The sun sat low above the Community Stadium, casting long shadows across the pitch. Brentford were in their light red and white stripes today, Leicester in navy. The fans were buzzing, but there was a certain tension in the air — the kind that whispered that something wasn't going to go to plan.
Nico stood beside Nørgaard in the midfield, the two of them forming the core of Thomas Frank's new 5-2-3 setup. It was more defensive than usual — a shape meant to absorb pressure and hit on the counter. Wissa, Toney, and Mbeumo led the line. Three centre-backs behind. But as the opening whistle blew and the match started to unfold, it was clear Brentford weren't dictating. They were holding on.
Still, Nico moved like water in midfield — flowing, shifting angles, finding passing lanes in places most couldn't imagine. In the 12th minute, he flicked a ball around a pressing midfielder with the outside of his foot and released Wissa down the flank, drawing an audible gasp from the crowd. A few minutes later, he intercepted a loose ball and played a quick one-two with Toney before laying it off to Mbeumo, whose shot sailed wide.
Then, everything changed.
In the 23rd minute, Nørgaard slid in for a challenge on Dewsbury-Hall — late, high, studs-up. No hesitation from the ref.
Red card.
Nørgaard was stunned. So were the fans. But the decision stood.
Nico didn't react. He just exhaled and walked slowly toward the halfway line, alone now. Alone in the centre of the storm.
It was now a one-man midfield.
The game resumed. And the war began.
Leicester swarmed him. Three at a time. They pressed him on every touch, hacked at his ankles, shadowed him on every turn. He was being hunted. But he didn't flinch.
A high ball dropped from the sky — a hopeful hoof from their backline. Three blue shirts tracked underneath it, waiting to pounce. But Nico beat them all, leaping into the air and stretching out his right leg in a full extension. Somehow, impossibly, he controlled the ball on the tip of his boot. It stuck, dropped, and with the next movement — before it even hit the ground — he volleyed it sideways to Wissa.
The crowd lost it.
It wasn't even a chance. But it was brilliance.
Still, he couldn't control the game like he wanted to. There were too many gaps. Too much chaos. The structure had collapsed. But he kept fighting. Sliding tackles, shoulder-to-shoulder duels, pressing players 30 yards out from his own box. He had no cover. No partner. Just a fire in his chest and a will not to break.
But in the 52nd minute, Leicester struck.
A corner. Poor marking. The ball whipped in, glanced off a head, and rattled the net. 0–1.
Nico stared at the ground for a second. Hands on his hips. Sweat dripping from his jaw. He wasn't angry. He was furious. And even more determined.
By the 70th minute, he looked exhausted. His socks were sagging. His movement slower. But still, he pressed. Still, he believed.
He picked off a pass near the halfway line — dispossessed a fullback who got too casual — and spun away from him with a sharp step. He lifted his head and launched a 40-yard diagonal to Mbeumo, who was racing toward goal. Nico dropped to a knee, watching.
Mbeumo struck it… wide.
Nico slammed his palm against the turf, then stood up, breathing heavily.
From the goal kick, he did something unthinkable.
The ball was launched long — another aerial challenge, another 50/50. But Nico didn't just win it. He controlled it with his chest, spun on the spot, and dribbled directly into the teeth of the Leicester midfield. One came in — he chopped inside. Another — he turned back and skipped through a gap. A third lunged — Nico flicked the ball through his legs and recovered it on the other side.
Now in the final third, he spotted Toney peeling off his man and unleashed a trivela pass — a slicing, curving ball through the heart of the Leicester backline.
Toney latched on. One-on-one.
He shot — but the keeper saved.
Brentford groaned. Again, so close.
Then, in the 79th minute, Brentford won a corner. It felt like a final breath. One last push.
The crowd stood.
Nico jogged toward the box. His legs were heavy. His chest was thudding. But his eyes were sharp.
Mbeumo jogged over to take it. He glanced at Nico once. They didn't need to speak.
The ball was whipped in, high and fast — curling into the heart of the box. Nico ran late, arcing around a pack of defenders. He leapt — hung in the air like he didn't weigh a thing — and smashed his forehead against the ball.
The net rippled.
1–1.
The stadium erupted.
Nico sprinted toward the corner flag, adrenaline silencing the pain. He dropped to his knees in a slide, fists clenched, mouth open in a roar. His teammates piled on top of him.
He had done it.
He had dragged them back.
When the final whistle blew, he dropped to the ground, flat on his back, arms spread wide, staring at the sky. The Leicester players walked off quietly. Brentford fans were still chanting his name.
Thomas Frank looked down the sideline at his coaching staff and simply shook his head.
"What a player," he whispered. "What a player."
Nico stood. Limped slightly. But smiled.
He wasn't unbreakable.
But today, he'd been close.
….
The atmosphere in the executive box had been muted for most of the match — until Nico Varela began dragging Brentford back into the game singlehandedly.
Gareth Southgate sat beside Lee Carsley, arms folded, eyes locked on the pitch as Nico won yet another duel in the middle of the park, covering ground like a machine and spraying passes with elegance that belied the chaos around him.
Then came the goal.
Varela's run. The perfect leap. The clean, crushing header. And the eruption of the crowd.
The two men in suits exchanged a look. Lee was the first to speak.
"Was I right," he said with a wry grin, "or was I right?"
Southgate's expression was unreadable, but his next words were sharp.
"Pendlebury has some explaining to do."
He exhaled through his nose, eyes returning to the pitch where Nico was being mobbed by teammates.
"If we lose out on this talent because of his poor judgement," Southgate continued, voice low and tense, "he'll never see the inside of St George's again. This is already one of the best midfielders in England."
Lee didn't respond immediately. He just nodded once.
"We can't lose him," Southgate added. "Imagine the backlash if he gets swooped up by Italy and they thrash us in five years with a midfield led by a kid we let slip."
Lee finally turned to him. "So how do we win him back?"
Southgate looked as if he'd already asked himself that question a hundred times in the past week.
Lee answered for him.
"Simple. I'm giving him a starting role in my U21s. It's not enough, not after Pendlebury sidelined him and let him rot during that camp. But it's a start."
Southgate was quiet.
Lee leaned back, his voice more resolute now. "We show him that we see it now. That we value him. That we're not going to wait for Spain or Italy or Brazil to do what we should've done weeks ago."
Gareth finally gave a slight nod.
"Do it," he said. "Before it's too late."
…
The office was quiet, bathed in warm downlights and the soft hum of city life beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, London simmered under midnight — glowing red brake lights, distant horns, the low thrum of planes overhead. Inside, Harvey's office felt like another world entirely. Sleek. Still. Tense.
Nico slouched into his usual chair, a black leather thing tucked slightly to the side of Harvey's massive glass desk. He was in a grey hoodie, dark joggers, one foot lazily resting on the opposite knee. Hair still damp from his post-training shower. Tired eyes. A hint of annoyance in his expression.
"It's late, Harvey," Nico grumbled, staring down at the untouched bottle of water in his hand. "What's so urgent that you had to drag me out of my bed?"
Harvey stood by the whiteboard in his shirtsleeves, blazer hanging off the coat rack, hair slightly ruffled from a long day. His face was calm, but there was a sharp glint in his eyes — the kind that only showed when something important was brewing.
"Nothing dramatic," Harvey said, lifting the marker and capping it neatly. "Just thought you might like to know England have offered you a starting role in the U21s."
Nico blinked. "Wait — what?"
Harvey turned to face him fully now. "Yeah. Not just that. They're also promising a fast-track path into the senior team. Southgate's signed off on it."
Nico sat up straighter, the tiredness evaporating. "You're serious?"
Harvey nodded once. "Stone cold."
A pause settled between them. Nico leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyebrows pinched. His mind raced. This was… unexpected. He'd spent days at the U18 camp feeling overlooked — out of place, even — and now suddenly they wanted him elevated?
"That… complicates things," he muttered.
"I thought it might," Harvey said, returning to the whiteboard. "Which is why I did this."
Nico stood slowly and joined him. The board had three neat columns in dark blue ink: Brazil, England, Italy. Bullet-pointed under each were pros and cons, scribbled in Harvey's quick, precise handwriting.
He read each section silently at first, eyes tracking the words.
BRAZIL
Pros:
– Return the Seleção to glory
– Honour your father's legacy
– Potential to be the heart of the midfield
Cons:
– Too many stars already established
– Could be overshadowed
– Big personalities, big egos
ENGLAND
Pros:
– You grew up in this system
– Can be part of a golden generation
– Cultural familiarity
Cons:
– May never be the guy
– Squad politics
– Unforgiving fanbase — highs and lows hit harder
ITALY
Pros:
– Clear midfield vacancy
– Can be the centrepiece of a rebuild
– Fans idolise technical midfielders
– Tactical culture fits your style
Cons:
– High expectations
– Could be seen as an outsider
– Press scrutiny if results go south
Nico folded his arms and looked at the board for a long moment.
"I literally just ruled Morocco out," he muttered. "Told myself the culture gap was too big. Felt… disconnected. And now England shows up late trying to sweeten the deal?"
Harvey gave a tight-lipped smile. "They're not the first. Won't be the last."
"They didn't want me," Nico added. "Not until everyone else did. Not until clips of that France match were trending."
Harvey didn't argue — because Nico wasn't wrong.
"Look, they were slow," Harvey said. "But they're here now. And they're offering a real position. A platform."
Nico shook his head and stepped away, hands running through his curls.
"I'm tired of being viewed as leverage," he muttered. "Just a talent to lock down before someone else gets me."
"That's the game," Harvey said softly. "Especially when you're this good. Everyone's chasing value."
Nico gave him a sharp look. "So what, then? I pick the one that treats me like a product the least?"
Harvey leaned against the desk and crossed his arms. "I can't tell you what to feel. But I can help you understand the playing field."
There was a silence again — longer, heavier this time. Outside the windows, a light drizzle had begun, dotting the glass in soft patters.
Harvey finally asked, "You already know who you're leaning toward, don't you?"
Nico didn't answer.
He just kept looking at the whiteboard, arms crossed over his chest.
Then he nodded. Once.
"In my head, I already know," he said quietly.
Harvey raised a brow. "And your heart?"
Still looking forward, Nico exhaled through his nose. "It's starting to catch up."
He turned away from the board and grabbed his hoodie from the chair.
"I'll let you know when I'm ready to tell the world."
And with that, he left — the door shutting quietly behind him. The city kept shining, but Harvey just stared at the board, a smile creeping onto his face.
Because whether the world knew it or not — Nico Varela's decision would shift nations.
…
Fabrizio Romano (@FabrizioRomano)
Here we go!
Nico Varela, the most sought-after young footballer in the world, has officially chosen to represent Brazil at the international level.
The 15-year-old midfielder, eligible for five nations, made his decision public today after weeks of speculation.
When asked why Brazil, Varela said:
"It was the country of my father, and in a strange way, it's the only place that ever felt like destiny. I grew up far away, but Brazil never felt far from me. I want to write my name where legends have walked."
A historic win for the Seleção — and a monumental addition to the next generation of Brazilian stars.
#Varela #Seleção #HereWeGo
—
The moment the post hit social media, the world blinked.
Nico Varela — the boy who could have gone anywhere — had chosen Brazil. And the internet shattered under the weight of it.
@BrazilEdition:
WE GOT HIM. VARELA IS OURS.
@FutebolNostalgia:
A player this elegant choosing Brazil… it just fits. This is football royalty.
@SambaScouting:
Imagine a midfield of Varela, Santos, and João Gomes. You're not ready.
@EnglandFanZone:
We lost him. We actually lost him. Southgate WHAT are you doing.
@AzzurriCentral:
Gutted. That one really stings.
@MadridismoYouth:
He chose football. That's what this is. He chose the poetry of it.
Memes flew instantly — Nico in a yellow kit juggling on Copacabana. Nico with wings and a halo above the Maracanã. Fabrizio's face photoshopped onto Pelé's statue.
…
Rio de Janeiro
The rooftop of Neymar's penthouse overlooked the blue sprawl of the Atlantic. A soft breeze pulled at the curtains behind him as he leaned back in a white lounger, oversized sunglasses shielding his eyes from the morning sun. A low hum of conversation drifted from the group of friends and family around the pool, but Neymar was quiet.
He scrolled through his phone — fingers tapping idly — until a headline stopped him.
"Nico Varela chooses Brazil."
Fabrizio Romano. Here we go.
Neymar blinked once. Then tapped the video attached.
The clip played: Nico's quote delivered with calm conviction.
"It was the country of my father, and in a strange way, it's the only place that ever felt like destiny. I grew up far away, but Brazil never felt far from me. I want to write my name where legends have walked."
Neymar tilted his head slightly, a grin creeping onto his face.
"Menino tem alma de craque," he muttered.
The boy's got the soul of a star.
He scrolled a little more and saw it — the rainbow flick from training, the trivela pass against Leicester, the goal celebration at the corner flag. Pure joy. Pure brilliance.
He hit Comment under Nico's latest Instagram post — a still shot of him in Brentford red and white, arms outstretched after the equaliser against Leicester.
"Bem-vindo à família, irmão. Só os especiais vestem amarelo com peso no peito. O futuro é seu."
Welcome to the family, brother. Only the special ones wear yellow with that weight on their chest. The future's yours.
He added a fire emoji. Then a crown.
Within minutes, the comment had 100,000 likes.
Back near the pool, one of Neymar's friends called over.
"Oi, Ney, você viu? That Varela kid picked us!"
Neymar chuckled without looking up.
"Claro," he said, lifting his glass. "And the rest of the world is going to regret letting him."
He leaned forward, stood, and walked toward the edge of the rooftop — his eyes on the horizon.
Somewhere out there, the next generation had just taken its first real step.
And Neymar Jr., Brazil's crown prince, had just welcomed his heir.
——
Well, you guys voted for Brazil so brazil it is.
Hope you guys enjoy this chapter. Sorry about the no update yesterday, was revising and didn't have time to write it.