The late afternoon sun filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Rico’s sprawling Los Angeles apartment, casting a warm glow over his walk-in closet.
The space was less of a traditional wardrobe and more of an exclusive, high-end boutique.
Walls lined with custom mahogany shelving displayed an outrageous collection of designer sneakers, tailored suits, and silk shirts.
Standing in the centre of the room, Rico was preparing for the LA Film Festival as his mother watched him unamused.
“Should you really be going out to a movie festival right now?” she asked, her voice carrying the sharp edge of a mother dealing with a troublesome son.
Rico didn’t even turn around.
He picked up a dark navy button-down shirt off a hanger.
“Why not?
I’m suspended.” “For something incredibly stupid,” his mother fired back, her maternal disappointment bleeding into professional frustration.
“I’m blaming that idiot Lalas,” Rico grumbled, as he began to button up his shirt, his jaw clenching at the mere memory of the disastrous match against the Colorado Rapids.
His mother frowned, “How is Alex Lalas responsible for you getting suspended?
You’re the one who threw the punch.” Rico let out a harsh scoff, “Lalas, went running up to the referee and started screaming, ‘It’s only a yellow, ref!
It’s only a yellow!’ And everyone knows when you say it’s only a yellow it’s a red.” Rico turned back around, heading back to his massive cupboard.
He quickly discarded the navy shirt and re-emerged a moment later holding a black silk shirt and a fresh pair of white sneakers.
“Besides,” Rico muttered, tossing the sneakers onto the plush carpet, “you know how I feel about people touching my face.” “I know,” his mother sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.
“But you can’t lash out like that, Rico.
You just can’t.” “I’m surprised I didn’t punch someone sooner,” Rico countered.
“They’re only kicking you because they cannot stop you any other way,” his mother reasoned, trying to stroke his ego to calm his lingering rage.
“Then the referee needs to do his job.” Rico said, annoyed, “How are they calling a foul on the opposition, and then I get a yellow card for a reaction?
It makes no sense.” “You shoved a grown man to the ground,” his mother pointed out flatly.
Rico let out a dismissive laugh.
“He should have hit the weight room.” “Rico, stop being stubborn and petty,” she reprimanded sharply, “You can’t act like a thug on national television.” “Honestly, I feel like I did nothing wrong,” Rico stated unapologetically.
His moral compass on the pitch was dictated by an eye-for-an-eye mentality.
“You punched someone in the face,” his mother reiterated slowly, as if speaking to a toddler.
“Well, if you’re going to get a red card, you might as well punch him properly.
“Rico stated seriously.
“You do that off the pitch, and you’re getting arrested,” his mother warned, her tone deadly serious.
“Well, I’m not dumb enough to take it off the pitch,” Rico replied smoothly, sitting down on a plush velvet ottoman to lace up his pristine white sneakers.
“You literally told them to meet you in the car park,” his mother deadpanned, staring down at the top of his dark, tousled hair.
“Where else was I going to see them?” Rico asked.
Despite her best efforts to remain angry and professional, his mother let out a breathless snort before she covered her mouth, trying desperately to hide her laugh.
“Yeah, but offering to meet him there is openly offering to fight,” she chastised, though her voice had lost its sharp edge.
“He wasn’t even there anyway,” Rico muttered, finishing the laces of his left shoe.
“Coward.” He stood back up and ran a hand through his hair, his expression sobering rapidly as his mind shifted from the petty squabbles of the MLS to the suffocating weight of his own future.
“I need to get out of this league,” Rico said with a desperate certainty.
His mother crossed her arms again, slipping back into her role as his agent.
“Well, nobody in Europe is going to want to invest in an eighteen-year-old kid with a short fuse.” Rico raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.
“I highly doubt that, considering I don’t have a short fuse.
Did you speak with them?” “Yeah,” his mother sighed heavily.
“I spoke to the US Men’s National Team.
They want you bad.” “I’m not playing for them,” Rico stated instantly, dismissing the prospect without hesitation.
“Well, you’re not on England or Brazil’s radar right now,” his mother pointed out pragmatically.
“You’re playing in a retirement league.
The European scouts aren’t staying up until three in the morning to watch you play against the Colorado Rapids.” “That’s exactly why I need that move to Europe,” Rico insisted.
“Well, there’s twenty days till the European transfer window opens,” she reminded him.
“Is anybody reaching out?” Rico asked, walking over to a velvet-lined display case to select a silver watch.
“A few teams are offering trials,” his mother admitted carefully, “but there are no big teams in the top five leagues.” “I’m fine with using those small teams as a stepping stone,” Rico said effortlessly, strapping the heavy silver watch to his wrist.
“Rico, you can’t just declare that you’re going to use a team as a stepping stone,” his mother warned, concerned by his lack of filter.
“That’s how you destroy a locker room before you even set foot in it.” “Well, there are other ways to get out,” Rico countered smoothly, “All I have to do is get other teams’ attention, dominate on a smaller stage, and make the European giants offer a deal they can’t refuse.” His mother let out a long sigh, looking up at the ceiling as if praying for patience.
“We really got to work on your ego.” Rico turned to her, his expression utterly serious.
“It’s not ego if you’re being real with yourself.” “You’ve only ever played in the MLS,” his mother challenged, stepping closer to look him dead in the eye.
“There is no guarantee you’re going to be one of the greats.
You might just have a respectable career.
Maybe just be happy being a professional footballer.
That is enough for 99% of the players on this planet.” Rico stared down at her, his jaw clenching.
“I’m not happy being just there,” Rico whispered, his deep voice vibrating with an insatiable hunger.
“I don’t want to participate.
I want to be the undisputed best in the world.
I want to win every single thing possible.
The Ballon d’Or, the Champions League, the World Cup.
If I’m not the best, then I’ve failed.” His mother looked up into his eyes, and for a unsettling moment, she felt a cold shiver run down her spine.
She was afraid of his ambition.
What would happen to his psyche if he actually failed?
What if his legs gave out, or he didn’t reach that impossibly high ceiling?
He would destroy himself.
She swallowed hard, pushing her maternal fears down into a dark box and focusing on the logistics.
“So, what clubs are we looking at?” Rico asked, shifting gears back to business as he sprayed a mist of cologne over his neck.
“There’s a couple spread across Europe,” his mother said, retrieving a mental list she had compiled over the last week.
“Who do you recommend?” Rico asked, valuing her tactical insight as much as her maternal guidance.
“It depends heavily on what you’re actually looking for,” she deflected slightly.
“I want to know what you’re thinking,” Rico pressed, leaning against the mahogany island in the centre of the closet.
“Okay,” his mother relented, letting out a soft exhale.
“Honestly?
I would pick between Portugal, England, or Spain.” “Spain?” Rico asked, tilting his head.
“It should be incredibly easy for you to learn the language,” she explained rationally.
“Seriously?
Three languages?” Rico groaned slightly.
“It should be easy to learn with the languages you already know,” his mother insisted.
“You’re smart, Rico.
You’d pick it up in six months.” “Okay, but who?” Rico asked, getting down to the actual clubs.
“It should be easy for you to get trials in La Liga,” she began, her eyes darting slightly as she calculated the market.
“But if you want to play immediately, you’ve got to be honest with yourself.
If you go for a massive team like Real Madrid, they wouldn’t play you right away.
They have Zidane, Figo, Beckham…
you’d rot on the bench.” “So what do you recommend?” Rico questioned again.
“Well, start slightly smaller in Spain,” she suggested.
“It shouldn’t be too hard to get into a team like Atletico Madrid, or maybe even Barca, given they are looking to rebuild with younger talent.” Rico didn’t even hesitate.
“Barca is a definitive no.
I do not want to play there.” His mother asked, blindsided.
“Why not?
It’s Barcelona.” “I don’t like the colours,” Rico stated bluntly.
He turned his back on her, walking back into the depths of his cupboard to reconsider his pristine white sneakers, wondering if black leather loafers would look better on the red carpet.
His mother stood frozen in disbelief.
She stared at his broad back, her mouth slightly open.
“You’re…
you’re not going to play at Barcelona because of the colors?” “Yes,” Rico replied, turning back around with the black loafers in hand.
“Blue and red stripes?
It looks like a cheap circus tent.
Atleti, though…
that’s a maybe.
Red and white is clean.
And joining them to take down the Real Madrid Galacticos?
That seems like a very good narrative to me.” His mother rolled her eyes to the ceiling, disturbed by how his ambition was being filtered through a cinematic vanity.
He was treating a multi-million-dollar career move like he was casting himself in a sports movie.
“So, let me get this straight,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
“You’ll happily play for Atletico Madrid to fight the Galacticos, but you won’t play for the USA?” “That’s different,” Rico waved her off, slipping his feet into the black loafers.
“A club can reinvest in its squad, buy new players, and get better.
A nation can reinvest all it wants into grassroots academies, but there’s no guarantee the talent pool gets better.
You’re stuck with whoever is born there.
I’m not trusting my legacy to Americans.” Rico stood up, walking back over to the full-length mirror.
He checked his reflection, adjusting the collar of his black silk shirt.
He looked great, and he knew it.
“Okay, fine,” his mother sighed, abandoning the Spanish debate.
“What about Portugal?” “I don’t know,” Rico murmured.
“You already speak the language fluently,” she pointed out, offering a logistical advantage.
“We both know the dialect is different,” Rico countered.
“Brazilian Portuguese and European Portuguese are very different.” “Well, you can easily adapt,” his mother said firmly.
“I highly recommend Porto.” Rico paused, looking away from his own reflection to meet her gaze.
“Really?” “Yeah,” his mother nodded, her professional instincts flaring.
“They have a new manager making waves.
I think that coach would love you.” “Maybe,” Rico conceded thoughtfully, intrigued by the prospect of playing under a manager who understood his monumental ego.
But as he looked back at the mirror, his mind inevitably drifted away from the football pitches of the Iberian Peninsula.
He desperately wanted to check out London, England.
It was the cinematic heart of Europe, housing massive production companies and movie studios that were essentially the European equivalent of Hollywood.
If he was in London, maybe, just maybe, his path would cross with Anne Hathaway again.
It was an irrational, romantically stupid motivation, but he couldn’t shake it.
“What about Arsenal?” Rico asked, attempting to sound casual, though his heart beat just a fraction faster.
Anne had said she supported them.
“You wouldn’t play,” his mother shot down the idea instantly, crushing his subtle romantic ploy.
Rico scowled, crossing them off the list.
“What about Chelsea?” “Maybe,” his mother hesitated, “They’re looking for new players, obviously, but they just got massive new Russian money.
Roman Abramovich wants to buy immediate world beaters to win the league tomorrow.” “I am a real world beater,” Rico stated, offended.
“Rico, they want established superstars,” she corrected him gently.
“They want players in their mid-twenties with Champions League medals.
They’re not trying to take massive tactical risks on an eighteen-year-old kid from the MLS, no matter how talented he is.” Rico let out a frustrated breath, recognising the logic.
“So who else is there in London?” “Well, there’s Tottenham,” his mother suggested.
“Hell no,” Rico spat instantly, a visceral look of disgust crossing his face.
“I don’t want to play for Tottenham.” He had grown up despising them out of loyalty to his father’s Arsenal roots, and meeting Anne had revitalised that deep-seated hatred for the white side of North London.
“Well, if you want London, there’s Charlton Athletic and Fulham,” his mother offered, scraping the barrel of the Premier League’s mid-table.
Rico’s eyes narrowed as his analytical brain rapidly processed the tactical landscape.
Fulham was based in West London, close to the media hubs and high-society events.
It was a smaller club where he would instantly be the star, running the midfield on his own terms against the toughest opposition in the world.
“Fulham doesn’t sound half bad,” Rico murmured, nodding slowly.
“I could run that team.” His mother stared at him, dumbfounded by his bizarre decision-making.
“So…
let me get this straight.
You’re going to choose a relegation-battling side like Fulham over a Champions League contender like FC Porto?” “I don’t know yet,” Rico deflected, unwilling to admit that his primary motivation involved a Hollywood actress he wasn’t even dating anymore.
He adjusted his luxury watch before he smiled at his mother.
“Just don’t do anything yet.
Don’t commit to anyone.” “Okay, well,” his mother sighed, finally surrendering to his erratic intuition.
She grabbed her leather purse from the counter.
“I’m going to start reaching out to some of these teams.
I’ll see if I can get you some trials lined up for when the window opens.” Rico smiled appreciative, “Thank you.
I know I’m difficult to deal with.” “Understatement of the century,” his mother muttered, though a warm smile finally broke across her face.
“Be safe tonight at the festival.
Keep a low profile.
And do not do anything stupid.” She stepped forward, wrapping her arms around him as Rico leaned down, hugging his mother tightly.
“I won’t,” Rico promised softly into her shoulder.
“Love you.” “Love you too.” A/N) He’s going Fulham.
Then Arsenal.
I don’t know after that.
Maybe Real.
(If this protagonist goes Real, the Norway striker is going to Atletico.
I think when you consider their personalities, Rico fits better at Real because of the ego) Do you want his ego to stay at this level?
I’m fine bringing it down a bit.
If it goes any higher, he may masturbate while watching his own highlights.