The match ended 1–0.
A lone strike separated the two sides—but what a strike it was.
Six point seven eight seconds. That was all it took for Nico Varela, a fifteen-year-old boy from South London, to etch his name into Premier League history.
The ball had barely rolled across the halfway line before it was flying into the top corner of the net, Brentford erupting, Newcastle stunned. The rest of the game was a disciplined, mature display—Brentford's midfield controlling the tempo, suffocating the space, ensuring that Nico's flash of brilliance was all they'd need. Despite Newcastle's quality—players like Isak, Bruno Guimarães, and Gordon—they never looked like scoring.
As the final whistle blew and applause echoed around the Gtech Community Stadium, Nico was ushered towards the post-match zone, still catching his breath. He wiped the sweat from his brow, boots muddy, curls damp beneath the winter floodlights.
A blonde woman greeted him with a gleaming smile and a microphone in one hand. In the other—yet again—was the Man of the Match trophy.
"Nico, what a game, what a performance." Her voice was bright, professional, but tinged with genuine awe. "You've been named Man of the Match again—that's five now since your debut."
Nico gave a tired, breathless laugh. "Ah, thank you. I'll take the award, yeah. Appreciate it."
She raised an eyebrow, pausing for dramatic effect. "Did you know… you just scored the fastest goal in Premier League history?"
His head jerked slightly. "Wait, what?" he asked, blinking.
"Yes, you clocked in at 6.78 seconds. You've just broken Shane Long's record—7.69 seconds against Watford. You've made history, Nico. What was going through your mind?"
He exhaled, eyes scanning the crowd as if trying to replay the moment. "Honestly? We knew Newcastle were a strong side. The plan was to press high, hunt early mistakes. I saw a pass coming in a little slow—read it, stepped in. Their keeper was off his line, so I just… hit it. Instinct."
The interviewer laughed. "You make it sound so simple."
Nico grinned. "What can I say?"
"Brentford have now climbed to third place in the league. You've got 59 points."
He laughed again, almost in disbelief. "It's crazy, right?"
"Do you believe top four is now guaranteed?"
His smile faltered for a split second, replaced with something colder. Focused. "I'll make sure it is."
A flicker of surprise crossed the interviewer's face, but she quickly moved on. "One last question… Xabi Alonso was in the stands today. We can assume he was watching you closely. Rumours are already swirling that you may be on the move this summer. Will you be leaving Brentford?"
For a moment, Nico's expression hardened. Not defensive—just thoughtful.
"I don't know what the future holds," he said quietly. "All I know is I want to play football. That's it." He nodded once, politely. "Thank you."
"Thank you, Varela." she replied, stepping back as the cameras faded to black.
…
[Sky Sports Studio – Post-Match Analysis]
The camera cut back to the studio. The panel of footballing legends—Gary Neville, Jamie Carragher, Roy Keane, Micah Richards, and Thierry Henry—sat in a semi-circle around the glowing desk, highlights of Nico's record-breaking goal still looping on the big screen behind them.
Gary Neville leaned forward, arms crossed on the desk. "Well… that was Nico Varela, fifteen years old, scoring the fastest goal in Premier League history—6.78 seconds. Let that sink in."
Carragher nodded, still slightly dazed. "I mean, you just don't see that. Not at this level. That's playground stuff… only he's doing it in front of 40,000 people and against an elite team."
Thierry Henry folded his arms, eyes still on the screen. "Brentford have a gem on their hands. After that performance, they might want to raise the price. Double it. Maybe triple it."
Micah grinned, shaking his head. "Quadruple it, Titi. By the time this show ends, he'll be worth more than the stadium."
Neville chuckled, then turned more serious. "Look, I don't want to get carried away—I really don't—but this kid… this might be the biggest talent we've seen since Messi."
Carragher blinked. "Oh come on, Gary…"
Neville raised a hand. "No, no, hear me out. Have we ever seen a fifteen-year-old—in this league, this brutal, physical league—put up eleven goal contributions in six games? It's not normal. He's an anomaly."
Henry nodded slowly. "I agree with Gary. It's not just stats. It's his presence. His decision-making. He plays like he's been here for ten years. This is seriously the start of his era."
Roy Keane, who'd been silent until now, finally spoke, eyebrow raised. "He's good. No doubt. But let's not build him a statue just yet. I want to see how he reacts when he gets kicked properly. You don't become a legend just because you had a good month."
Micah burst out laughing. "Roy, the kid just nutmegged Bruno Guimarães and chipped Nick Pope from 30 yards—give him a day to enjoy it before you scare him off!"
Keane shrugged. "He needs to be scared a bit. Toughens you up."
Carragher jumped in. "Anyway, Xabi Alonso was in the crowd today. Leverkusen want him, clearly."
Neville smirked. "Yeah, well… Xabi might need to queue. After tonight, half of Europe's already texting Nico's agent."
Henry raised a brow. "Leverkusen is a good team, no doubt—exciting project. But I think that option's becoming more unlikely by the day."
Keane tilted his head. "Why's that?"
Henry gestured toward the replay still running behind them. "Because after this performance, there's going to be a new surge of clubs—bigger, better, richer clubs—circling him. It's not about who wants him now, it's about who can convince him they can shape his legacy."
Micah clapped his hands once. "Whoever signs him is getting more than a wonderkid. They're getting trophies. This boy's got a knack for winning."
Neville smiled. "And a knack for headlines. Imagine telling your defence: 'Yeah, lads, just don't concede in the first ten seconds'… and boom, it's in your net."
Carragher laughed. "It's alright. He didn't even give Isak time to tie his laces."
Keane shook his head, lips twitching. "If I was in that Newcastle dressing room, I'd be smashing boots."
Micah raised an eyebrow. "Even if it was a 15-year-old?"
Keane deadpanned. "Especially if it was a 15-year-old."
Everyone burst into laughter.
The camera slowly zoomed out as the host introduced the next segment, still catching Thierry Henry shaking his head with a soft chuckle.
"Fifteen years old," he muttered, almost to himself. "And he's already got grown men arguing on TV. Incredible."
The living room was dimly lit, curtains drawn, a half-eaten pizza box on the table and Jayden sprawled across the sofa like he owned it. The TV was blaring back the replay on loop—Nico's goal. Again.
"And bang—top bins!" Jayden shouted, mimicking a commentator and throwing a fist into the air like he'd just scored himself.
Nico rolled his eyes, sitting back with a grin. "Alright bro, I think we get it."
"Nah, you get it. I don't." Jayden replied, eyes still glued to the screen. "This is outrageous stuff. You do realise you scored in six-point-seven-eight seconds, right? I can't even log into my WiFi that fast."
"We've watched it like twelve times. Surely there's more interesting things on the telly," Nico said, grabbing a slice and lazily tossing a crust at him.
"F* that,**" Jayden shot back, ducking. "I need to analyse this like I'm Carragher on Monday Night Football."
"How about you analyse those poems instead?" Nico smirked. "Exams are in a month."
Cristiano walked back into the room, drying his hands on his hoodie sleeve. "Yeah, exactly, Jayden. Swear you're failing maths?"
"Shush, man!" Jayden groaned, slumping deeper into the cushions.
"Ay, I'm going toilet." Nico said, standing up and stretching.
As he stepped into the hallway, the noise of his friends faded behind him. He closed the bathroom door—and the world paused.
A soft glow blinked to life in front of his eyes.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
> Fastest goal in Premier League history achieved.
> Reward Unlocked: CR7's Hunger
Nico's breath caught.
Another message loaded beneath it.
"You want to be the best of all the time and you never want to lose. Egoist."
The font shimmered.
> Trait Unlocked: PowerShot Playstyle
A warm sensation pulsed through his chest—like a surge of energy wiring itself into his bones. His right foot tingled. He didn't know what the PowerShot was yet, but he felt it. Like a locked door inside him had just been kicked open.
Behind the door, something hungry.
He stared at the message for another second, heart racing.
Then the system faded. Silence returned.
He flushed the toilet to play it casual, ran the tap for effect, and walked back out.
Jayden glanced up. "Took your time. You cryin' over your own goal?"
Nico grinned. "Nah. Just… loading."
Cristiano squinted. "Loading what?"
Nico dropped back onto the couch, eyes flicking once more to the TV.
"You'll see."
….
The office was dimly lit, the rain tapping gently against the windows of the Gtech Stadium as evening rolled in. Thomas Frank sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, eyes flicking between a printed report and the data glowing on his laptop. The air smelled faintly of coffee and stress.
Across from him, his assistant manager, clipboard in hand, leaned back in the chair with a sigh.
"The board's told me to up his price again," Thomas said, voice low, almost tired.
"They're not wrong," the assistant replied. "He's not a fifty-million-pound player anymore. Not even close. This kid's touching nine figures. He's a £100 million talent, Thomas. Maybe more."
Thomas ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back. "Yeah, but that kind of price tag doesn't just raise eyebrows. It shuts doors. You put a hundred-mil price on a fifteen-year-old, and half the clubs walk away without even making the call."
"And the other half?" the assistant asked. "They queue up with chequebooks. Real Madrid. City. Bayern. PSG. The usual monsters."
Thomas exhaled through his nose. "He's not a commodity. He's a child. A phenomenon, yes—but still a kid."
"And if we don't price him like a phenomenon, he's gone by summer. For half what he's worth."
Thomas glanced at the framed photo on the wall—his first Brentford team, back when the club was fighting for scraps in the Championship. Things had changed. Rapidly.
"He's already got eleven goal contributions in six games. The fastest goal in league history. Five Man of the Match awards. International federations fighting over him. And he's fifteen."
"Exactly." The assistant leaned forward. "Fifteen. He's rewriting scouting logic. Agents don't even know how to pitch him. What do you say? 'Buy him now or miss out on the next Ballon d'Or winner'? That's not marketing—it's prophecy."
"But we can't milk him like a golden cow," Thomas said firmly. "We do that, we kill the environment he's thriving in. You load him with too much hype, too many zeros, and suddenly he's not playing for Brentford anymore—he's performing for Instagram."
There was a pause. Rain kept tapping the glass.
"What's your number then?" the assistant asked quietly.
Thomas was silent for a moment.
"Eighty."
The assistant raised an eyebrow. "Low-balling."
"Realistic." Thomas countered. "Enough to scare off vultures. Low enough that the right club still calls. The kind of club that'll grow him—not consume him."
"Xabi Alonso already rang."
"I know." Thomas nodded. "And I ignored it."
The assistant smirked. "So we're doing this the hard way, yeah?"
Thomas gave a thin smile, eyes fixed on the screen where Nico's heatmap lit up like a bonfire in midfield. "We're doing it the Brentf-"
But then he stopped mid-sentence. His gaze drifted past his assistant, past the screen, past the walls of the office—out through the large, rain-speckled window that overlooked the training ground below.
Something caught his eye.
There, in the greying dusk of the evening session, Nico Varela stood at the edge of the box, trainers gathered around, a spare ball placed still on the turf. One of the coaches gestured, pointing toward the goal.
Nico took two steps, whipped his right leg back, and hit the ball with a force that made time seem to stutter. There was a split-second where the air rippled. The ball didn't just travel—it screamed through the space like it was shot out of a cannon.
Top corner.
The net snapped violently. The goalkeeper didn't move. No one did.
Thomas stood up slowly, eyes wide, as if he'd just watched a glitch in the simulation.
His assistant followed his gaze and turned to the window just in time to see the ball ricochet off the inside of the post and bounce back toward the halfway line.
"What in God's name was that?" the assistant whispered.
Thomas didn't answer. His heart was racing.
He watched Nico jog back to the centre circle, calm as ever, like that missile of a strike hadn't just broken the air.
Thomas sat back down, staring blankly for a moment.
"Never mind eighty."
"What?" his assistant asked.
He turned, still stunned. "Never mind a hundred."
He reached for his phone.
"Call the board. Tell them we're adjusting the valuation. Again."
"To what?"
Thomas paused, eyes still fixed outside.
"I don't know. Whatever number breaks the calculator."
….
[Private Line – Late Evening]
Harvey was sitting in his flat, laptop open, half-heartedly scrolling through scouting emails when his phone lit up with an unknown Spanish number. The caller ID just read:
"MADRID."
He knew.
He answered calmly, placing the phone to his ear.
"Harvey speaking."
There was a pause—brief, cold, calculated.
Then a deep, deliberate voice spoke.
"Ah. So you're Nico Varela's agent."
"Yes, I am." Harvey replied, sitting up a little straighter.
Another pause, longer this time.
"Well, I assume you already know why I'm calling."
Harvey let the silence sit for just a moment longer.
"Yeah. I do."
"I want him," said the voice. Direct. Regal. Like it wasn't a request—it was a law being passed.
Harvey didn't flinch. "To be a part of the team… or to rot on the bench?"
There was a soft chuckle on the other end. Cold. "Does it matter? When Real Madrid calls—"
"It does to him." Harvey cut in smoothly, voice firm. "Because Nico told me—clearly—that what he values more than money, more than prestige, more than even a shiny white shirt… is minutes. Gametime. Growth."
Pérez went quiet. Not insulted. Just measuring.
Harvey continued. "I'll discuss your offer with him, of course. But if you can't promise actual involvement—real, meaningful minutes—then your offer's about as useful as Cardiff City's."
Silence.
Then:
"You're bold."
"No. I just know my client."
A breath. The air on Pérez's end shifted slightly.
"Very well. We'll be in touch."
Click.
The call ended.
Harvey sat back, the room suddenly very quiet. He stared at the phone for a long second, then turned to his laptop and opened a new note.
Offer from Real Madrid – Pending. Conditions: Gametime non-negotiable.
He sighed, cracked his knuckles, and whispered to himself—
"They all want him now."
…..
Twitter/X – @FabrizioRomano
Exclusive: More clubs are entering the race for Nico Varela, the 15-year-old phenomenon currently lighting up the Premier League with Brentford.
Real Madrid have now made initial contact with the player's camp.
Sources also confirm interest from Bayern Munich, PSG, Manchester City, and Juventus.
Brentford have responded by raising their valuation to £110M — now the highest price tag ever set for a player under 18.
Nico's agent insists that guaranteed gametime will be the key factor in any future decision.
More to follow.
[Attached: Image of Nico celebrating his record-breaking goal against Newcastle. Caption: "HISTORY IN 6.78 SECONDS."]