CBF Headquarters – Rio de Janeiro
Two weeks before the international break
The room hummed with quiet deliberation. The long oak table at the heart of the CBF's strategy floor was cluttered with laptops, match reports, and espresso cups — all signs of a long day spent dissecting form, fitness, and future.
Dorival Júnior, manager of the senior national team, leaned back in his seat, arms folded as a familiar name pulsed silently on the screen behind him: NICO VARELA.
The projector froze on a snapshot of the boy's last performance — Brentford vs. Leicester. Fifteen years old, bossing a one-man midfield after Nørgaard's red card. Match equalised by his header. Controlled, explosive, impossible to ignore.
"Alright," Dorival said finally, breaking the silence. "So the question: do we call him up now?"
Marco Aurélio, the CBF's general coordinator, tapped his pen once against the table.
"He's already chosen us. That was the battle. The war. We won it. But we need to be careful how we handle him."
Dorival nodded. "We won't rush him into 90 minutes against Argentina. I'm not stupid. But a call-up sends a message. Not just to him. To the world."
Bruno Costa, head of youth integration, leaned forward. "He's not just a project anymore. He's playing like a senior. Premier League minutes. Against top sides. With consistency. The jump is no longer massive."
A younger assistant chimed in. "Is it too soon? Not just physically — emotionally. The pressure, the cameras, the Neymar comparisons. Do we want to fan that flame this early?"
Dorival looked over. "He's already in the fire."
Another coach nodded in agreement. "Every match he plays in England is a headline. You've seen it. The free kick against France. The solo goal vs. Southampton. His name's on every scout's list. On every fan's lips. He's not hiding."
"But do we need him now?" Marco asked. "Or should we let him finish the season at Brentford, join the U20s over the summer, ease into the rhythm?"
Dorival considered that. He rubbed the side of his face, then said slowly, "If we wait too long, he becomes an idea. A future. If we bring him now, he becomes part of the present. Not the engine — not yet. But part of the machine."
He looked around the room, then back to the frozen image of Nico on the screen.
"Invite him to the senior squad. He trains. He's involved. If the match situation calls for it, he comes on. If not, he learns. He absorbs."
Bruno added, "And off the pitch, we look after him. Let Neymar talk to him. Casemiro. Alisson. Let them take him under their wings. Show him what being part of the Seleção means."
The room paused — then nodded.
"Then it's settled," Dorival said. "Call him."
He stood, the matter decided, the wheels already turning.
…
It had been a couple of weeks since Nico Varela's international announcement. The dust had settled, but the spotlight hadn't faded — if anything, it burned brighter. Every time he stepped on the pitch now, there were more eyes watching. Fans. Journalists. Scouts. Coaches. And, of course, the national teams that didn't get him.
But none of that seemed to faze him.
Brentford's next test was an away trip to Brighton — a team widely praised for their tactical organisation and technical midfield. Mac Allister and Caicedo had built a reputation as one of the most fluid double pivots in the league. Brighton pressed in waves, controlled possession, and played with an intelligence that made most sides look a step slow.
But not Nico.
From the first whistle, he matched them. No — he outplayed them.
His awareness was razor sharp, always one step ahead of the press. When Caicedo charged at him midway through the first half, Nico baited him with a subtle feint, let the pressure arrive, then clipped the ball over his foot with an outside-of-the-boot touch that drew gasps from the away end. A second later, he launched a diagonal switch to Wissa that led to a goal.
He wasn't just surviving in the midfield battle. He was dictating it.
He added a goal of his own — a late arriving run to the edge of the box, one touch to kill the pass from Toney, and a laser of a finish low into the far corner. It was the kind of performance that didn't just win games — it made statements.
Brighton fought back. The match turned into a chaotic chess match of goals and momentum swings. 1–0. Then 1–1. 2–1. Then 2–2. Brentford edged ahead 3–2, only to concede again. 3–3. It was frantic, heavy-legged football by the end.
But Nico, even in the 90th minute, still had fuel.
In stoppage time, he took the ball near the halfway line, spun away from pressure, and delivered a perfectly weighted ball through the lines to Mbeumo. The winger didn't waste the gift — slotting it home for 4–3.
Full-time whistle.
A win.
And another man-of-the-match performance for Varela.
The media couldn't get enough. "Varela outclasses Caicedo and Mac Allister." "Brentford's crown jewel shines again." The headlines were everywhere.
Then came the Wolves game. Another away day. Another battle. But this time, Thomas Frank made a call.
He benched Nico.
Not for punishment. Not for performance. But to manage his minutes. To protect the legs that had run nearly every match into the ground.
Brentford started poorly. Lethargic. Passive. And Wolves — hungry for a result — took advantage. A goal in the 18th minute. Another in the 33rd. 2–0 at halftime.
By the 70th minute, Frank had seen enough.
"Varela. Warm up."
Nico entered with a nod. Tucked in his shirt. Laced up his boots.
And the tempo changed instantly.
He drove the ball forward with purpose. Found gaps others hadn't seen. Won fouls. Sprayed passes. In the 82nd minute, he picked off a poor Wolves clearance and played a one-two with DaSilva before setting up Wissa for a quick reply. 2–1.
But that was as close as they came.
Wolves dug in. Time drained away. The final whistle blew with Brentford chasing shadows.
It was a loss. Nico's first in weeks.
But even in defeat, his presence had been undeniable.
He walked off the pitch without slumped shoulders or dropped eyes. Still composed. Still focused. Knowing there was more to come — and higher levels yet to reach.
…
Nico was lying back on his bed, one leg hanging off the edge, eyes half-shut as a soft lo-fi beat played from his speaker. His boots were still resting by the door, grass still clinging to the studs from training earlier. He had just finished showering and changing into an old grey tee and shorts, letting his muscles finally relax after another long day. The room buzzed gently with the hum of his phone vibrating on the nightstand.
Harvey.
He reached for it, already half-smiling. "Yo."
"Evening, superstar," Harvey's voice came through, crisp and cool. "You busy?"
"Not really," Nico replied, sitting up a bit straighter. "What's up?"
There was a pause. The kind Harvey always took before delivering something big.
"Brazil's calling you up."
Nico blinked. "What?"
"You heard me. Senior team. Next international break. You're in the squad."
A rush of warmth flooded through his chest. For a moment, he didn't know what to say.
"They're… actually calling me up?"
"Not just that," Harvey continued, his tone more serious now. "They're planning to play you. One of the friendlies is locked — the second, they're still deciding. But the staff want to see you in action. Full minutes."
Nico swung his legs off the bed, now fully alert. "That's… wow."
"I figured you'd say that," Harvey chuckled. "You've earned it. You've done more in two months than most kids do in two years."
Nico rubbed the back of his neck, still trying to process. "I don't even know what to say."
"You don't need to say anything. Just keep playing your football."
There was a small pause again, the kind that hinted Harvey wasn't done.
"There's more?"
Harvey cleared his throat, and Nico could practically hear the smirk on the other end. "Yeah. Got a surprise call earlier today. Xabi Alonso."
Nico sat up straighter. "No way."
"Way. Said he's been following your progress ever since that France game. He's flying over to attend your next match."
Nico blinked. "Wait, the one against Newcastle?"
"Yep. He wants to see you live. Wants to feel it. Told me he sees something in you — something rare."
For the first time, Nico was speechless. Xabi Alonso. A midfield legend. Coming to watch him.
He swallowed. "That's… surreal."
Harvey's voice softened just a bit. "This is it now, kid. The level's rising. People are watching. The Brazil call-up, Alonso's visit — it's all real. But don't let it change the way you play. You've got something they all want. Just keep being Nico."
Nico nodded slowly, even though Harvey couldn't see it.
"Thanks," he said, finally. "Really."
"You're welcome," Harvey replied. "Now get some sleep. Big weekend ahead."
The call ended, and Nico let the phone fall to his lap.
Brazil. Xabi Alonso. Newcastle.
Nico let the phone drop onto the bed beside him, his fingers still slightly curled around the edge. He sat there in silence for a moment, the low hum of music continuing in the background, the world around him suddenly feeling a little louder — or maybe just more focused.
Brazil were calling him up.
Not for a camp. Not to train. To play.
And now Xabi Alonso — one of the greatest midfield minds of his generation — was flying out to watch him play. Sitting in the stands. Watching his every touch.
He reached down, grabbed a half-empty bottle of water from the floor, and took a slow sip, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His mind was busy, sure — but not anxious. If anything, he felt steady.
Everything he'd worked for was starting to take shape.
He grabbed his boots from beside the door, pulled them into his lap, and began scraping the leftover grass from the studs.
If Alonso was going to be there on Saturday… he needed to make it count.
…
The floodlights beamed down over the Gtech Community Stadium, washing the pitch in a pristine glow as thousands of voices buzzed in anticipation. The tension in the air was unmistakable — thick, humming, sharp-edged with expectation. This wasn't just another Premier League fixture. This was a six-pointer.
Up in the commentary box, overlooking the sprawling sea of red and black seats, the energy was no less palpable. The two pundits exchanged glances as the teams filtered out onto the pitch.
"Well, here we go," the first voice said, steady but laced with excitement. "There are matches you look at on the calendar and circle in red. This is one of them. Brentford versus Newcastle — a direct clash in the race for Champions League football."
His partner nodded. "Absolutely. It's all on the line today. Let's break it down. Newcastle currently sitting 3rd on 56 points, Brentford right behind them in 4th with 55. Just one point separating these sides. And just behind them, Manchester United on 53. This isn't just about bragging rights — it's a battle for positioning in the top four."
The camera panned across the crowd, fans bundled in scarves and jackets, their chants rising louder with every passing second.
"Now, Brentford — they've had a bit of a wobble lately. A 2–1 loss to Wolves in their last match after a strong showing against Brighton. Before that? An incredible run of form. But momentum is everything at this stage of the season. A win today could put them back on track — and potentially back into 3rd place."
"Meanwhile," the second commentator added, "Newcastle come into this one in form. Guimarães pulling strings. Willock surging forward. Longstaff doing the dirty work. This midfield trio has been hard to break down. They've got balance, grit, and quality."
There was a pause as the camera cut to a familiar figure in the stands — well-dressed, calm, thoughtful.
"Now… here's something very interesting," one of them said, lowering his voice slightly. "That man right there — Xabi Alonso. One of the most intelligent footballing minds of his generation. Currently managing Bayer Leverkusen… and we've just received confirmation that he's here specifically to watch one player."
"Nico Varela," his colleague said, finishing the thought. "The 15-year-old midfield prodigy. Brentford's youngest star — and reportedly the subject of growing interest from Leverkusen. In fact, sources suggest the German club has already reached out to Brentford to discuss a possible summer move."
"Look, let's be honest," the first voice continued. "Everyone in football is watching this kid now. But what makes tonight even more compelling is the test he faces. Newcastle's midfield is no joke. Guimarães, Willock, Longstaff — they're going to press him, bully him, test his composure. And remember, Varela's not in his usual 10 role today. He's playing deeper, with more defensive responsibility alongside Nørgaard."
The teams gathered in the tunnel, the camera focusing briefly on Nico Varela as he adjusted the strap of his shin pad. Calm, serious, completely locked in.
"Brentford fans know this is a massive moment. Win tonight, and they jump to 3rd place. Lose… and they might find themselves looking over their shoulder at United."
The players began walking out into the cauldron of noise, boots echoing against the concrete tunnel before disappearing onto the lush green pitch.
"This one's got everything," the second commentator said, voice rising as the roar of the crowd built. "Top-four implications. Form swings. A wonderkid under the spotlight. And a world-class manager in the stands watching it all unfold."
"And don't forget — this might just be the most important ninety minutes of Brentford's season."
And Nico Varela stood in the centre of it all.
…
The whistle blew. The ball rolled. History was rewritten in six seconds.
Newcastle kicked off, and before anyone in the stadium had even settled into their seats, Brentford had scored.
But not just scored — detonated.
Joe Willock received the first pass from the back and turned to lay it off to Bruno Guimarães, only to feel a red-and-white blur thunder past him. Nico Varela, 15 years old and burning with purpose, lunged forward like he'd been fired out of a cannon.
He read the play a second before it happened. He didn't just intercept — he took the ball like it belonged to him. One touch to steady it, another to shift it forward. Then, without hesitation, he looked up.
Nick Pope was off his line — just slightly.
Bam.
From 30 yards out, Nico struck it. Not a hopeful effort. Not a lob. A laser-guided rocket curling viciously toward the top right corner. The ball cut through the air with a swerve of audacity and venom, screaming past Pope's outstretched hand and crashing into the net.
6.78 seconds.
The fastest goal in Premier League history.
The stadium didn't cheer — not at first. There was a split second of stunned silence. A shared breath, held across thousands of mouths. Then the eruption.
Fans launched from their seats. Limbs everywhere. Shouts. Screams. Complete chaos. Nico jogged toward the corner flag, calm as anything, like he'd just finished a warm-up drill. No celebration. No grin. Just a single, clenched fist pumped once into the air before being surrounded by teammates who couldn't believe what they'd just witnessed.
Up in the stands, Xabi Alonso stood, mouth slightly open, eyebrows raised. No words. Just awe. This — this was why he flew in.
Micah Richards on commentary nearly lost his voice. "OH MY WORD! ARE YOU KIDDING ME!? That is OUTRAGEOUS!"
Carragher was laughing in disbelief. "Fifteen. He's FIFTEEN. This is football heritage already."
Gary Neville, dead serious, simply muttered, "This is the future. We're looking at it."
The fans were no different.
They weren't just singing. They were chanting his name like it was holy.
"NICO. NICO. NICO."
Play resumed, but the energy didn't die. Newcastle tried to gather themselves, but their midfield trio — Guimarães, Willock, Longstaff — couldn't breathe. Every time they looked up, Varela was there. Pressing, pressing, pressing. Not just with his feet. With his presence.
He was in their heads.
He picked off passes before they were played. He bullied men ten years older. And when Brentford regained possession, it was Varela who dictated everything — every build-up, every switch, every needle-threading pass.
He pulled off a drag-back turn that sent Longstaff sliding into another postcode. Then spun and split the lines with a pass to Wissa, who nearly made it two-nil but saw his shot saved.
The fans groaned — but only for a second. Because Varela had the ball again. Always.
He linked with Toney in the middle, received the return, and pinged a 40-yard diagonal to Mbeumo, who controlled it on the run. The move ended in a blocked shot, but by now, Newcastle were shell-shocked.
And every time Nico touched the ball, you could feel it — that shift. That tightening in the chest. That feeling that something magic might happen. Again.
He glided. He commanded. He hunted.
And that goal? That six-second flash of genius?
It wasn't a fluke.
It was a warning.
"Europe, learn the name of the boy who will terrorize the next era of football. Nico Varela."
——-
Hey guys enjoy this chapter.
Real world football thoughts:
That FA cup final, Man city ending the season trophyless YES.
Anyways the florian wirtz saga is heating up man this is going to be interesting. So happy Liverpool are interested. If we get him, we're winning the treble.
Signing frimpong, always happy with a good signing but he doesn't really fit the rb role. Unless slot plans to go full psg style with their flying fullbacks.
This europa league final is going to be one for the books man, both teams are horrible but I think Spurs will win.
Anyways tell me your thoughts on this chapter. See ya.