, arms folded, knowing full well that he could've changed the tempo, could've influenced the game. Instead, he'd stood in a jacket, clapping when required, keeping quiet.
Now, he stared at the score on screen.
Everton 1-0 Brentford
His jaw tensed slightly. Toney had started. Mbeumo too. They'd gone in strong, full-strength, and still lost. Something clearly hadn't clicked.
Nico locked his phone and leaned back, exhaling toward the ceiling. There was a subtle ache in his legs from the week's training, but not the good kind — not the kind that came from improvement or competition. This was the ache of idleness, of not being tested enough.
His phone buzzed.
Harvey Specter — Incoming Call
He answered. "Morning."
"Morning," Harvey replied, crisp and composed as ever. "They've seen the footage."
Nico sat up a little straighter. "Clubs?"
"Yep. And they're not just scouting anymore — they're moving. I've already lined up meetings."
There was a pause. Nico didn't need to ask who.
"Dortmund. Marseille. Leverkusen. Inter Milan. Atlético Madrid," Harvey said, calmly listing them off like he'd done it a dozen times before.
"Damn," Nico murmured.
"That's what happens when you perform," Harvey said smoothly. "You've done your job — now I'll do mine. I'll be outside in twenty. Dress smart. First meeting's important."
The call ended.
Nico stayed seated for a moment, letting the words settle. Then he stood, walked across the room, and zipped up his duffel bag. His reflection in the mirror looked sharp — black jumper, grey joggers, trainers spotless. Calm face, steady eyes.
He scanned the room one last time. Jobe's bed was already stripped. A water bottle rolled near the bin. His boots were still drying by the radiator.
He picked up his phone and stepped into the corridor.
Most of the boys were still packing or heading to breakfast, dragging bags behind them. Some offered nods as he passed. The hallway smelled like shower steam, Lynx Africa, and tired excitement. The kind of smell you only get at the end of something big.
As he passed the main meeting room, he caught sight of Coach Pendlebury through the glass. The man was seated alone with a coffee, scrolling on his iPad. Their eyes met for half a second.
Neither of them waved.
…
Outside, the wind met him gently. It smelled of cut grass and fresh spring rain. Parked ahead, sleek and black, was Harvey's Audi. The man himself leaned against the passenger door, dark wool coat draped perfectly over a fitted black turtleneck, sunglasses already on despite the grey sky.
"You're early," Harvey said, straightening up.
"You said twenty," Nico replied, placing his bag in the back seat.
"That's why I like working with you." Harvey smirked. "Always on time."
They slid into the car. The leather seats were warm. Nico fastened his seatbelt as Harvey eased out onto the main road, the academy fields slowly rolling past his window. Some boys were still doing laps, kicking balls around lazily. For a second, it all looked so far away — like something he'd already outgrown.
"So," Nico said, eyes still on the window, "what's the plan?"
Harvey glanced over. "First stop — Leverkusen. Their international recruitment director's in town. Wants to meet face-to-face. They've got everything mapped: development timeline, training integration, Bundesliga projections. Even their media team's got a rollout plan ready. They're serious."
Nico nodded, listening.
"They'll all try to sell you something. Big promises, exciting facilities, first-team minutes, Champions League by year two," Harvey continued. "Some will be slick. Others will try to appeal to your emotions. Just listen. Stay sharp. I'll handle the business. You figure out where you feel like you belong."
Nico didn't reply, but his expression said enough.
The car sped up gently, the hum of the road growing steady beneath them.
He glanced out the window again. The final bits of St. George's Park disappeared behind them — green pitches, glass buildings, muddy boots, quiet frustrations.
They drove in silence for a while, the low hum of the Audi's engine merging with the soft hiss of rain beginning to tap against the windshield. Harvey kept one hand on the steering wheel, eyes on the road, but every so often, he'd glance at Nico — reading his posture, the silence, the way he stared out of the window like his mind was miles ahead of the car.
Finally, Harvey spoke.
"So," he said casually, "how was the camp?"
Nico didn't answer right away. He leaned his elbow on the window, head resting lightly against his hand.
"I don't know," he said.
Harvey raised a brow. "You don't know?"
Nico sat back in his seat, exhaled. "It was fun. I enjoyed it. The lads were cool. Game against France was good — intense. But…" He hesitated, trying to find the right words. "I'm not being pushed. Not really. Everything after that match just felt slow. Predictable. Like I was watching the game two seconds ahead of everyone."
Harvey nodded slightly, letting him talk.
"And it's not just that," Nico continued, voice calmer now. "It's the coaches. I get the sense they're not planning on moving me up. Not to the U21s, not the senior setup. They're talking about keeping me in the U18s for development. But… I don't want to be stagnant."
"Hmm," Harvey murmured, thoughtful. "So, England's out?"
Nico shook his head. "Nah. Not completely. Just…" He trailed off again, pressing his lips together for a second. "They're not out. But if they're not going to back me properly — if they don't see what I see — then I'm not going to wait around for a handout. There are other options."
Harvey gave a slow nod, gripping the wheel a little tighter as they joined the motorway.
"That makes sense," he said. "You want to be somewhere you're not just accepted — but unleashed."
Nico glanced sideways, eyes sharp now. "Exactly."
Harvey smiled faintly. "Well. Good thing we're on our way to meet people who feel the same way."
The Audi sped forward, rain streaking across the windows like whispers on glass. Behind them, the echoes of national colours and cautious coaches faded into the distance. Ahead — five clubs, five offers, and one future waiting to be shaped.
——
Dont know how to feel about this chapter, but need it to push the story along.
Enjoy the read.