The referee’s final whistle echoed around Old Trafford, confirming the 3-1 upset.
The remaining Manchester United fans were already streaming toward the exits in stunned silence, while the small pocket of traveling Fulham supporters high up in the away end celebrated in delirium.
Rico exhaled a long breath, the cold Manchester air turning it into a visible cloud of mist.
He didn’t drop to his knees in celebration.
He didn’t pump his fists.
He simply smoothed down his jersey and began the customary post-match walk across the damp grass to shake hands with the opposition.
The United veterans offered him begrudging nods, their pride bruised by the towering eighteen-year-old who had just orchestrated their dismantling.
As Rico walked near the center circle, he spotted the lanky figure of Cristiano Ronaldo.
The Portuguese winger was staring at the turf, frustrated by his late cameo.
Rico walked over and extended his large hand toward his fellow teenager.
Ronaldo looked up and reached out as if to accept the handshake, but at the very last millisecond, Ronaldo pulled his arm away, leaving Rico grasping at thin air.
Rico’s jaw clenched as he stared down at the winger.
But then, a moment later, Ronaldo slowly extended his hand back out, offering a cheeky look.
It was petty payback for Rico’s psychological fake-out earlier in the match.
The irritation on Rico’s face suddenly melted.
He firmly grabbed Ronaldo’s hand, shaking it as he bit the inside of his cheek, slowly shaking his head as he actively tried to hide a smile.
It was a silent acknowledgement between two massive egos.
Before Rico could head down the tunnel, a Fulham media handler frantically jogged over, grabbing him by the arm and ushering him toward the sponsor boards set up on the touchline.
“You’ve got the post-match broadcast, Rico,” the handler said breathlessly, shoving a heavy bottle of champagne into the teenager’s hands.
“Man of the Match.
Hold this for the cameras.” Rico looked down at the bottle of alcohol in his hands with indifference.
He never touched a drop of alcohol.
To him, the expensive champagne was essentially an expensive glass paperweight.
He tucked it under his arm as the bright lights of the television cameras clicked on, blinding him slightly.
A veteran British sports reporter, clutching a microphone with the Sky Sports logo, stepped into the frame, buzzing with adrenaline.
“Well done, Rico,” the reporter started, “How bruising was an encounter as that?” Rico barely blinked, his face a stoic mask.
“It was a tough game, especially when it went two-one.
We played some decent stuff, but we knew we could get chances if we just stayed patient.” “It looked like you and Roy Keane were trading insults and threats in the game, even before the game started,” the reporter pressed, eager to extract a headline-worthy soundbite about the clash with the legendary United captain.
“What exactly happened out there between you two?” Rico’s dark eyes narrowed slightly.
“I don’t want to get into too much detail.
Just…
I thought he would be bigger.” The reporter’s eyes widened in shock at the disrespect.
“From where I’m from, the bullies get bullied,” Rico continued smoothly, his deep voice radiating authority.
“So, I’m fine imposing my will on whoever I have to.
Reputations don’t mean anything to me.” The reporter swallowed hard, quickly looking down at his notes.
“Right.
Well, Rico, you got a goal and an assist today.
Any feelings on getting your first assist and goal in your first game in English football?” “The header was good,” Rico analyzed clinically, stripping the emotion away from the spectacular moment.
“Should I have scored more, though?
Yeah.
That’s on me.
I snatched at a volley earlier.
I need to be better.
And then the assist, that was just good movement from Malbranque at the back post.
Honestly, the best goal we scored was the first one, as that opened up the game and it was a great team goal.” “You did some absolutely great passes today,” the reporter praised, trying to hype up the prodigy.
“We haven’t seen something like that in this stadium since David Beckham!” Rico’s brow immediately furrowed in offence.
The comparison to the English midfielder was supposed to be a massive compliment, but to Rico’s it was practically an insult.
“I mean this nicely,” Rico stated bluntly, his jaw clenching.
“I made some bad passes today, but you don’t even have to disrespect me by comparing me to him again.
He doesn’t have the range I do.
He’s a much better crosser of the ball, and I can admit that.
But he can’t do the central line-breaking passes I did today.” The reporter looked as if he had just been slapped.
The journalist frantically pivoted to the other end of the pitch.
“Edwin Van Der Sar made a good couple of crucial saves to keep you in the game,” the reporter noted.
“Any comment on his performance?” “That’s a standard save for an established international goalkeeper,” Rico replied coldly, refusing to praise a teammate for doing his job.
“If he didn’t save that, then he would have questions to answer in the dressing room.
That’s his job.” Rico shifted his weight, his towering six-foot-four frame dominating the camera frame.
“And we got to do our job and make sure he doesn’t get under pressure in the first place.
So that’s our fault defensively, and he did his job bailing us out.” The reporter paused, studying the intensely serious teenager.
“You don’t seem that happy, Rico…
despite the historic win?” “There’s a lot of things for us to improve on,” Rico said, his tone laced with a frustrated perfectionism.
“We need to be more clinical.
We invited pressure on ourselves and we gave United a chance to get back in the game.
You can’t play like that, you will eventually lose.” “Are you genuinely not happy despite the win?” the reporter asked again, baffled by the player who wasn’t floating on cloud nine after conquering Old Trafford.
Rico let out an exasperated sigh.
“You keep asking if I’m happy.
It’s the first game of the season.
What’s there to be happy about?
There are thirty-seven more games to go.
The job is not finished.” The reporter held the microphone out, “And what’s the job, Rico?” Rico stared dead into the camera lens, his piercing dark eyes burning with ambition.
“You already know.” Without another word, Rico turned his broad back on the bewildered reporter.
He tucked the bottle of champagne under his arm and walked away, disappearing into the dark concrete shadows of the Old Trafford tunnel.
A/N) I can already see someone is going to be mad about the Beckham thing.
I can just see it already.