This is the last time I will talk about this.
The Kylie story is on hold.
I don’t know when it will be back because I need a break.
I feel like every time I see a comment about that story, they put down my other stories to build that one up, and that just pisses me off.
You can praise one thing without having to put the other one down.
Are there any writers out there who know what I’m talking about?
Also, quick thing, 183k in just 12 chapters.
Crazy.
Here’s the chapter.
Rico had woken up early the next morning, long before the sun even had a chance to peek over the Hills.
The hotel room was silent, save for the soft sound of breathing beside him.
Lying in the centre of the massive king-sized bed, Rico stared blankly up at the ceiling, his mind a hurricane of conflicting thoughts.
For the first time in his disciplined life, the certainty of his future had been shaken.
Anne was the little spoon, her bare back pressed warmly against his chest.
She leaned into him in her sleep, her breathing deep and even, one of her delicate hands resting softly over his thick forearm that was draped across her waist.
She smelled intoxicatingly of vanilla, expensive perfume, and the lingering, electric heat of the night they had just shared.
Rico felt an agonising ache settle deep inside his chest.
He was torn.
For the first time in his life, he weighed the monumental price of his ambitions against something else.
Football had always been his first love.
From the moment he could walk, a ball was glued to his feet.
Every gruelling workout, every tactical study session, every drop of sweat he had shed since he was a child was dedicated to one singular goal: becoming the greatest player ever to grace the beautiful game.
He wanted to lift the Champions League trophy under the deafening roar of a European stadium.
But as he felt the soft rise and fall of Anne’s chest, a devastating realization washed over him.
He did love Anne.
It wasn’t just a fleeting, superficial infatuation based on her breathtaking looks.
He loved her.
For a long, dangerous moment in the quiet dark, he truly thought about staying.
He pictured a life where he compromised, remaining the undisputed king of the MLS, scoring thirty-yard screamers on the weekends, and coming home to her Hollywood premieres.
He thought about the price of his ambition compared to the price of loving Anne and actually wanting to be with her.
And he hated himself for it.
He hated that he was even hesitating.
He wanted to be the best in the world, and you cannot be the best player playing in the MLS.
It was a retirement league, a graveyard for fading stars, not a crucible for a generational talent.
If he stayed for her, he would eventually grow resentful of the sport and perhaps her.
He desperately hoped there was someone else out there he could find in the future, someone who fit into his European dreams, but he knew deep down there wasn’t.
In a painful movie-cliché way, he felt like she was the one.
His soulmate.
The right person at the wrong time.
But, despite the suffocating weight in his chest, he was willing to put football ahead.
It was the only language he truly understood.
She was trying to elevate her craft.
She was willing to put acting ahead.
If she was willing to sacrifice the present for her career, then he had to do the same for his footballing one.
His jaw clenched in the dark as he began gently untangling himself from her embrace.
He slowly pulled his arm back, holding his breath as she stirred slightly, murmuring a soft, unintelligible word before settling back into the mattress.
He pulled himself away entirely, slipping off the edge of the mattress.
He immediately reached for the thick, plush white duvet, gently pulling it up and placing the cover over her naked form to keep her warm against the chill of the air conditioning.
He didn’t turn on the lights.
He quickly got dressed pulling on his dark clothes trying to get out of the hotel room as fast as possible.
He quickly got to the door of the luxurious suite but he paused, his hand gripping the cold metal of the door handle.
He couldn’t just leave without looking at her one last time.
He turned back, as she looked peaceful, her dark brunette waves cascading beautifully over the pristine white pillows.
The physical pain in his chest was almost unbearable.
He walked quietly back over to the edge of the bed.
Leaning down, his towering frame casting a long shadow, he brushed a stray lock of hair away from her flawless face and kissed her softly on the forehead.
“Goodbye, Anne,” Rico whispered, his deep voice thick with a raw, unresolved emotion.
Without looking back again, Rico left the hotel room, the heavy wooden door clicking shut behind him with a finality that echoed in his ears.
He headed straight back to his sprawling Los Angeles penthouse, the early morning drive passing in a blur.
The moment he stepped inside his apartment, the silence of the space felt deafening.
He needed to reset his mind to the cold reality of his impending career move.
Rico quickly showered before he changed into a fresh set of clothes Walking into his kitchen, his stomach finally let out a low rumble.
He opened the refrigerator and looked inside but the shelves were barren of any actual sustenance, stocked solely with apples, punnets of strawberries, and a few lonely melons.
He was out of cooked meals.
Letting out a heavy sigh, Rico grabbed an apple, leaning against the cold marble island as he took a bite, lost in his own brooding thoughts.
The sound of the apartment front door unlocking echoed down the hallway, followed by the sharp click-clack of heels.
His mother walked into the kitchen, holding a leather folio filled with European scouting reports and contract drafts.
She stopped dead in her tracks, looking at her towering son miserably chewing on a piece of fruit.
Rico didn’t even offer a greeting.
“I’m out of meals.” His mother crossed her arms, “No ‘hello mom’?
Just ‘no food’?” “You know I can’t cook,” Rico mumbled defensively, taking another bite of the apple.
His mother let out a loud sigh, placing her folio down on the marble counter.
“How are you going to survive in England or Portugal?” “We got family that lives in England,” Rico pointed out logically, referencing his father’s side of the family tree.
“I’ll just go to them.” “You’re really going to trust their cooking?” his mother challenged, a distinct note of culinary superiority in her cadence.
Rico paused, remembering the incredibly bland, over-boiled vegetables he had been forced to endure during childhood visits to the UK.
“It’s not that bad.” “Compared to my cooking?” she pressed, crossing her arms tighter.
Rico’s stoic facade cracked for a second.
He looked down at the apple in his hand.
“Aw, I’m fucked.” His mother couldn’t help but laugh, shaking her head at his domestic incompetence.
“There should be club food.
In the canteen, just take food from there.
Just do that when I’m not there.” It was a stark reality check.
Because his mother acted as his agent, manager, and primary caretaker, she made most, if not all, of his meals.
Off the pitch, he was effectively helpless.
“You really need to learn how to cook,” his mother chastised gently, walking over to pour herself a cup of coffee.
“You’re eighteen, nearly nineteen, and you can’t survive by yourself.” “Well, I’ve never had to learn,” Rico defended himself, tossing the apple core into the stainless-steel trash can.
“Well, you need to learn,” she countered immediately.
“It’s not my fault you haven’t taught me,” Rico fired back.
“All you care about is football,” his mother stated, looking at him over the rim of her coffee mug.
“You never want to do anything else.” Rico’s dark eyes flashed with a defensive intensity.
“That’s not all I care about.” His mother paused, instantly picking up on it as she set her mug down, “Well, there’s you and Anne,” his mother noted quietly.
“What’s going on with you two?” Rico looked away, his jaw clenching as the fresh wound in his chest throbbed painfully.
“It can’t happen.
She has acting, I have football…
it’s just not meant to be.” “You can do long distance,” his mother suggested, surprisingly supportive given her previous glare in the stadium hallway.
“It wouldn’t work,” Rico said, his deep voice devoid of any hope.
He was too pragmatic to believe in fairy tales.
“Well, she made you smile,” his mother pointed out softly, “which is a pretty hard thing to do.” Rico shook his head, staring at the flawless marble countertop.
He didn’t want to talk about how much she made him smile, or how empty everything felt without the prospect of her.
“Are you sure you can’t do anything to make it work?” his mother pressed gently.
“I don’t know,” Rico exhaled, a long, tired sound.
“It just feels like borrowed time.
We would be hindering our careers to make it work, and it’s just not worth the risk right now.” He finally looked back up at his mother, a faint smirk breaking through his gloom.
“You didn’t even like her anyway.” “I’m never going to like the woman who tries to take my baby boy away,” his mother stated proudly, unashamed of her fierce maternal possessiveness.
Rico cringed in disgust.
“Okay, that’s weird even for you.” His mother just laughed, unfazed by his teenage rebellion.
Rico cleared his throat, pushing the heartbreak down into a dark box in his mind, and shifted his focus to the impending logistical nightmare of his transfer.
“Where’s dad?” Rico asked.
Usually, his father would be buzzing around the penthouse, trying to inject his own outdated tactical advice into the transfer strategy.
“He ain’t coming,” his mother said flatly, her tone devoid of sympathy.
Rico frowned, his thick eyebrows knitting together.
“Is he still annoyed about the punch thing?” “Yeah,” she confirmed with a weary nod.
Rico let out a bitter scoff.
“Seriously?” “You know what your dad is like,” his mother sighed, waving a dismissive hand.
“Yeah, he’s a real dick, I know that for sure,” Rico spat, a deep-seated, simmering resentment bleeding into his voice.
His father had been hyper-critical, holding Rico to impossible standards while simultaneously trying to bask in his son’s rising glory on national television.
“Watch that first game in Europe.
He’s going to be there playing the supportive father for the cameras, but we know what he’s actually like.” “Just let it go,” his mother commanded.
She stepped forward, hugging her son, “You cannot be carrying this anger around.
You need to be in the right frame of mind for the trials.
The window is open, Rico.
This is it.
The rest of your life starts today.” Rico took a deep breath, feeling the familar rush of adrenaline slowly begin to replace the aching void in his heart.
He squared his broad shoulders, his dark eyes returning to their usual cold and fiercely ambitious focus.
“Where are we going first?” Rico asked.
His mother offered a smile.
“England.” A/N) I’m not sure about the nation.
There’s merit to both.
Also, I’m going to acknowledge they’re both blinded by love and that Rico should focus on his career, something that I didn’t do in the other story.