The afternoon light filtered through the windows of the Kensington townhouse.
The kitchen was a masterpiece of marble countertops and brushed stainless steel, but Rico wasn’t paying any attention to the aesthetics.
Standing right over the massive kitchen island, hunched over a plastic Tupperware container, Rico was eating as if he hadn’t seen food in a week.
He had smuggled a massive portion of chicken and rice from work and was shovelling it into his mouth as fast as he humanly could.
Sitting across from him on a stool, his mother watched him exasperated, gripping a silver pen so tightly her knuckles were turning white.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” his mom demanded.
“What?” Rico replied innocently, his words muffled as he spoke with a mouthful of food.
“I thought I put you through media training,” his mom stated, rubbing the bridge of her nose.
He didn’t even look up, just scooped another forkful of rice.
“Can you stop eating?” his mom snapped, her patience evaporating.
“I need to eat before Anne comes home,” Rico mumbled, taking a quick gulp of water to wash the chicken down.
“I’ll get to that in a minute,” his mom said, waving a dismissive hand.
“What happened to the PR training I spent hours grilling you on?
We went over what to say, what not to say, and you didn’t listen because you wanted to do your own thing.
You turned a standard press conference into a circus!” Rico swallowed hard, finally pausing for a fraction of a second.
“I did well.
I didn’t say nothing about Fulham being a stepping stone.” “You did one thing right, and you did everything else wrong,” his mom fired back instantly, ticking the offences off on her fingers, “First, you mention you want to help your teammates get better.
Remember, Rico, they don’t like you!
You haven’t even played a competitive minute yet.” “Well, I can help the other players,” Rico countered smoothly, digging back into his Tupperware.
“The ones that listen will have their best career.
Did you know Boa Morte speaks Portuguese?” “That’s not important, Rico.
The issue is the whole press conference,” she groaned, leaning forward over the marble island.
“You can’t say you want a Ballon d’Or on your first day!
That rubs your teammates the wrong way.
It makes you look like you only care about yourself.” “Mum, I don’t care about these people,” Rico stated bluntly, “They don’t like me, why should I bother trying to get to know them?
They were trashing me before we even met.” “You still can’t say ‘I want a Ballon d’Or’,” his mom insisted, her voice rising in frustration.
“I can say it,” Rico smirked, taking another massive bite.
“I just did.” His mother rubbed her temples, exhausted by his ego.
“What about you and saying, ‘You guys are going to do something you love to do, and that’s watch me play football.’ Rico, they haven’t watched you play!
You sound insane.” “Well, give it a couple weeks and I can make them see I wasn’t lying,” Rico shrugged his shoulders, unbothered.
“And what about the International stuff?” his mom pressed, staring at him as if he had lost his mind.
Rico’s jaw immediately clenched.
“He disrespected you.
Was I supposed to answer his question?
He lost the right to ask me a question.
He’s lucky I didn’t get up and go beat his ass.” His mom was blindsided by his hostility.
“How did he disrespect me?” “There was no need to mention that Dad was a footballer,” Rico scowled, stabbing a piece of chicken.
“Just seems disrespectful to you.” His mother’s expression softened as she was touched by the loyalty of her son.
She let out a long sigh.
“I appreciate you standing up for me, Rico,” his mom said softly, a tired smile touching her lips.
“But the reporter was bringing up your English heritage because he wants you to play for England, you idiot.” Rico froze.
The fork hovered halfway to his mouth.
His brain replayed the reporter’s question, suddenly realising the context he had missed because he was too busy being offended.
“Oh,” Rico breathed out, “That makes more sense.” “You’re lucky I love you, because you are an idiot,” his mom chuckled, shaking her head.
“That’s not really necessary,” Rico muttered defensively, resuming his speed-eating to hide his embarrassment.
“Oh, it’s very necessary,” she shot back, “And why did you just drop the Anne bombshell like that?” “I got tired of it,” Rico explained logically.
“It’s best to get out in front of these things.
Anne was fine with it, so I was fine with it.
It takes away their power if I just say it.” His mom sighed, realising he actually had a decent point.
“What’s going on with you and Anne anyway?” “She had her second day on set,” Rico said, his voice softening considerably as he glanced at the wall clock.
“And she needs to look like an underweight woman for her role.
She’s literally starving herself.” “So you’re eating for both?” his mom asked, eyeing the container of chicken and rice.
“She’s not eating, so I feel bad about eating when she’s home,” Rico confessed, revealing a tender, deeply empathetic side, “I don’t want to sit on the sofa eating a massive meal while she’s surviving on vegetables.
It’s not fair to her.” His mother’s eyes softened completely.
“Your career shouldn’t suffer for hers, Rico.
You need those calories to maintain your muscle mass.” “Honestly it’s fine,” Rico assured her, scraping the last grain of rice from the plastic.
“I’m still getting my calories in.
I just have to speed-run my meals before she gets home.” “Well, that’s sweet of you,” his mom smiled gently, finally seeing the mature man her son was slowly becoming.
Suddenly, the sound of a key turning in the front door echoed down the hallway.
Rico’s eyes widened in panic.
He quickly finished chewing, swallowing heavily as he shoved the empty Tupperware deep into the kitchen bin.
He frantically pushed it down under some discarded paper towels to hide the evidence, then reached over and pushed the kitchen window open to let the lingering smell escape into the London breeze.
“Rico, you home?” Anne’s voice called out from the entryway.
“Yeah, I’m in the kitchen,” Rico called back, keeping his voice steady.
He turned to the sink, quickly washing his fork under the running tap, drying it, and putting it silently into the drawer just as she walked in.
Anne stepped into the kitchen, looking breathtakingly beautiful despite the visible exhaustion weighing on her delicate features.
She immediately walked right into Rico’s welcoming arms.
He wrapped his hands around her slender waist, leaning down to capture her lips in an affectionate kiss.
When they pulled apart, Anne’s eyes landed on the barstool.
“I didn’t know your mom was here.” “Yeah, we had something to talk about,” his mom said smoothly, grabbing her designer leather purse from the counter.
She offered Anne a polite smile.
“I’m going to go.
You guys be safe.” His mom turned on her heel and headed down the hallway toward the front door.
Anne tilted her head, her brow furrowing in amusement.
“We’re not going anywhere, why is she saying be safe?” Rico let out a low chuckle, his hands sliding down to rest comfortably on her hips.
“Not that sort of safe.” Anne’s eyes widened slightly as the implication finally clicked.
She burst into a bright laugh, “If only she knew.” Behind the closed doors, Rico and Anne were utterly insatiable.
They were both incredibly daring in the bedroom, uninhibited and fiercely eager to experiment.
They rarely ever stayed in one position for long, constantly shifting the dynamics of their intimacy.
Sometimes he would pin her against the wall, effortlessly holding her body weight as she wrapped her legs securely around his waist.
Other nights, they would start on the plush velvet sofa, transitioning down to the hardwood floor, exploring deeply intimate, arched-back positions that left them both breathless and satiated.
He loved taking control, pushing her to the very edge of her physical limits with a slow rhythm, only for Anne to fiercely flip the script, climbing on top to dictate the pace with a wild passion.
They were turning every single room of their home into a playground for their boundless lust.
“Let’s hope she never knows,” Rico smirked, pressing another quick kiss to her forehead.
He pulled back slightly, studying the tired slump of her shoulders.
“How was work?” Anne let out a heavy sigh, leaning her head against his solid chest.
“They lied to me.” Rico frowned, “What?” “They want to change my role to Éponine,” Anne said disappointed “They can’t change it like that,” Rico argued, his dark eyes narrowing.
“You already signed.” “So we did the first day,” Anne explained, wrapping her arms around his torso for comfort.
“And then today this older woman showed up on set.
The producers took one look at her and then pulled me aside.
They were like, ‘You would be a better Éponine than Fantine.’ They demoted me.” Rico thought about it for a second, “That’s good, she’s like the main character of the second part.” “I thought I was going to be Fantine,” Anne practically pouted, “I prepared to be Fantine.
I’ve been starving myself to be Fantine.” “Well, it’s not that bad,” Rico said softly, rubbing her back in slow circles.
“You got promoted if anything.
Éponine has way more screen time in the second act, and her character arc is arguably way more compelling and tragic.
She gets to sing ‘On My Own’.” Anne looked up, her eyes searching his face.
“You think so?” “Yeah, you got this,” Rico stated with confidence.
“You’re going to steal the entire movie.” Anne took a deep breath, a fiery resolve hardening her features.
“Yeah, I do got this.
I’m going to act to the best of my ability and show them I can play any role.” “Yeah, there you go,” Rico smiled broadly.
“I do have some free time now, though,” Anne noted, the silver lining of the schedule change finally dawning on her.
“Since Éponine’s major scenes are shot later in the production schedule.” Rico’s eyes lit up.
“Really?” “Yeah, I should be able to come to more of your games,” Anne beamed, excited to watch him play in the Premier League.
“Well, first is United at Old Trafford,” Rico began rattling off the fixture list.
“Then Everton at home, then Tottenham away, then Leicester at home, then the International Break.” Anne instantly narrowed her eyes at the mention of their bitter North London rivals.
“I need a win at that Tottenham game at least.
I refuse to live in a house with a man who loses to Spurs.” Rico laughed “I’m trying to win all of them,” Rico smirked, completely unfazed by the pressure.
“Do you think you’ll get selected for an International Team?” Anne asked, her curiosity pivoting to the impending break.
Rico’s confidence wavered.
He leaned back against the counter, “I don’t know, honestly.
I hope, but I don’t know.” Anne tilted her head, surprised by the sudden drop in his ego.
“It ain’t like you to be insecure.
What’s on your mind?” “It’s just…
England,” Rico sighed, running a hand through his hair.
“They have Gerrard, Lampard, Scholes.
So even if I get in the squad, there’s no guarantee I play.” “You might,” Anne encouraged him softly.
“I’m just being honest with myself,” Rico explained, his brain dissecting the national landscape.
“Okay, you will,” Anne insisted, placing her hands on his chest.
“You can play positions they can’t.
Look at you, Rico, you’re massive.
You’re an athlete they don’t have.” “I can play DM, and AM,” Rico nodded, acknowledging his versatility.
“But England plays a rigid, flat 4-4-2 under Sven-Göran Eriksson.
I don’t fit into a flat midfield four.
It suffocates my playmaking, and I’d have to sacrifice my attacking freedom just to accommodate Gerrard and Lampard, who already can’t play together.” Anne thought about it, realising the tactical dilemma.
“You can choose Brazil.” “I don’t even know if I’m on their radar,” Rico admitted quietly.
“I’ve been playing in the MLS.
Brazil produces a new wonderkid every five minutes.
I might just be invisible to them.” “Didn’t they lose to Mexico?” Anne pointed out, recalling a recent sports headline she had seen.
“Yeah, in the Gold Cup,” Rico scoffed slightly, dismissing the tournament’s prestige.
“But nobody cares about that.
I don’t know…
I can hope, but I doubt it.” Anne reached up, gently cupping his cheek.
“Maybe you need to do something that gets both of attention and make them want you instead of you wanting them.” A/N) Honestly, I’m fine keeping his ego high as long as there is a foil to his ego, like someone who would bring him down to reality so that he realises there are more important things than football.
I feel like the kid being born is a pretty humbling experience.
Also, unrelated thing, do you know how people say English people are arrogant when it comes to International Football?
Because they haven’t won nothing.
It makes sense Rico is arrogant because he hasn’t won anything.
It’s literally, his English trait.
After the United Game I’m going to open the talk for International Teams.
Also, he needs a boot deal.
We went Puma last one.
I think just go Nike with Ronaldo and I can have that being the start.
Then the Norway one gets Adidas.