The late evening sun was melting into the horizon over the Douro River, casting an orange glow through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the hotel suite.
The view of the Portuguese city was breathtaking, a sweeping panorama of terracotta roofs and shimmering water, but Rico wasn’t looking at it.
He stood near the edge of the king-sized bed, meticulously folded his training gear into the bag.
His jaw was clenched so tightly that a muscle ticked in his cheek.
The residual adrenaline from his scrimmage against the FC Porto first team had completely faded, leaving behind a cold, bitter, and unfamiliar feeling: the sting of a bruised ego.
Sitting in a velvet armchair near the window, a cup of espresso resting in her hands, his mother watched him with a highly critical expression.
She was in agent mode, trying to dissect the collapse of what should have been a slam-dunk transfer.
“Let’s go over this one more time,” his mother said, her voice cutting through the heavy silence of the room.
Rico didn’t look up, zipping a side pocket of the bag.
“There is nothing to go over.
He told me I would come off the bench.
I’m not wasting my potential not starting.” “But you said he liked you,” his mother pressed, her brow furrowing in frustration.
“He pulled you aside.
He gave you a masterclass in game management.
That is Jose Mourinho, Rico.
He doesn’t do that for players he doesn’t want.
He was trying to challenge you.” “I don’t know,” Rico muttered, tossing a pair of white sneakers into the bottom of his luggage.
“The guy is a dick.” His mother took a slow sip of her espresso, as she looked at her notoriously arrogant son.
“Well, I guess it takes one to know one.” Rico froze for a fraction of a second, his dark eyes flashing with irritation, but he chose not to take the bait.
He zipped the main compartment of the duffel bag closed, “I’m not in the mood right now.” He grabbed the heavy bag and turned toward the door.
“When is the flight out?” “Not till tomorrow,” his mother answered flatly, setting her cup down on the glass coffee table.
Rico stopped dead in his tracks.
He let out a loud groan of annoyance, “You’ve got to be kidding me.
I have to stay here another night?” “The commercial flights back to London are booked until the morning,” she explained, unfazed by his frustration.
“Look, how about you go out?
Take the night off.
Go out and actually do something.” Rico frowned, dropping the bag back onto the plush carpet with a thud.
He looked at her as if she had just suggested he quit football entirely to become an accountant.
“Do what?” “Go do what normal football players do,” his mother suggested, waving toward the glittering city lights outside the window.
“What does someone like me do?” Rico asked, crossing his arms over his chest.
He had no concept of a normal teenage life.
His entire existence was a cycle of training, dieting, and analysing game footage.
“Go out and have fun,” his mother urged gently, trying to strip away the pressure he placed on his own shoulders.
“Go to a club.
Party.
Who knows?
Try to pretend to have fun, you might even have a little bit by accident.” “I just want to get out of this country,” Rico stated, unmoved by the prospect of Portuguese nightlife.
The local clubs held zero appeal to him.
“Look, the trial didn’t go your way, I get that, b—” His mother started “It’s not that,” Rico cut her off.
He began to pace the length of the luxurious suite, his long legs eating up the distance.
“I want Fulham.
It’s just a better place for me.” His mother sighed, rubbing her temples.
“We are really doing this?
We’re picking a mid-table English team over the reigning champions of Portugal?” “Yes,” Rico nodded firmly, his mind rapidly snapping back into focus as he laid out his grand strategy.
“I need better chances for me to develop, and Mourinho was right.
I need to play ninety minutes every single week, making my own mistakes and learning how to run a game.
It about dictating the pace and the tempo, I can’t learn that from a bench.” He paused at the window, staring out into the night.
“Plus, the family is there.
Dad’s side of the family is all over London, so I won’t be by myself.
I’m far more used to the culture in London, the media exposure is larger in the Premier League, and I can use Fulham as a stepping stone.
If I dominate there, I can do this whole transfer circus a year from now and have a much better clubs to choose from.
It makes sense.” “If it makes so much sense,” his mother pointed out, watching him carefully, “then I don’t get why you’re being such an ass right now.
You got what you wanted.
You figured out the path.
You made the choice” Rico’s pacing abruptly stopped.
He let out a bitter breath, “He made the choice, not me,” finally admitting the bruised reality.
“I’m angry, okay?” Rico snapped, his voice tight with frustration.
“I wanted to be the one to make the pick, but somebody picked for me.
Mourinho rejected me before I could reject him.
I’m used to being the one in control.
Always.
On the pitch, in my career, everywhere.
And this is the second time I’ve not had a choice in deciding my own life.” The conversation was no longer about Jose Mourinho or FC Porto.
“What is with you and this woman?” his mother asked, her voice dropping into a maternal register.
Rico looked away, the fierce gladiator replaced by a conflicted teenager.
“I don’t know.” “Look, Rico, it’s just puppy love,” his mother said, standing up and walking over to him.
She placed a comforting hand on his broad shoulder, speaking not as his agent, but as a parent trying to protect her child from heartbreak.
“This is the first time you’ve ever really been with someone.
You’ve been so focused on making it to this level that this is the first time you’ve ever felt this way about a girl.
Just get over it.” Rico stepped out of her gentle grasp, “I’m not going to just get over it.” “You will,” his mother insisted pragmatically, “You’re young, you’re handsome, you’re about to be one of the biggest athletes in Europe.
You will feel this same way about the next girl.” “I won’t,” Rico stated, his voice devoid of hesitation.
To him, it was a cold certainty.
“How do you know if you don’t go out and try to do it?” his mother challenged, gesturing toward the door.
“Because I know I don’t,” Rico fired back, his chest heaving slightly.
“I’ve tried.
For the entire flight over the Atlantic, for every single second I’ve been in Europe, I’ve tried not thinking about her.
But she keeps popping up.
She’s in my head, Mom.
Constantly.” His mother let out a heavy sigh, crossing her arms as she confronted the nightmare of his feelings.
“Okay, let’s play this out.
What option do you really have?
Be honest with yourself, Rico.
You said you can’t do long distance.
You don’t want to stay in America, and her entire career is based in Hollywood.
She is a rising movie star.
It cannot work.” “There’s movie studios in London,” Rico countered desperately, clinging to the fragile thread of hope he had woven over the last week.
“Major productions happen there all the time.” “And you’re going to ask her to sacrifice her career trajectory for you?” his mother demanded, “That’s selfish even for you.
She is building a life for herself just like you are.
You can’t ask that of her.” “We could do long distance,” Rico pivoted quickly, contradicting his previous stance because he was running out of options.
“Long distance never works,” his mother shot down the idea instantly, “It’s unfair on both of you.
You will be playing two matches a week in the Premier League, traveling across the country.
She will be shooting twelve-hour days on a closed set in Los Angeles.
You will barely be together.
You may get a couple of scattered months a year at most.
Is that really worth it?” The room fell into silence.
The golden hour outside the window had faded into a bruising twilight, casting long shadows across the suite.
Rico stood still, his towering frame outlined against the window.
He thought about the empty feeling in his chest when he had left her sleeping in that hotel room.
He thought about the way her musical laugh sounded, and the way her doe eyes looked at him like he was the only person on the planet.
He looked his mother dead in the eye, his voice dropping into a vulnerable whisper that carried the weight of his soul.
“A couple days with her is worth more than a lifetime without her.” His mother froze.
The sharp arguments she had lined up in her head evaporated.
She stared at her son, struck by the poetic gravity of his words.
“Do you love her?” she asked softly.
“Yes,” Rico answered instantly, without a fraction of a doubt.
“Do you really think she’s the one?” She questioned.
“Yeah,” Rico nodded, his dark eyes burning with a fierce intensity.
“I do.” His mother let out a slow, shaky breath, processing the magnitude of what this meant for his life.
“And you think this is going to work?” “I won’t know unless I try,” Rico said, his jaw setting with a stubborn resolve.
“I’ve never failed at anything I’ve truly tried to do.” “And it won’t distract you from everything else?” his mother pressed, needing reassurance that his career wouldn’t violently derail.
“Football has to remain a priority, Rico.
You cannot have your mind elsewhere.” “It won’t,” Rico promised, “If anything, knowing she’s mine will give me the peace of mind I need.” His mother stared at him for a long moment.
She rapidly ran the logistical timeline through her mind, shifting seamlessly from a concerned mother into the ultimate fixer.
“Okay,” his mother finally said, letting out a sharp exhale as she began to formulate an itinerary.
“The medical with Fulham is 40 hours from now in London.
Here is what you do.
You get on a plane tonight and fly back to LA.
You go to her, you tell her exactly what you just told me, and then you get on a red-eye flight straight back to England for your medical, and you should still have some time” Rico’s eyes widened at the insanity of flying to LA and back in forty-eight hours, but his heart violently leapt with hope.
“But,” his mother interrupted, raising a finger to halt his excitement, “if she says no…
if she decides her career or the distance is too much…
I don’t want to hear her name ever again.
You bury it and you move on.
Deal?” Rico didn’t even have to think about it.
The risk was worth the reward.
“Deal.” A/N) Spoilers ahead.
Honestly, I don’t know why people who don’t want a general sense of direction for the way this story is heading read these.
This has always been a way to interact with you guys.
Do you guys want me to get rid of this?
I’m assuming no, because the other time I asked people said they wanted me to keep it.
Anyway, I got to ask.
Here’s what I gathered from what I’ve read.
This is not certain.
This is just a rough layout.
Fulham 2003-2004.
(He leaves because the club have differing ambitions as they sell high, especially you get Euros and Copa America in 2004) Arsenal 2004-2008.
(I saw a lot of you wanted him for less time, and I think this makes sense) AC or Inter Milan 2008-2010 (Honestly, I think AC is fine.
I think AC throw everything into that transfer as Rico is fine with it but I also think Mourinho would want Inter to throw everything at it.
Maybe I ask later on which one you guys prefer?) Real Madrid 2010-2016 (He stays here the longest, because this is where he fits in the best.
Also, the Ronaldo and him partnership as they just vacuum trophies, like honestly, there’s no way they don’t win every trophy) Bayern or PSG 2016-2018 (He will barely play as he gets the PSG player treatment, the only reason they signed him is for the UCL.
Also, I think that PSG makes the most sense because PSG have never won the Champions League, so they will give this man a bag to make it happen (like at least 2 mill a month) and I think Rico would prefer PSG more than Bayern, he’s literally built for Paris (Also, my Norway protagonist is going to play for Bayern) Real Madrid 2018-2024 (I think he should go back, he gets to ride out his career in the place where he spent the longest time with his family, who are most used to Madrid and happiest in Spain as they speak the language and stuff like that, as this gets to be the final stop in Europe.) LA Galaxy 2024-2026 Some of you don’t understand that he will be 40 in 2024, let the grandfather rest.
His tank is bordering on empty, and he’s targeting that 2026 World Cup as his last chance, and he has to get there.
Also, this is him coming to terms with the fact that his career is coming to an end, and he’s just slowly edging toward retirement while getting used to living in LA again because that’s where he and Anne are settling down to spend the rest of their lives.
Also, his ego will chill out, or maybe it just becomes more deserved.
I’m not sure.