Anne was right; she had fixed that feeling of isolation.
The loneliness that had plagued Rico’s life was replaced by sunlight.
In the immediate aftermath of that midnight cinema date, the chemistry between them had only intensified.
They were on each other’s minds, despite their demanding, schedules, they had managed to carve out time for three more dates in just six days.
They grabbed late-night coffee at a secluded diner on the outskirts of the city, and they spent a Tuesday evening driving aimlessly along the Pacific Coast Highway, listening to old cassette tapes and talking until the sun began to threaten the horizon.
For Rico, Anne was an escape from the relentless pressure of professional sports; for Anne, Rico was grounding as he helped her detach from the superficiality of Hollywood.
But while Rico’s personal life was soaring to thrilling new heights, his professional reality was becoming a source of suffocating frustration.
On a blisteringly hot Thursday afternoon, the LA Galaxy PR department had sent Rico to a local kid’s training session.
It was a thinly veiled marketing stunt designed to fill empty stadium seats and drum up local community engagement.
Rico found himself standing in a random public park in the middle of Los Angeles.
He stood there holding a mesh bag of cheap soccer balls, looking bewildered.
There were about twenty kids, all around ten years old, sitting on the grass in a semi-circle.
None of them had any idea who he was.
“Are you an actor?” one kid asked, picking his nose absentmindedly.
“My mom says you look like a model.” Rico sighed softly, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“No, I play for the Galaxy.” The only person who actually recognised him was the volunteer coach, who was currently hyperventilating and shaking Rico’s hand so vigorously it threatened to pop his shoulder out of its socket.
“I can’t believe they sent you,” the coach gasped in awe.
“I watched your debut.
You’re…
you’re a god among men!” Rico forced a media-trained smile, nodding graciously at the starstruck coach.
But internally, he was pissed.
What was he doing with his life?
He was an eighteen-year-old generational talent, a tactical genius with the physical prowess of a seasoned gladiator.
He possessed a ceiling so high it practically touched the stratosphere, yet here he was, wasting his afternoon in a random park trying to convince ten-year-olds to ask their parents to buy twenty-dollar tickets.
The disparity between his monumental talent and the lack of footballing infrastructure around him was staggering.
He needed out.
He desperately needed out of the MLS.
He needed the bright lights of Europe and a stage that was worthy of his gifts.
However, while Rico was having a soul-draining run of it in the park, Anne Hathaway was having the time of her life.
Sitting in a trailer, Anne felt like a lovesick high schooler.
The makeup artist was trying to apply a delicate layer of foundation, but Anne kept shifting, her eyes constantly darting down to the silver flip phone resting on her lap.
She couldn’t stop thinking about him.
Even when she was at work, running through her script lines or standing under the studio lights, she couldn’t take her mind off him.
A giddy smile constantly tugged at her full lips every single time she remembered the way he had kissed her in the dark theater.
She counted down the hours, minutes, and seconds until the weekend, because she could not wait to go to the LA Galaxy game and finally watch her handsome athlete dominate the pitch in person.
When Saturday evening finally rolled around, Anne sat in the VIP section near the halfway line, wearing a discreet baseball cap and oversized sunglasses, her eyes fixed entirely on the number 17 shirt with Vito on the back.
From the referee’s very first whistle, it was clear that the San Jose Earthquakes had come with a game plan: stop the eighteen-year-old wonderkid by any means necessary.
They deployed a suffocating pressing system, swarming the midfield and attempting to bully Rico.
But Rico was immune to pressure.
The Earthquakes’ midfielders would charge at him like rabid dogs but Rico absorbed the pressure and pivoted effortlessly away from danger.
He carried the ball forward unbothered as the opposing players continually kicked at his shins and pulled at his shirt.
It was like watching an unstoppable freight train weaving through traffic.
Fifteen minutes into the match, the LA Galaxy goalkeeper collected a loose cross and looked up to distribute.
Seeing the intense pressure, Rico dropped deep, practically stepping on the toes of his own center-backs to demand the ball.
The keeper rolled it out to him.
Instantly, two San Jose forwards sprinted toward Rico, looking to trap him deep in his own half.
Rico took one touch to open his body and aimed the ball straight over the top of the San Jose backline as it bypassed the midfield and the defence, landing into the stride of the LA Galaxy striker, Carlos Ruiz.
Ruiz found himself one-on-one with the Earthquakes’ goalkeeper.
He drove into the penalty area, set himself, and unleashed a low, hard shot.
The keeper parried the ball just past the post, out for a corner.
The crowd gasped, then roared in appreciation of the pass that had created the chance out of nothing.
Rico casually jogged up the pitch as the Galaxy set up for the ensuing corner kick.
A teammate whipped a dangerous cross into the heart of the penalty area, Donovan managed to get a solid head on the ball, clearing it out of the penalty box to alleviate the immediate danger.
The ball looped high into the night sky, falling toward the centre of the pitch, roughly twenty-eight yards out from goal.
Rico was right there.
He didn’t take a touch to settle it.
As the ball dropped out of the sky, Rico pulled back his right leg, and hit it on the volley.
The sound of his boot connecting with the ball echoed around the stadium, as the ball rifled through the night air, bypassing the crowded penalty area, and smashed into the top right corner.
It was a staggering screamer.
1-0 LA Galaxy.
Up in the VIP box, Anne Hathaway leaped out of her seat, clapping her hands over her mouth in astonishment as the stadium erupted.
Rico didn’t do a flamboyant celebration.
He jogged back to the centre circle unsatisfied.
The goal rattled the San Jose Earthquakes, and Landon Donovan, decided to take matters into his own hands.
Shortly after the restart, Rico won the ball back in the centre circle as Donovan sprinted at the teenager to press him.
As Donovan lunged in to steal possession, Rico dragged the ball back with the sole of his boot, leaving Donovan tackling thin air as Rico skipped past the American star and carried the ball aggressively up the pitch.
He glided past another defender before he was hacked down from behind.
The referee blew his whistle, awarding yet another foul.
As the game wore on into the second half, the San Jose Earthquakes manager stood on the touchline, screaming himself hoarse.
He waved his arms, ordering his players to drop back into a low defensive block.
The Earthquakes had finally realised a brutal truth: they could not win the ball from him.
Pressing Rico was essentially a tactical suicide mission; he would bypass them.
By dropping off, they handed Rico the keys to the entire stadium.
Operating with the serene calm of an elite quarterback, Rico dictated the tempo.
He sprayed forty-yard cross-field passes onto the chests of his wingers and threaded through balls right between the legs of the Earthquakes’ defenders.
He repeatedly created gilt-edged opportunities for his teammates, setting them up, but the LA Galaxy forwards failed to take them.
They scuffed their shots, misjudged their runs, or fired wildly over the crossbar.
Rico would occasionally throw his hands up in frustration at the lack of clinical finishing, but he never stopped orchestrating.
Despite their defensive posture, San Jose remained dangerous on the counter-attack.
In the 75th minute, an errant pass from a Galaxy defender allowed San Jose to break quickly.
Landon Donovan picked up the loose ball, accelerating into the Galaxy penalty area.
It looked like a certain equaliser.
But just as the American forward pulled his leg back to unleash a shot from the edge of the box, Rico wrapped his leg around the ball and stripped Donovan of possession.
He popped back up to his feet and calmly passed it out of danger.
Rico was getting the better of Landon Donovan, overshadowing the league’s poster boy and dominating the midfield in every aspect of the game.
The pressure Rico applied eventually forced the Earthquakes to crack.
In the 88th minute, Rico collected the ball near the edge of the San Jose box.
He burst into the penalty area.
Desperate to stop him, a San Jose centre-back lunged in with a poorly timed challenge, catching Rico’s trailing leg and bringing him crashing to the turf.
The referee pointed to the spot.
The stadium buzzed with anticipation as Rico took control off the ball, not letting his teammates near the ball.
He ignored the mind games from the San Jose players, zoning out the noise.
He placed the ball on the white spot, taking four measured steps back.
He stared down the goalkeeper, waiting for the keeper to commit his weight, before calmly, effortlessly slotting the ball into the other corner as he sent the keeper the wrong way.
2-0 LA Galaxy.
When the final whistle blew moments later, confirming the victory, Rico wiped the sweat from his brow.
He had single-handedly dismantled one of the best teams in the league, further proving his desperate need to leave the MLS.
As he walked toward the tunnel, he looked towards the VIP section.
He couldn’t see her through the glare of the lights, but he knew she was there, and a genuine smile finally broke through his stoic mask.
A/N) Also, this is the last fucking time I speak about this.
Anne won the vote by a country fucking mile.
Like it wasn’t even close.
And it’s that one guy’s fault for trying to say Scarlett won.
A/N for my thoughts.
There are spoilers involved.
Kind of, I’m just telling you what I’m thinking.
It’s not a guarantee.
I’ll be honest, the only team I know he plays for is Fulham, but I don’t think he should be there for long, like a year at most.
My idea is that Fulham is that after the 2003/2004 season, they’re happy with where they finished, and the protagonist is annoyed, because he makes it clear they should be trying to get better because everyone else is trying to get better and they’ll get left behind.
So obviously as soon as a big team comes offering big money, Fulham accept.
I think he should want to remain in London as he can refuse to leave, as he wants to stay in London (Most of Anne’s movie stuff is in London, so he doesn’t want to leave) and that leaves Arsenal and Chelsea.
I’m fine with whoever, but I feel it should be one of those two.
And because of his connection to Anne, I think it has to be Arsenal and also, the whole father thing.
Also, Henry can be the first real great he gets to play with.
It does make me feel a little weird writing about Arsenal positively, but I think it’s too good, unfortunately.
Then, after he is done with Arsenal, he should be done in England.
Then after that, I don’t know.
I know some of you want foreign teams, but I’m trying to do what makes the most sense with Anne.
That’s why I think England for the first couple of years, till she’s a big star, then he can play anywhere because they’re more willing to come to her.
I may move Les Misérables to 2004, because it makes my life easier as she is in London for four months.
As that could be them agreeing to stay together in London.