The brightly lit waiting room of the Los Angeles casting agency felt less like an antechamber for an audition and more like a high-stakes psychological battlefield.
Anne Hathaway sat rigidly on the edge of a sofa, her script clutched in her hands.
She swallowed hard, her eyes darting around the room.
Every single woman surrounding her looked like a seasoned Broadway veteran.
They were whispering lines under their breath.
Anne felt small and out of her depth.
She was the perfectly coiffed Disney princess of Hollywood, beloved for smiling warmly and wearing a tiara.
Now, she was trying to convince a room full of casting directors that she could embody a starving, dying, destitute factory worker descending into tragedy.
The imposter syndrome was deafening.
“Anne Hathaway?” an assistant called out, holding the heavy wooden door.
Anne took a deep shaky breath, smoothing down her shirt.
She stood up, squared her shoulders, and walked into the audition room.
A panel of three casting directors sat behind a long folding table.
They looked exhausted, having seen dozens of actresses.
“Whenever you’re ready, Anne,” the lead director said, not even looking up from his notepad.
Anne walked to the centre of the room.
She closed her eyes for a fleeting second, letting the glitz and glamour of her Hollywood life fall away.
When she opened her eyes, she wasn’t Anne Hathaway anymore.
Her shoulders sagged, bearing the weight of a merciless world.
Her vibrant eyes hollowed out, filling with a terrifying desperation.
She dropped to her knees, her hands trembling as she clutched at the empty air.
“You don’t understand!” she cried out, her voice cracking with a visceral agony that seemed to physically tear at her throat.
“My Cosette…
she is all I have!
The Thénardiers, they demand more money.
They say she is sick, they say she is freezing!
I have sold my hair, I have sold my teeth, I have sold my soul to the gutters of Paris!
You cannot take this from me, I beg of you!
I am a ghost of the woman I used to be, but my heart still beats for her!” She gasped for air, a horrific sob escaping her lips as tears streamed flawlessly down her pale cheeks.
She collapsed forward, her fingers clawing at the carpet, radiating misery that sucked the oxygen out of the audition room.
Silence hung heavily in the room for a long moment.
The lead casting director lowered his pen, “That was great.” Anne broke character, blinking rapidly as she wiped the tears from her face, her voice returning to its normal cadence.
“It was?” “Yeah, you did a good job,” the casting director said, exchanging a look with his colleagues.
“We got a couple of questions.
We plan to shoot in London for four months, starting early August to late December, would that be fine with you?” Anne’s heart leapt against her ribs.
“That wouldn’t be a problem.” “Do you even have other commitments?” the casting director asked.
“No, I’m free,” Anne answered instantly, her excitement bubbling just beneath the surface.
“Okay, that’s good for us,” the casting director nodded, “We kind of…
you need to lose weight.” Anne paused.
“How much?” “Fantine needs to be real skinny,” he stated bluntly, unapologetic for the physical demands of the role.
“Starving.
Emaciated.” Anne didn’t even hesitate.
“I can do that.” “We’ll get in touch and let you know,” the casting director said, offering a curt but promising nod.
Anne practically floated out of the room.
The second the heavy door clicked shut behind her, she let out a quiet squeal of joy.
She was so excited, believing she had nailed it.
She had secured this role.
And more importantly, she couldn’t wait to go to London to see Rico again.
Rico, however, wasn’t in London.
He was in Porto, Portugal.
The sky over the coastal city was an azure, but Rico hadn’t even gotten a single second to see the beautiful sights or experience the rich culture.
The moment their plane had touched down on the Iberian Peninsula, his mother had shoved him into a private town car and started drilling him.
“You keep your mouth shut today,” his mother grilled him from the passenger seat, her eyes flashing fiercely in the rearview mirror as they pulled up to the FC Porto training facility.
“I don’t care if you don’t like the colour of their socks, or if the manager has a weird accent, or if the food looks funny.
You do not talk numbers, you do not talk tactics, and you do not threaten to play baseball.
Do you understand me?” “I got it, mom,” Rico sighed, exhausted by the endless lectures.
When he stepped out onto the pristine grass of the training centre, the atmosphere was intense.
FC Porto was coming off a successful season, and the players carried the distinct swagger of champions.
Rico was sent over to do a basic warm-up with the coaching staff, jogging through the cones and dynamic stretches to flush the lingering stiffness out of his legs.
Almost immediately, Mourinho’s assistant coach threw Rico into a small-sided possession drill with the reserve squad.
It lasted five minutes.
Rico was moving the ball so fast, reading the passing lanes with such speed, that the reserve players were practically tripping over their own feet trying to keep up.
Standing on the touchline with his arms crossed, Jose Mourinho watched the eighteen-year-old with a sharp gaze.
He wanted to see how Rico handled real European men.
Rico was quickly moved up to a full, eleven-versus-eleven scrimmage with the first-team players.
The intensity on the pitch was nothing like Rico had ever experienced.
This wasn’t the slow pace of the MLS.
This was fast, violent, and suffocating.
Rico slotted into the centre of the midfield, eager to assert his dominance.
He took a touch, looking up to spray a cross-field pass, but before he could even plant his foot, a Porto midfielder was already there.
The player lunged, stripping the ball from Rico’s toes.
Rico scowled, pivoting and sprinting back, utilising his speed to run the man down and win the ball back.
But as he tried to transition the ball forward again, the game remained messy.
Rico started slow, his timing just a fraction of a second off against the pressing triggers of the Portuguese champions.
He kept getting the ball picked away from him, forced his passes as the Porto players swarmed him like angry wasps.
Every time he lost it, his pride forced him to aggressively win the ball back, resulting in the game becoming a mess, lacking the normal control Mourinho demanded.
It was just a frantic series of transitions.
About ten minutes into the scrimmage, Rico found a pocket of space near the centre circle.
He received a firm pass, taking it beautifully on the half-turn.
He dropped his shoulder, preparing to accelerate into the final third but Rico took a blow right to the back followed by a cynical kick to his Achilles.
He went crashing hard to the turf.
He rolled over as he looked up to see Deco casually jogging away from the foul, not even offering an apology.
Rico sat up on the grass, shaking his head, visibly annoyed.
He rubbed the back of his neck, a cold realisation washing over him.
There were no free rides, and reputations meant nothing.
He realised exactly what sort of physicality was allowed here.
When play restarted, Rico didn’t just step up to the level of the game; he raised above it.
Rico had finally figured them out.
He finally got their pressing triggers, defensive spacing, and their weaknesses.
He hunted Deco down, turning the scrimmage into a personal battleground.
When Deco received the ball, Rico was instantly there, using his six-foot-three frame to bully the Portuguese star off the ball.
He barged Deco into the ground, collecting the loose ball.
Rico began to dominate Deco and the rest of the Porto midfield.
He was too big, too strong, too fast, and very willing to dominate.
When they tried to press him, he used his balance and close control to pirouette out of danger.
When they dropped off, he punished them with long strides right through the heart of their defensive structure.
The Porto players were at sixes and sevens trying to stop him.
They double-teamed him, they tried to kick him, but Rico absorbed the contact like a brick wall and kept pushing forward.
Receiving the ball thirty yards out, Rico drove directly at Jorge Costa, who squared his shoulders, preparing to flatten him.
Rico didn’t flinch.
Rico struck a disguised, curling shot right through Jorge Costa’s open legs.
The ball bent around the unsighted goalkeeper, nestling into the bottom corner of the net.
1-0.
Rico jogged back to the centre circle.
For the rest of the game, Rico kept dominating.
He was running the show, ignoring the tactical constraints of Mourinho’s strict system in favour of doing his own thing.
A few minutes later, Rico collected a loose ball, took one touch to set himself, and rifled a knuckleball from 25 yards out.
The ball swerved wickedly in the air, forcing Vítor Baía to react desperately to parry it just over the crossbar.
Rico jogged over to the corner flag, as he wanted to take the corner kick himself.
Standing on the touchline, “You’re huge, get in the box!” the manager yelled.
Rico paused, annoyed at being ordered around, but he complied, jogging into the crowded penalty area.
He positioned himself near the penalty spot, assessing the flight path.
Carlos Alberto stepped up and whipped an in-swinging cross into the box.
Rico tracked it perfectly.
He took two steps forward, planted his feet, and launched himself into the air.
He overpowered his marker and won the header to smash the ball past Vítor Baía to make it 2-0.
Rico landed on his feet, his chest heaving, absolutely convinced he was the greatest player on the pitch.
But as the scrimmage wore on, the cracks in Rico’s game-management began to show.
He kept defending aggressively and kept dominating individual battles, but the game entirely ran through him.
Instead of slowing the game down, keeping possession, and safely managing the 2-0 lead, Rico kept pushing the pace turning the game into a back-and-forth frenzy.
He played a defence-splitting through-ball, making a golden chance for Benni McCarthy.
McCarthy found himself one-on-one but scuffed the shot, sending it wide of the post.
Undeterred, Rico made a couple more chances, repeatedly exposing the defence, but his relentless, attacking mindset left the midfield completely wide open for counter-attacks.
The game became pure chaos.
Because Rico kept forcing the transition, the Porto players adjusted.
In the span of ten chaotic minutes, the other team capitalised on the disjointed structure and managed to score twice making it 2-2.
Rico was furious, blaming his teammates for the defensive lapses, entirely blind to the fact that his own relentless pacing had caused the structural collapse.
Determined to win the scrimmage by himself, Rico demanded the ball in the dying seconds of the match.
Rico drilled it low with terrifying pace right through the corridor of uncertainty as Benni McCarthy had made a brilliant run to the back post, and this time, he made no mistake.
He managed to finally convert the tap-in making it 3-2 right as the assistant coach blew the final whistle.
The sweltering Portuguese sun beat down on the training pitches as the exhausted players began to file back to the locker rooms.
Rico was sitting down on a cooler near the touchline, as he was getting a drink, his chest heaving with the adrenaline of the hard-fought victory.
He felt vindicated.
He had scored a brace, provided the game-winning assist, and bullied the reigning champions of Portugal.
A shadow suddenly fell over him.
Jose Mourinho stood there, his hands in his the pockets of his track jacket, his eyes analysing the towering teenager.
“I think you feel that I like you, and I do,” Mourinho began, “You’re good.
Even great.
And you can play.
But if I’m being honest, I don’t see you starting for us.” Rico froze, the water bottle pausing halfway to his mouth.
His dark eyes narrowed in confusion.
“Huh?” He had just dominated the scrimmage.
“There’s no control,” Mourinho stated bluntly, “It’s just go, go, go.
You nearly blew a 2-0 lead because you refuse to manage the game.
If you win by a goal, you get the same amount of points as by winning by six.” “I ain’t trying to play on the bench, so,” Rico countered defensively, offended by the critique.
“I get that,” Mourinho nodded, unbothered by Rico’s arrogance.
“If I was with you, I would go somewhere else where you would play every single minute.
There’s no doubt about your potential, but there’s a huge difference between a player who keeps consistency and a player who has moments.” Mourinho leaned in slightly, his eyes locking onto Rico’s.
“And that is what makes the difference between a top, top player and the player with top potential.” Rico felt a sharp sting to his monumental ego.
He wasn’t annoyed about the criticism; he was annoyed that it was accurate.
“Why you telling me this?” “Because our paths will meet again,” Mourinho said with certainty.
“And when we do, I want you to be the best player on my team.” Rico stayed silent, absorbing the weight of the manager’s words.
“It’s something you have to analyse yourself,” Mourinho continued, gesturing vaguely toward Rico’s frame.
“Why are you still at the MLS at 18?
When there are players your age all over Europe already making an impact?” Mourinho tilted his head, “I don’t know whether it’s where you grew up, or you’re a party boy—you know Brazilians are—I don’t know.
Only you can know that.” Rico’s jaw clenched in annoyance, but Mourinho didn’t let him interrupt.
“When I was with your age, I would have killed to have your talent and your body,” Mourinho admitted, “You got to grab it by the balls.
Because yesterday, I was trying to be a professional player and didn’t make it.
And today, I’m coaching Porto.
And tomorrow, I’ll be 50.
Time flies, and I think one day, you will regret it if you don’t take the opportunities right in front of you.” Mourinho took a step back, “Like I said, I don’t think you should sign here.
But you’re a good kid.
A bit arrogant, but the best always have an ego.
And I think you’ll regret not taking the right opportunity to develop your control.” As Mourinho finished his speech, he was right.
If he went to Porto, he would be benched, and it would suffocate his development.
He should sign for Fulham.
It was a mid-table Premier League side where he would be the star, playing every minute against the most demanding opposition in the world.
He would have the freedom to make his mistakes, learn to control the tempo, and build himself into the complete midfielder Mourinho was talking about.
It was the best opportunity available.
Rico stood up from the cooler, all of his defensive anger had evaporated.
“I understand,” Rico said softly, nodding his head.
The two men extended their hands, shaking firmly.
It was a mutual acknowledgement between two massive egos who understood the ruthless nature of the sport.
As Rico let go and went to leave, he paused.
“Oh, and when we meet again,” Rico stated, “I’m beating your ass.” Mourinho threw his head back and actually laughed.
Rico laughed too, turning away as his laugh vanished.
He wasn’t joking in the slightest.
He was going to get Mourinho and his team, no matter how long it took.
A/N) I was thinking.
What about this as his career path?
Fulham 2003-2004.
Arsenal 2004-2010.
Real Madrid.
2010-2016.
Bayern Munich for two years.
2016-2018.
Real Madrid 2018-2024.
LA Galaxy from 2024-2026.
Honestly, I don’t know.
What do you think?
Suggest a path that you think he should take.
Do it the way I wrote it; that way, it’s easier for everyone else to understand, so other people can vote for your ideas.
There are teams that, if you suggest, I’m not even going to entertain, such as Atelico, Barca, any other team in England that’s not named Arsenal, teams like Dortmund, anything out of the top five leagues until 2024 Disclaimer: I’m trying to see what you guys want; there is no guarantee I’ll take the path you suggest.