Before we start, I don’t care about what other authors write; I don’t let that affect my story.
It’s still England or Brazil.
More on this at the bottom.
Here’s the chapter.
The morning sun crept through the gap in the curtains, casting a beam of golden light across the luxurious hotel suite and right onto Anne’s face.
Anne groaned softly, burying her face into the pillows as she slowly dragged herself out of sleep.
She blinked, her vision slowly adjusting to the room as she saw the expensive duvet was kicked half off the mattress, tangled in a chaotic knot at the foot of the king-sized bed.
A stray lamp shade was tilted precariously on the bedside table.
Her delicate black silk dress was crumpled near the doorway.
But the room wasn’t the only thing that was a mess.
Anne’s body was a mess, too.
A satisfying ache radiated through her thighs and her lower back as she carefully shifted her weight against the mattress.
She had come like crazy last night, over and over again, pushed to the brink by the man who possessed the same stamina in the bedroom as he did on the football pitch.
She could still feel the phantom weight of his hands gripping her waist.
She reached up, her delicate fingers lightly brushing against the side of her neck.
She winced slightly, tracing the sensitive hickeys he had left scattered across her neck, trailing down her collarbone.
He had been so physical, so dominant, and she had liked it in the best way possible.
She let out a sigh, staring up at the ceiling.
It was, without a single doubt in her mind, the best night of her entire life.
Suddenly, the buzzing of her silver flip phone shattered the quiet morning.
Anne rolled over, pulling the duvet tightly around her bare chest, and blindly reached for the nightstand.
She grabbed the phone, flipping it open to read the bright screen.
It was a text from her agent.
You got the audition for Fantine.
Three days.
Be ready.
Anne gasped loudly, her heart stopped in her chest before it began to hammer.
She sat up violently, completely ignoring the soreness in her muscles.
She had gotten the audition.
A giddy smile completely transformed her face.
They could actually make this work.
She practically bounced on the mattress, reacting with an excitement that made her feel like a lovestruck teenager all over again.
But then, as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror, reality set in violently.
Her smile slowly faded, replaced by a fierce resolve.
She couldn’t afford to be distracted.
She needed to nail this role.
This wasn’t just about chasing Rico across the globe.
This was about her.
This was her golden ticket to finally shed the sparkling tiara of her Disney princess past.
Fantine was a mature role that demanded every single ounce of her acting ability and vocal talent.
If she botched this audition because she was too focused on a romance, she would never forgive herself.
She really wanted to do this role for her own cinematic legacy.
She was an actress first and foremost.
And Rico…
Rico was just a handsome bonus.
Meanwhile, thirty thousand feet above the Atlantic Ocean, Rico was sitting in the luxurious first-class cabin of a British Airways flight, aggressively scrolling through the digital in-flight entertainment system.
“No,” Rico muttered, pressing the button on his remote.
He scrolled past a romantic comedy.
“No,” Rico sighed, clicking again.
He scrolled past a sweeping historical drama.
“No,” Rico groaned, his dark eyes narrowing in frustration.
He scrolled past yet an action blockbuster.
Sitting in the spacious seat right beside him, his mother let out an exasperated sigh, peering over her reading glasses.
“Can you just pick one?” “I watched all these before,” Rico complained, leaning back into his plush leather seat.
“Just rewatch one,” his mother suggested pragmatically, trying to read her reports in peace.
“I don’t want to rewatch one,” Rico grumbled, continuing his relentless scrolling until he finally found one he hadn’t seen, “Okay.
Found one.” Before he could hit play, the massive commercial jet began to taxi down the runway, the engines whining as they powered up for takeoff.
Rico knew his mom was a terrible flyer.
She hated the loss of control, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the armrests.
Without saying a word, Rico reached across the centre console and offered his large hand.
His mother took it, holding on tightly as the plane accelerated and lifted off into the California sky.
For the next six hours of the transatlantic journey, Rico kept his eyes glued to the screen.
He devoured three entirely different films back-to-back, immersing himself in the cinematography to distract his racing mind.
He didn’t blink, didn’t move, and even touched the complimentary snacks the flight attendants brought.
When the credits of his third movie finally rolled, his mother reached over and tapped his broad shoulder.
“I’m going to try sleep,” his mother said exhausted, “You should too.
You need to be ready.” Rico paused his screen.
“Yeah.” Mom turned over in her luxurious reclining seat, adjusting her blanket as she fell asleep almost instantly, the hum of the jet engines lulling her into a deep slumber.
Rico lay his seat back and desperately tried to fall asleep, but he couldn’t.
He kept thinking about the impending trials, the pressure of proving he wasn’t just an MLS novelty, and the weight of his own European ambitions.
But more than anything else, he kept going back to Anne.
Every time he closed his eyes, he felt the warmth of her skin, tasted her lips, and remembered the desperate way she had held him.
He didn’t even get a single wink of sleep before the plane finally descended through the thick grey clouds and touched down heavily on the tarmac in England.
Rico and his mother got out of the airport with ease as they reaced the automatic doors of Heathrow Terminal 3 and they were hit by the dreary reality of the English climate.
Rico adjusted his duffel bag over his broad shoulder.
“It’s warmer than I thought it would be.” “Because it’s the summer,” his mother pointed out, “You got a rude awakening coming when winter hits.” “I like the cold,” Rico shrugged effortlessly.
“My ancestors would be so confused,” his mother muttered, thinking of their warm Brazilian roots.
“I still like the warm,” Rico clarified, looking at the grey sky above.
“I don’t care about the weather, just wrap up warm.
It’s not a big deal.” His mother turned to him, “Did you even sleep on the plane?” “I stayed up all flight,” Rico admitted casually.
“I told you to go sleep,” his mother scolded.
“You have trials.” “I couldn’t sleep,” Rico defended himself, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I stayed up all night just thinking.” A knowing look crossing her face.
“It’s not like you to be nervous.” “I’m not nervous,” Rico stated flatly.
“So, I guess it’s about Anne,” his mother deduced smoothly, hitting the nail perfectly on the head.
Rico looked away, before he pointed a long finger toward the curb.
“There’s the driver.” They quickly approached the sleek executive car waiting for them.
As the driver loaded their bags into the trunk, his mother grabbed Rico tightly by the arm, forcing him to look her dead in the eyes.
“Look,” his mother said, her voice dropping into a serious agent-first register.
“This is the biggest moment of your life.
You need to focus on football, and nothing else matters.
Don’t throw this.” Rico didn’t throw it.
When he stepped onto the pristine grass of Fulham’s Motspur Park training ground later that week, he made it look laughably easy.
Initially, the coaching staff paired him with the Under-21 squad to test his baseline conditioning.
It was a complete mismatch.
Rico made the highly touted English academy prospects look like uncoordinated amateurs.
He bypassed their pressing triggers, using his muscular frame to shield the ball effortlessly before pinging forty-yard diagonal passes right onto the toes of the wingers.
Seeing the sheer disparity in talent, Chris Coleman immediately pulled him from the youth group and threw him straight into the deep end: a full eleven-versus-eleven scrimmage with the first team.
Despite being sleep-deprived and running on nothing Rico dominated.
Later that evening, they were sitting in a private dining room of a high-end West London restaurant for a formal contract meeting.
Sitting across from Rico and his mother were Chris Coleman, the Fulham manager, and Mohammed Al Fayed, the billionaire owner of the club.
The waiter arrived, placing a plate directly in front of Rico.
Rico looked down, his eyes narrowing in disgust.
Resting on the plate was a pale piece of poached fish slathered in a bizarre white sauce, accompanied by mash and a green pile of mushy peas.
“What the fuck is this?” Rico muttered rapidly in Portuguese.
His mother kept her polite, media-trained smile plastered on her face, leaning slightly toward him.
“Just eat it,” she whispered fiercely in Portuguese.
“I ain’t eating that,” Rico shot back in their native tongue, “The sauce looks like someone came all over the fish, and the peas look like melted toy soldiers.
Don’t they have proper food in this country?” “Just don’t eat it then,” his mother warned through gritted teeth, desperately trying to maintain the professional atmosphere.
Mohammed Al Fayed, noticing the hushed foreign exchange, leaned forward, resting his hands on the table.
“Is there something wrong?” Rico didn’t hesitate.
He looked the billionaire right in the eye.
“Yeah, there’s a lot wrong.
I ain’t eating this.” Chris Coleman, attempting to defuse the sudden tension, “Do you want to get something else?
We can have the chef whip up whatever you like.” “I’m good,” Rico said bluntly, dropping his napkin onto the table.
“I just want to get out of here and get some real food.
So how about we cut the charade and get to the numbers?” His mom glared at her son for going off script, before she quickly smoothed her blazer.
“We’re open to a fair offer, Mr.
Al Fayed.” Mohammed Al Fayed chuckled, “The choice is really ours, young man.
You are an unproven talent from a lesser league.” “No, it ain’t,” Rico countered effortlessly, leaning back in his chair.
“I can pull a Bo Jackson, go play baseball for a bit if I want.
I’m good at all sports, but the main one is Football.
I could go back to LA, I still got my contract there.
Or I just go to Porto or I go sign for someone else in the Premier League.
You need me way more than I need Fulham.” Al Fayed’s smile vanished.
“So, what are you expecting?” “So, I’m thinking 85 thousand a week,” Rico stated seriously..
The entire table went silent.
Chris Coleman’s jaw practically hit the floor.
“That’s ridiculous,” Mohammed Al Fayed barked, his voice rising in disbelief.
“Roy Keane is the highest-paid player in the Premier League, and he only gets paid 90 thousand a week.” “Well, that’s him,” Rico shrugged his broad shoulders, unfazed by the comparison to the Manchester United legend.
“That’s why 85 feels cool.
It’s respectful.
Plus, I need you to hire a private cook for me, because I ain’t eating this.” Mohammed Al Fayed scowled, insulted by the teenager’s sheer audacity.
“40 thousand.
And you can pay your own chef out of that.” “Football is my worth,” Rico replied smoothly, adjusting the cuffs of his dark shirt, “And I know exactly what I can do on a pitch.
I’m worth 85 a week.” “Listen here, boy—” Al Fayed started, his temper flaring.
His mom rubbed her temples, knowing where this was going.
“50 is my final offer,” Mohammed Al Fayed stated firmly, “Take it or leave it.” Rico didn’t even blink.
“Well, you do what you want with your money.” He turned to his mother, “Hey mom, let’s go visit Charlton tomorrow.
Then we can swing by Chelsea and Arsenal before we head out for Porto.” Rico stood up from the table, towering over the men.
Chris Coleman immediately jumped to his feet, sensing the generational talent literally walking out the door.
“I’ll walk you out.
We’re…
we’re going to think it over.
That was a good dinner, I enjoyed that.” Rico and his mom walked out of the restaurant, stepping outside with Chris Coleman hurriedly following behind them.
“Well, that could have went better,” Chris said, letting out a nervous laugh as they stood on the pavement.
“Yeah,” his mom agreed, shooting a furious sideways glance at her son.
“How’s your dad doing?” Chris asked, trying to build a personal rapport based on his father’s previous Premier League playing days.
“He got sick,” his mom lied smoothly, covering for the fact that Rico despised his father.
“He’s resting at home in Los Angeles.” “Well, give him my warmest regards,” Chris smiled.
“I will,” she nodded politely.
“Maybe I can see him later on when Rico signs the paperwork,” Chris added hopefully.
“I’m not signing,” Rico stated bluntly, staring down the street.
Chris Coleman let out a sigh, “Look, we’ve got a massive project going on here, and you would fit right in with the timeline.
You would elevate this team, control the midfield, and we can win trophies.
I promise you that.” Rico stared at the manager blankly.
He had no idea what this guy had just said.
Chris Coleman had the heaviest accent Rico had ever heard in his entire life.
To the teenager’s American ears, it just sounded like a rapid series of random consonants.
His mom, however, seemed to understand it perfectly.
“It’s not about the trophies right now, Chris.
It’s about his value.” “I’ll talk to the owner,” Chris promised, lowering his voice.
“I can maybe bring him up to 70 thousand a week, with the private chef included.
What do you say?” Rico frowned, looking between his mother and the manager.
“I don’t want to be a dick anymore than usual, but I have no idea what you just said.” “He will,” his mom interjected, answering for him before Rico could insult the manager again.
Chris Coleman offered a relieved nod and headed back inside the restaurant to salvage the negotiations at the dinner table.
The second the heavy glass doors closed behind the manager, his mother slapped Rico around the back of his head.
“What is wrong with you?” his mom demanded furiously.
“I didn’t understand his accent.” Rico defended himself loudly.
“I meant what happened with the owner inside!” his mom practically yelled, pointing back toward the restaurant.
“Eighty-five thousand?
Are you insane?” “You raised me to speak my mind,” Rico argued.
“To believe in myself.
And I know exactly what I’m worth on a football pitch.” “But they don’t know what you’re worth!” his mom fired back, throwing her hands up in exasperation.
“It’s arrogance!
And I told you before, there is a very fine line between confidence and arrogance.
You don’t know where the line is!” “Mom, I got this,” Rico said firmly, unbothered by her panic.
“I know that, Rico,” his mom sighed, her anger deflating slightly into exhaustion.
“But you need to be humble.
Or at least learn how to act like it in front of the people writing the checks.” “I can’t fake humble just cause their ass is insecure,” Rico stated ruthlessly, his towering ambition leaving no room for false modesty.
His mom rubbed her face, looking up at the dreary London sky as if seeking divine intervention.
“You’re going to make my hair go grey.” Rico offered a slow smile unfazed.
“I’ll buy you some hair dye.
Or some grey concealer.
With the seventy grand a week he’s about to offer me.” A/N) Quick thing.
I really like the Arsenal switch because I feel like Arsene could be the coach who chills him out.
And the rest of his career, he’s kind of chill; he’s still a competitor, but he doesn’t go around punching people.
Also, I will get into the business end of Rico choosing his national team around August right before the International break.
And then we can decide.
I just want to point something out.
If this protagonist continuously goes against Messi and Ronaldo.
And constantly, just because he doesn’t score as many goals, he has to do so much more to get the Ballon d’Or.
That would piss him off.
Because in his mind, you’re the best player in the world, but you’re not getting the recognition because you need to do so much more to get the praise they get.
So you need the fuel to keep doing more and if that fuel comes from hate, you take it from where you find it.