The restaurant was discreet — tucked behind a row of lime-washed buildings in one of Mayfair's quieter streets. It didn't scream luxury, but the moment Nico and Harvey stepped inside, it was clear the place breathed wealth in every quiet corner. Crisp white tablecloths, polished silverware, the hush of conversation beneath jazz murmuring from hidden speakers. A waiter, clearly briefed in advance, ushered them to a private room toward the back — a sliding panel of frosted glass sealing off the space from the rest of the restaurant.
Inside, two men waited.
Both were in charcoal suits, not flashy but tailored to precision. One, broader with streaks of grey in his beard, stood first and extended a hand.
"Mr. Specter," he said in a thick German accent. "A pleasure."
"And this," the second added, thinner, clean-shaven, eyes sharp behind his glasses, "must be Nico Varela."
Nico shook both hands, giving a polite nod as Harvey introduced them. They were Leverkusen's international recruitment director and technical sporting advisor, flown in specifically for this sit-down. No presentations. No slideshow. Just words, conviction, and vision.
After some brief pleasantries and a round of sparkling water, they began.
"Our manager, Xabi Alonso," the director started, "is building something different. Not just a winning team — but a project. This season, we've surprised people. Next season, we want to dominate."
The thinner man leaned forward slightly, hands folded. "But to dominate, we need clarity. Control. Most of our games this year have been high-tempo — chaotic, even. That's partly the nature of Alonso's system — a dynamic 3-4-2-1 that overloads wide and transitions quickly. It works — when we have the right anchor."
He tapped his finger lightly on the table.
"We don't. Not yet."
The first man continued. "We need someone to knit the game together. Not the one playing the final pass — but the one who plays the pass before that. The one who sees the picture ten seconds earlier than anyone else. We believe Nico is that player."
Nico didn't react immediately. He was listening, absorbing. He'd heard words like this before. But this… this was different. There was no ego behind their pitch. No rehearsed performance. Just football people talking football.
"Xabi Alonso," the second man added, "sees you as the heartbeat of this project. Not a starlet. Not a mascot. A manager on the pitch. A conduit. Someone who can change the temperature of a match with one touch."
Harvey, who had been watching closely, finally spoke.
"And what of his game time?" he asked calmly.
The sporting advisor didn't hesitate.
"Xabi is clear. Nico would be a crucial piece next season. Not someone phased in slowly. But he is fifteen. So, naturally, we'd manage his load. It's not about protecting our investment — it's about protecting him. The body can't take too much too soon. But the trust? That's already there. He'd start games. He'd finish them too. Alonso's already drawn up two variations of his system with Nico involved."
Harvey gave a small, approving nod, then glanced toward Nico.
The boy's expression was unreadable — not cold, not detached. Just still. His eyes, however, gave it away. There was curiosity there. A fire that hadn't flickered during most of the national team discussions or academy talks.
Leverkusen weren't offering him praise. They were offering him responsibility.
The technical advisor pulled a thin folder from a briefcase at his side. "Inside," he said, sliding it across the table, "is a full outline. Tactical breakdowns. Squad rotation. The roadmap from now to April next season. You'll find your name printed on every version."
Nico opened the folder gently. It wasn't thick. Just a few sheets — diagrams, heatmaps, notes scribbled in clean German script. In one layout, his name sat at the base of a midfield three. In another, in a double pivot alongside a box-to-box runner. But in both, he was central. Circled. Highlighted.
A nucleus.
Harvey leaned in. "It's a compelling offer," he said diplomatically.
The Leverkusen director smiled. "We don't do performances. Just plans."
There was a pause.
Nico finally closed the folder.
"I appreciate the honesty," he said quietly.
And he meant it.
No fluff. No social media campaigns. No promises of marketing glory. Just a role. A system. A belief.
The kind of belief he'd been waiting to hear from someone at the top table.
Harvey checked his watch. "We've got two more meetings today," he said, rising smoothly. "But thank you, gentlemen. We'll be in touch."
They shook hands again, firm grips, respectful nods. As they stepped back into the cool London air, Nico exhaled, slow and long.
"Well?" Harvey asked.
Nico didn't answer. Not yet. But his eyes told the story.
For the first time in weeks, maybe longer — he was thinking about something real. A place to play. To lead. To build.
And it had come from a restaurant booth in Mayfair, not a national camp, not a youth setup, not a club who called him special but still left him on the bench.
This?
This was different.
….
The sun had begun to dip, casting a golden hue over the dashboard as Harvey drove through the quiet streets, the cityscape giving way to the humbler rhythm of the suburbs. Nico sat in the passenger seat, his head leaned slightly against the window, replaying the day's meetings in his mind — each pitch, each diagram, each handshake. His body was tired, but his thoughts were wired.
"So," Harvey asked, breaking the silence with a glance sideways, "rank them."
Nico didn't need to think long. "Leverkusen first. Dortmund second. Marseille third."
"That quick, huh?"
Nico smirked. "Let Dortmund mention Jude Bellingham one more time and they're dropping to third."
Harvey burst out laughing. "Seriously. I think they said his name more times than yours — and they were supposed to be pitching you."
"Exactly. Like, I get it, Jude's world-class, but I'm not trying to be the next Bellingham. I'm trying to be the first Varela."
Harvey nodded, amused. "Fair enough. Marseille?"
"They were alright," Nico shrugged. "Pitch was a bit all over the place though. And I dunno… Ligue 1 just doesn't hit the same. Feels like a Farmers League sometimes."
Harvey chuckled. "They're trying. I'll give them that. But yeah, it lacked the structure Leverkusen had."
"Leverkusen just… got it, man. It wasn't about hype. They showed me who I'd be. Not who they wanted me to be, but who I already was."
"Exactly," Harvey agreed. "Alonso's vision is sharp. You'd grow under that man."
The conversation faded into a reflective silence as the car turned into a more familiar street — rows of council flats lined neatly, a few kids playing football with jumpers as goalposts under flickering streetlights. The Audi stood out in the neighbourhood like a diamond in a pile of pebbles, but Harvey wasn't the type to care.
"So," Nico asked as they pulled up, "you going to the Atlético and Inter meetings tomorrow?"
"Yup. Shame you can't come, but you've got training," Harvey said, shifting into park. "I'll update you on everything — full rundown."
Nico nodded. "Got it."
Harvey tapped his fingers on the wheel for a moment. "You alright, kid?"
Nico looked at him. "Yeah. Just… it's all happening so fast, y'know?"
Harvey offered a small smile. "That's what happens when you're this good. Get used to it."
Nico pushed the door open. "Thanks for the ride."
"Anytime, kiddo. Rest up."
He closed the door and gave Harvey a wave before turning toward the apartment building. The bricks were familiar. The chipped paint on the buzzer. The smell of someone's cooking drifting from an open window. He climbed the stairs two at a time and knocked.
The door swung open.
"Nico!" his mum said, her arms wrapping tightly around him before he could step inside. "It feels like I haven't seen you in forever."
"Missed you too," he murmured into her shoulder.
She pulled him inside, immediately fussing over his jacket, asking if he'd eaten, if he was warm enough, if he was tired — all in rapid-fire Spanish like she hadn't drawn breath since he left.
They sat at the kitchen table, the same one Nico had done his schoolwork on just last year. The room smelled of cinnamon and warmth, the windows slightly steamed. Nico told her everything — the camp, the France match, the goal, the meetings, even the free-kick highlight that went viral. She listened without interrupting, eyes shining, pride practically radiating from her.
"And Harvey's got more meetings tomorrow," he finished. "It's been… a lot."
His mum reached across and squeezed his hand.
"You're handling it well."
He hesitated for a moment, then glanced at her with a different kind of seriousness.
"So, Mum," he began, "I've been meaning to ask you something."
She looked at him, sensing the shift.
"I got paid the other day. First time. Straight to my account," he said. "And I want to give it to you."
Her face shifted immediately.
"No, Nico."
"Why not?" he pressed. "It's enough to cover the rent. The bills. For months. You could stop working. You could rest. That was part of the reason I wanted to go pro. So you don't have to lift a finger ever again."
His mother's expression softened, her eyes growing wet. She stood behind him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, holding him like she used to when he was younger and unsure of the world.
"Listen, mi amor," she said softly, "when I got my first paycheck — working at a souvenir shop in Madrid — I tried to give it all to my mum. And she told me something I'll never forget. She said: 'Giving your first accomplishment to me will do me more harm than good. The guilt would eat me alive.'"
Nico didn't say anything. He just stared forward, taking it in.
"She said, 'You earned that. Not for me. For yourself. Let it be yours. Celebrate it. Feel it.' And now I'm telling you the same thing."
She kissed the top of his head.
"This first paycheck? It's yours. Every penny. Buy yourself something stupid. Or save it. Or spend it all on food. I don't care. But let it be yours."
Nico swallowed, his throat tight.
"So I can't give you anything?"
His mum smiled, wiping her eyes and returning to her seat. "The next one, I'll take a little. Okay?"
"Fine," Nico said stubbornly, a crooked smile forming.
"You're a good boy," she said. "And a better man than I could've ever hoped for."
For a moment, they just sat there — two people who had shared every fight, every meal, every fear, and now… every dream.
In the quiet hum of their kitchen, Nico Varela let himself exhale.
…
The sun was still climbing when Nico left his mum's flat the next morning, hoodie pulled over his head and duffel bag hanging off his shoulder. The city was just waking up — shop shutters rattling open, a milk van rumbling by, birds chirping from rooftops. The streets of West London were quiet, familiar, peaceful.
He arrived back at Brentford's training ground just past 8 a.m., swiping his key card at the entrance. The receptionist gave him a knowing smile. "Welcome back, superstar."
Nico grinned. "Morning."
He made his way down the hallway toward the dressing rooms, the buzz of conversation growing louder with every step — thuds of boots, the low rumble of voices, the distant whistle of staff prepping the pitches.
He stepped through the door.
"Look who's back," came a familiar voice.
Ivan Toney, half-dressed and sat on the bench, smirked at him while tightening his laces. "Didn't think you'd show up after missing Fulham."
Nico smirked as he dropped his bag. "Yeah, thought I'd let you lot struggle for once."
Toney scoffed, but it was all love. "You see that midfield without you? Looked like we were playing with no signal."
That got a few chuckles from around the room. Mbeumo raised a hand from the physio table. "That pass I got from Zanka? Nearly took my ankle off."
"Should've been 4–0," Nørgaard chimed in. "Instead, we're scrambling to hold a lead."
Nico chuckled, pulling on his training top and sitting down between Dasilva and Roerslev. The dressing room felt alive again — the jokes, the camaraderie, the slight edge of competitiveness in every look. Even after just a few days away, he'd missed it.
Toney leaned over. "You're really him though. Back-to-back man of the matches and the whole world chatting your name."
Nico shrugged modestly. "Just playing my game."
"Better keep doing that," Toney replied. "Southampton away next. They're fighting for points like it's their last meal."
The chatter hushed as Thomas Frank entered, clipboard tucked under his arm.
"Alright boys," he called out. "Let's settle."
He waited a moment before continuing.
"We've got a full week to prepare for Sunday. Away at Southampton. They're bottom half, but that doesn't mean anything. They're desperate and we're not handing out gifts."
A few nods around the room.
Frank glanced briefly at Nico, then addressed the group again. "Good to have everyone back. We've been good. But now's the time to push — no dips, no sloppiness. Champions League football is right there if we want it."
That pulled everyone upright. The energy shifted. Eyes sharpened.
"Pitch in ten," Frank said. "Bring it."
As the manager walked out, Nico finished tying his boots, slung his bag over his shoulder, and stood. Toney gave him a fist bump. "Let's cook."
Nico bumped him back. "You already know."
And with that, the team filtered out into the corridor, boots clacking on the tiles, the scent of grass and cold morning air waiting for them outside.
Another week. Another game.
Business as usual.
…
Brentford FC - Instagram Post
Photo: Nico Varela mid-rainbow flick, the ball arcing gracefully over Jensen's head during training. Nico's expression is calm, casual. Jensen's mid-duck, clearly caught off guard. Behind them, the other players burst into laughter.
Caption:
Training or carnival?
Nico Varela pulling out the rainbow flick in today's session.
#BrentfordFC #VarelaVision #PremierLeague
Top Comments:
@premvision:
Bro's turning training into futsal.
@JensenOfficial:
You wait till rondo, Nico.
@ballerseye:
He's actually unreal. Who rainbow flicks their own teammate mid-session??
@VarelaEra:
My winger and my controller in one. You can't teach this.
@nextgenreports:
The confidence, the balance, the audacity — Varela might be the most technically gifted 15-year-old in world football.
@footy_reactions:
Jensen: am I a joke to you?
@CBF_Futebol (verified):
O menino joga!
….
Harvey Specter had long learned how to control a room — from boardrooms to locker rooms, from solicitors in Savile Row suits to football execs with gold buttons and coffee-stained agendas. But there was something about Madrid that forced even him to slow down.
The sun had barely crested the red-tiled roofs as he walked into the glass-panelled private suite of Atlético's training complex — alone. No Nico today. The boy had training. Harvey had told him: Focus on the pitch. I'll handle the sharks.
And sharks they were — dressed in polished leather shoes, olive-toned jackets, and that Madrid smugness that came from surviving a hundred transfer windows with their names still relevant.
The room smelled like cedar and ambition. Two men stood waiting. Jorge Espina — Atlético's Director of Youth Development — and Felipe Morata, Simeone's right-hand man.
"Harvey," Jorge said with a handshake that was both welcoming and firm. "We're honoured."
Harvey smiled politely. "Let's see if you keep saying that by the end of the meeting."
Espina chuckled and gestured to the small round table. Coffee, still steaming, was waiting. "Let's talk Varela."
They didn't waste time. Harvey liked that.
Felipe spoke first. "We're not going to flatter you with fake words. We've seen the footage. Not just the Arsenal match or the France free kick. We've studied the Brentford games. The Palace link-ups. The Man United dominance. He's not a wonderkid. He's an architect."
Harvey leaned back, listening.
"We don't want him in three years," Felipe continued. "We want him in six months. Simeone believes he can mould him into a different kind of midfield — one that presses like Gabi, dictates like Koke, and carries the ball like… well, like only he does."
"Position?" Harvey asked.
"Left of a midfield three," Jorge answered. "But with freedom. We'll build the shape to suit him. Not just wedge him into it."
Harvey raised an eyebrow. "You know he's still fifteen."
"We know," Felipe said. "But so was Torres. So was João Félix when the pressure landed. We don't fear youth. We prepare it."
"And what of game time?" Harvey pressed, his tone now cooled with precision.
Jorge didn't flinch. "He plays. Not every game. But real minutes. Not scraps."
It was a good pitch. Clean. Tactical. Visionary. The Spaniards knew how to sell.
Harvey took his leave thirty minutes later, buttoning up his coat as he stepped into the brisk Madrid air. His driver was already waiting to take him to the airport.
Next stop: Milan.
…
Inter Milan's headquarters in Appiano Gentile felt like a cathedral.
Old-world architecture met modern flair. Dark mahogany doors. Mosaic floors. Photos of legends — Bergomi, Zanetti, Pirlo in his early days. History lived in the hallways here. You didn't just walk through — you walked among echoes.
The meeting room was smaller than Atlético's. More personal. Inside were two men — Federico Basile, Inter's Director of Strategic Development, and Valerio di Rossi, a former midfielder who now worked as a transition coach.
"Mr Specter," Basile greeted. "You don't look jetlagged."
"I don't do jetlag," Harvey replied with a wry grin.
Inter's pitch was different. More emotional. Less tactical diagrams, more legacy talk.
"We've watched Varela," Basile said. "We've watched him longer than most realise. Before Arsenal. Before England-France. We watched him get dropped by Palace and still show up the next day to run drills alone at 6 a.m."
That caught Harvey's attention.
"We value that spirit," di Rossi added. "He doesn't play football. He speaks it."
Harvey nodded slowly, letting them continue.
"We won't lie. Serie A is demanding. But in Italy, we raise midfielders. We teach them the art. What Spain calls rhythm, we call geometry. And this boy — Varela — he's geometry in motion."
Harvey's fingers tapped lightly against the armrest.
"We'd play him as a deep regista," Basile said. "Like Pirlo in his prime. Someone who starts every attack, dictates tempo, draws defenders out of position with the weight of a pass."
They didn't mention his age once. They didn't have to.
"And game time?" Harvey asked again, because it always came down to that.
"Integrated," di Rossi said. "Responsibly. But with intent. We want him to shadow Barella. To learn the league the right way. And when he's ready — he won't just be good. He'll be inevitable."
They ended with a gift — a framed, signed photo of Pirlo, with a handwritten note from the maestro himself: "To Nico. Make the game sing."
Harvey didn't smile. But inside, he knew this would mean something to the kid.
Later that night, in the back of a car cruising through Milan's twilight, Harvey sat with his phone in hand, reviewing notes.
Atlético: fire, grit, a place to become a warrior.
Inter: poise, philosophy, a place to become a conductor.
Leverkusen: freedom, clarity — maybe the perfect balance.
He sighed and texted Nico:
"All done. We need to talk soon. Each club wants you — but each for a different reason."
Nico replied instantly:
"How different?"
Harvey typed, then paused.
He looked out the window at the glowing city skyline and thought about how fast this had all come — the boy on the pitch with no club just months ago… now the epicentre of European dreams.
Then he typed back:
"Different enough to change your life."
——-
So practically narrowed down to 3.
I have already made my decision but where would you guys like to see nico play for?
Inter
Atletico
Leverkusen
Anyways enjoy this chapter. We go back to some gameplay next chapter.