The training session had long since ended, and the majority of the exhausted Fulham squad had already trudged down the concrete tunnel toward the showers.
Rico wasn’t finished.
Rico had grabbed a bag of footballs and dragged them out to the edge of the penalty area.
He was setting up for free kicks, and standing between the white posts, dwarfing the net was Edwin Van Der Sar.
Van Der Sar was one of the greatest goalkeepers on the planet.
He was a seasoned veteran who had been the starting goalkeeper for Ajax and then Juventus before he was unceremoniously kicked out to make room for Gianluigi Buffon.
He had arrived at Fulham with a chip on his shoulder and a wealth of elite European experience.
For Rico, this was the ultimate litmus test.
He didn’t want to practice against a backup or an academy kid; he was trying to test his mettle against one of the best shot-stoppers in the world.
It was a case of iron sharpening iron.
Rico placed the first ball down, exactly twenty-five yards out, slightly offset to the left.
He took four measured steps backwards, his dark eyes analysing the towering Dutchman’s positioning.
Rico striked the ball as the ball soared over the imaginary wall, dipping toward the left post.
But Van Der Sar took one step, dived and caught the ball cleanly with both hands, pulling it safely to his chest.
Van Der Sar stood up, tossing the ball back out to Rico “You have to do better than that.” Rico’s jaw clenched.
The competitive fire burned in his chest.
He didn’t say a word.
He just picked up a second ball, placed it on the same tuft of grass, and stepped back.
This time, he struck it with power, bending wickedly and flew perfectly into the top right corner of the net.
It nestled right into the stanchion before Van Der Sar could even fully extend his long arms.
Rico casually rested his hands on his hips, “Was that good enough?” Van Der Sar just chuckled, retrieving the ball from the back of the net.
Rico placed the third ball down.
Knowing that Van Der Sar was expecting another high strike, Rico leaned over the ball and drilled it low and hard.
The shot was a laser beam, skipping off the grass right in front of the goal line as the ball zipped past Van Der Sar’s fingertips and went into the bottom corner.
For the fourth shot, Rico decided to test the limits of his accuracy.
He aimed a vicious knuckleball for the top right corner.
The ball swerved and dipped, freezing Van Der Sar, but it was just a fraction of an inch too high.
It smashed against the crossbar with a reverberating crack that echoed.
Undeterred, Rico immediately lined up the fifth shot.
He adjusted his body, aiming for the top left corner this time, and struck it perfectly.
The ball curled beautifully and dropped perfectly into the corner.
It was unsavable.
They kept going.
Rico lined up another batch of five footballs.
Van Der Sar managed to pull off a one-handed save on the first one, tipping it wide of the post.
But that only forced Rico to dial his precision, Rico scored the next four in succession.
They were like rockets, painting the top corners.
He hit the top right twice, then the top left twice.
The velocity and pinpoint accuracy left the legendary Van Der Sar helpless, reduced to just watching the ball hit the back of the net over and over again.
Standing on the touchline with his arms crossed, Chris Coleman had been quietly watching the display of brilliance.
He walked onto the pitch, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Can you take penalties as well?” Coleman asked, his thick Welsh accent cutting through the cool air.
Rico picked up a ball, walked into the penalty area, and placed it on the twelve-yard spot.
He backed away, his eyes locking onto Van Der Sar’s eyes.
It was a psychological war.
Rico took a slow run-up, executing a stutter step right before he reached the ball.
The hesitation broke Van Der Sar’s rhythm.
The Dutchman bit on the feint, diving heavily to his right.
Rico rolled the ball into the bottom left corner.
Rico jogged back, grabbed another ball, and placed it on the spot.
He stepped up, repeating the same stuttering run-up.
This time, faking as if he was going to kick it to the right.
Van Der Sar dove right again and Rico slotting it easily into the left corner once more.
For the next three penalties, it was a masterclass in deception.
Rico sent the world-class goalkeeper the wrong way every single time, reading Van Der Sar’s hips and eyes.
He scored five out of five, making one of the best keepers in the world look like he was guessing in the dark.
Coleman just let out an astonished laugh.
“Congrats, you’re taking pens.” Without another word, the manager turned on his heel and walked off the pitch, heading back to his office.
Rico stood near the penalty spot, visibly confused by the abrupt promotion.
He just shrugged his broad shoulders, unfazed by the sudden responsibility.
“One more,” Van Der Sar called out from the goal line, his veteran pride slightly bruised.
“No stuttering.
I want to see.” Rico nodded.
He grabbed the final ball of the bag and placed it on the spot.
He didn’t do a fancy run-up.
He just took three steps back and stared Van Der Sar down.
Rico watched the keeper’s body mechanics.
He saw the shift in Van Der Sar’s weight, the way he was leaning to the right, preparing to explode off his line.
Rico ran up and aimed right.
Van Der Sar second-guessed himself and dove to the left as the ball went into the bottom right corner.
A few hours later, the brightly lit media room at Craven Cottage was packed to the brim.
This was the official unveiling of Fulham’s record-breaking signing, and the British press was ravenous, eager to dissect the eighteen-year-old who had commanded such an astronomical transfer fee.
Rico sat behind the table, dressed impeccably in a tailored suit.
“How does it feel to play for a team like Fulham?” the first reporter asked, holding up a microphone.
“It’s a great club,” Rico answered smoothly, his deep voice carrying a practiced, media-trained calm.
“They really sold me on the project, and I want to be here a long time.” “How much pressure do you have to perform from day one?” another journalist shouted from the second row.
“By just doing what I know how to do,” Rico replied effortlessly, leaning forward to speak directly into the mic.
A third reporter, a seasoned veteran from a major tabloid, stood up.
“How much pressure do you feel knowing you’re a record transfer fee coming from a different league?
The MLS is miles behind the Premier League.” Rico’s dark eyes narrowed slightly, zeroing in on the journalist.
He let out a soft scoff.
“There’s no pressure,” Rico elaborated, his unshakeable arrogance bleeding through his words.
“I’ve been putting pressure on myself since I was a kid.
I’m doing something I would love to do.
You guys are going to do something you love to do, and that’s watch me play football.” A ripple of surprised laughter echoed through the press room at the unapologetic confidence of the teenager.
Rico didn’t smile.
He looked directly at the laughing journalists.
“I can ask you the same thing.
Do you guys feel pressure asking those questions?
You guys are professionals…
at least I think you are.
So there’s no pressure.” The laughter died down, replaced by a slightly tense captivated silence.
The kid wasn’t just arrogant; he was establishing a dominant boundary with the British press.
“What’s your goal this season?” a reporter from the back quickly asked, shifting the topic back to the pitch.
“To get my teammates better every day,” Rico answered seamlessly.
“What is your individual long-term goal?” The same reporter asked.
Rico leaned back in his chair, his piercing dark eyes scanning the room.
“To win the Ballon d’Or.” The room of reporters went dead silent.
The quiet was a mixture of disbelief and shock.
It was a massive taboo for a player, let alone an eighteen-year-old kid who hadn’t played a single minute in a top-five league, to publicly address a desire to win the most prestigious individual award on the planet.
You were supposed to talk about the team, about the badge, about collective glory.
“Not to win the Premier League?” the reporter stammered, baffled by the selfish ambition.
“You asked individual long-term goal,” Rico pointed out logically, unfazed by their shock.
“However that’s a short term goal.
And all the trophies and the stuff like that will come with it.
If I’m the best in the world, my team is winning.” Another reporter stood up, consulting his notepad.
“You possess triple citizenship.
You’re able to play for different international teams.
You were born to an English father who was an ex-football player, a Brazilian mother…” Rico’s jaw immediately clenched.
“…and you spent most of your life in the States,” the reporter finished.
“Can you shed some light on which international team you want to play for?” “No,” Rico stated coldly, his tone leaving zero room for further discussion.
“Next question.” The reporters shifted uncomfortably, sensing the sudden shift in his mood.
But the tabloid journalists, smelling blood in the water, decided to pivot entirely away from sports.
A reporter from a notorious gossip rag practically yelled over the crowd.
“There’s reports you’re dating the Hollywood actress Anne Hathaway!
Is that true?” Rico didn’t flinch.
He didn’t try to hide it, didn’t use PR-trained deflection, and didn’t ask for privacy.
He looked directly into the bank of flashing camera lenses.
“Yeah,” Rico said bluntly.
“She’s my girlfriend.” Rico had unleashed a nuke in that press conference.
The moment the words left his mouth, the media room erupted into a deafening roar of overlapping questions, but it was already too late.
Rico stood up, buttoned his suit jacket, and walked off the stage, leaving an international media circus in his wake.
By the time the evening news cycles hit, the revelation was everywhere.
It transcended the sports pages, violently bleeding into global pop culture, entertainment news, and every single major tabloid on the planet.
The collision of two different worlds was a goldmine for the press.
He was the brooding, arrogant footballing prodigy.
She was Hollywood’s reigning, radiant princess, beloved by millions for her roles in blockbuster family films.
The contrast was staggering, cinematic, and irresistible.
The Sun and the Daily Mail dedicated their front pages to the couple, printing massive, side-by-side photos of Rico’s stoic, razor-sharp face and Anne’s brilliant, doe-eyed smile.
Headlines screamed across the newsstands: THE PRINCESS AND THE PRODIGY, HOLLYWOOD ROYALTY MEETS PREMIER LEAGUE ARROGANCE, and DAVID AND VICTORIA 2.0?
In the sports world, pundits were tearing their hair out over the press conference.
TalkSPORT radio hosts debated for hours about his Ballon d’Or comment, half of them writing him off as a delusional, overhyped American novelty, while the other half argued that his terrifying confidence was the exact psychological profile of a future global superstar.
The old guard of English football purists were disgusted by his blatant individualism, failing to understand the ruthless mentality of the teenager.
Meanwhile, across the Atlantic, the American entertainment media was in a frenzy.
People Magazine, E!
News, and US Weekly frantically ran segments dissecting the timeline of their relationship, piecing together grainy paparazzi photos from Los Angeles movie theaters and late-night diners.
Rico had wanted the Premier League for the exposure, the challenge, and the bright lights.
But as he sat in his living room, watching the international news anchors dissect his personal life on a twenty-four-hour loop, he realised exactly what he had done.
They were now an “It” couple.
A/N) My wifi is terrible right now as I’m having to hotspot off my phone.
So, chapters will be incostistent till its fixed.
Also, I want to know how many Ballon D’ors Rico you want Rico to win?
I think his nation affect how many he wins because the International success dictates how many trophies he wins.