The early morning sunlight filtered through the massive, floor-to-ceiling tinted windows of the master bedroom, casting long, soft geometric shadows across the sprawling expanse of the California-king-sized bed.
The hyper-efficient air conditioning of the Cheshire mansion hummed a low, steady lullaby, keeping the room perfectly chilled, but beneath the heavy, high-thread-count Egyptian cotton duvet, it was incredibly warm.
Kylie Jenner slowly opened her eyes, blinking away the heavy, lingering fog of a deep, entirely uninterrupted sleep.
She was curled comfortably on her side, firmly tucked into the role of the little spoon.
A heavy, heavily muscled arm was draped securely over her waist, pulling her flush against a broad, solid chest.
She could feel the steady, rhythmic thud of a resting heartbeat against her back, and the faint, warm brush of breath grazing the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck.
A slow, profoundly satisfied smile curled onto her lips as the vivid, visceral memories of the previous night came rushing back to the forefront of her mind in a dizzying, intoxicating wave.
The sex last night had been nothing short of spectacular.
It had been passionate, steamy, and completely, unabashedly wild.
The awkward, boyish shyness that usually defined his off-pitch persona had completely evaporated.
In the dark, secluded intimacy of his bedroom, he had possessed the same terrifying, focused intensity that made him a lethal weapon on the football pitch.
He was entirely attentive, moving with an athletic, relentless stamina that had left her completely breathless, her fingers tangled deeply in his dark hair, her voice echoing off the stark white walls.
She had enjoyed every single, exquisite moment of it, completely losing herself in the raw, undeniable chemistry that had been simmering between them since that first plate of paella in Spain.
Kylie shifted slightly, moving with deliberate, excruciating slowness so as not to wake him.
She gently lifted his heavy, calloused hand from her waist, slipping out from beneath the heavy duvet.
The sudden chill of the air-conditioned room raised goosebumps on her bare skin.
She turned back to look at the bed.
Natán lay sprawled across the mattress, the crisp white sheets tangled around his waist.
Without the immense, suffocating weight of his £40 million price tag, the relentless screaming of his manic manager, or the global expectations of the footballing world resting on his shoulders, he looked incredibly peaceful.
His face was relaxed, his lips slightly parted, his dark hair a chaotic, messy halo against the plush white pillows.
Moving quietly across the cold, heated-yet-currently-off hardwood floor, Kylie made her way toward the massive, frosted-glass double doors that led to his closet.
She pushed the doors open, expecting to find the typical, overwhelmingly excessive wardrobe of a multi-millionaire professional athlete.
It was a walk-in closet the size of a standard London apartment, out-fitted with custom, illuminated shelving, sleek mirrored islands, and endless racks of premium cedar wood.
But as she looked around, she couldn’t help but let out a soft, amused laugh.
Despite the staggering size of the closet, Natán utilized absolutely a fraction of the space.
One single rack was filled with identical, club-issued Manchester City tracksuits, a few plain, high-quality fitted t-shirts in neutral colors, a couple of pairs of dark denim jeans, and exactly two tailored suits hanging in protective plastic garment bags for official club events.
The massive shoe display wall, designed to hold hundreds of pairs of designer sneakers, housed exactly six pairs of shoes, alongside three pairs of brightly colored, grass-stained football boots that he had carelessly tossed onto the bottom shelf.
It was the closet of a man who literally only cared about one thing in the entire world.
Kylie stepped inside the quiet, cedar-scented room.
She reached out and pulled one of his plain, black cotton t-shirts off a wooden hanger.
She slipped it over her head, letting the soft fabric fall down her body.
Because of his broad, athletic shoulders, the shirt was entirely oversized on her, the hem dropping halfway down her thighs like a makeshift dress.
It was incredibly comfortable, and it smelled faintly of his expensive, woodsy cologne and clean laundry detergent.
Padding barefoot out of the master suite, she began to explore the rest of the house in the quiet light of the morning.
The mansion was truly amazing.
It was a staggering architectural achievement, a fortress of modern design and sleek, minimalist luxury.
She walked down the wide, echoing hallways, running her hands along the polished slate walls.
She peered into the state-of-the-art cinema room, the massive indoor gymnasium filled with pristine, top-of-the-line recovery equipment, and the sprawling indoor pool area where the turquoise water remained perfectly still.
The house was undeniably beautiful, but as she walked, she noticed the same thing she had observed the night before: it was entirely devoid of personal touches.
There were no photographs, no artwork, no throw blankets on the massive couches.
It was a house, not a home.
It was a place designed for an elite athlete to eat, sleep, and recover, completely isolated from the outside world.
She finally made her way back to the sprawling, high-gloss kitchen.
The remnants of their incredible Catalonian dinner had been meticulously cleaned and put away by Natán before they had gone upstairs, leaving the dark slate countertops absolutely spotless.
Deciding to make herself useful and genuinely wanting to do something nice for him, Kylie opened the massive, double-door stainless steel refrigerator.
It was stocked almost entirely with hyper-nutritious, club-approved athletic fuel: grilled chicken breasts, massive containers of plain Greek yogurt, fresh vegetables, and dozens of bottles of isotonic sports drinks.
She managed to find a carton of eggs, some thick-cut bacon, a loaf of artisan bread, and a bag of premium coffee beans.
She set to work.
She wasn’t a master chef by any stretch of the imagination, certainly not on the level of the intricate, saffron-infused seafood dish Natán had produced the night before, but she could handle the basics.
She got the bacon sizzling in a skillet, the rich, savory smell immediately filling the kitchen.
She cracked the eggs into a bowl, whisking them rapidly, and popped a few slices of bread into the sleek, chrome toaster.
The coffee machine whirred to life, grinding the fresh beans and filling the room with the deep, comforting aroma of dark roast espresso.
Just as she was expertly flipping the bacon with a pair of silver tongs, she heard the soft, heavy thud of footsteps descending the grand marble staircase in the foyer.
Natán walked into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
He was wearing a pair of low-slung, grey cotton sweatpants, his chest completely bare, his dark hair sticking up in every conceivable direction.
He stopped in the doorway, freezing as he took in the sight of her standing at his stove, wearing nothing but his oversized black t-shirt, the morning sunlight catching the messy, voluminous waves of her raven hair.
“I made breakfast,” Kylie announced brightly, offering him a warm, stunning smile over her shoulder as she slid the perfectly scrambled eggs onto two ceramic plates.
Natán took a deep, appreciative breath, walking slowly into the room.
“It smells great.”
“Thanks,” Kylie said, transferring the crispy bacon to the plates and popping the golden toast out of the machine.
“I thought I would return the favor for yesterday. You cooked an absolute masterpiece, so the least I could do is make sure you don’t starve this morning.”
Natán smiled, pulling out one of the leather barstools at the central island and taking a seat.
He leaned his elbows on the cool marble, watching her move around his kitchen with a comfortable, effortless grace that made his chest feel incredibly tight.
It was a simple, profoundly domestic scene that felt completely alien in his isolated, football-obsessed life.
Kylie set the plates down on the island, pushing a steaming mug of black coffee toward him before taking the seat right next to his.
The food was unpretentious but perfectly executed.
The eggs were fluffy, the bacon was flawlessly crisp, and the coffee provided a much-needed, sharp jolt of caffeine to wake their exhausted bodies.
They ate in a comfortable, easy silence, their knees occasionally brushing against each other under the overhang of the marble counter.
It felt incredibly natural, as if they had been doing this exact routine for years rather than this being their very first morning together.
Natán swallowed a bite of toast, taking a slow sip of his coffee.
He looked down at his watch, a faint shadow of reluctance crossing his features.
“Um,” Natán started, his voice quiet, his thick Catalan accent heavy in the morning air.
“I kind of got to go soon.”
Kylie paused, lowering her fork.
“Oh, you got practice.”
Natán nodded, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
“Yes. Recovery session today, and tactical meeting. The boss… he does not like when people are late.”
“You can stay if you want,” Natán added quickly, gesturing vaguely to the massive, empty house around them.
“You don’t have to leave. The house is yours. Sleep more, swim, whatever you like.”
Kylie smiled appreciatively at the offer, taking a sip of her coffee.
“What time will you be back?”
Natán grimaced slightly, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Wednesday.”
Kylie blinked, her coffee mug halting halfway to the table.
She stared at him, genuinely taken aback.
“Wednesday? Wait, you’re leaving for two days? For a practice?”
“We have Champions League,” Natán explained, trying to find the right English words for the complex European football calendar.
“We train this morning, and then we go straight to the airport. We fly to Romania. Bucharest. We play Steaua București on Tuesday night, we fly back later that night and Wednesday is off day.”
Kylie let out a soft, incredulous laugh, shaking her head. You are reading on g.com, the official source.
“Natán, I can’t stay here by myself for two days. When are you next free?”
Natán’s brow furrowed in deep concentration.
He mentally navigated the grueling, unforgiving labyrinth of his schedule.
“I can do Thursday. Thursday afternoon, when we land. We have training early, play Stoke City on Saturday. So Thursday is good.”
“Okay,” Kylie nodded, leaning her chin on her hand.
“Thursday it is.”
“Let me show you my schedule,” Natán said, suddenly standing up from the stool.
He walked quickly over to the living room, grabbing his iPhone off the coffee table where he had abandoned it the night before, and jogged back into the kitchen.
He unlocked the phone, swiping through his photo gallery until he found a specific, highly detailed image.
He set the phone down on the marble counter, sliding it across to her.
It was a picture of a massive, color-coded spreadsheet printed out and pinned to the wall of the City Football Academy.
It listed every single confirmed and potential fixture for Manchester City and the Spanish National Team from August all the way to the end of May.
The sheer density of the blocks of color was genuinely staggering.
There were virtually no blank spaces.
Kylie leaned in, her eyes scanning the endless rows of dates, opponents, and travel itineraries.
“How many games is this?”
“Right now,” Natán said, tracing a finger down the first column of the spreadsheet, “forty-six. Thirty-eight in Premier League. Six guaranteed in Champions League groups. Two in domestic cups.”
“What do you mean, ‘right now’?” Kylie asked, her perfectly manicured eyebrow raising in confusion.
“If we win,” Natán explained simply, his tone completely matter-of-fact.
“Say the cups we win, we go to finals. If we go far in Champions League, we play knockouts. If we win everything… sixty games.”
“Sixty?” Kylie repeated, her voice laced with genuine shock.
“Sixty games of professional, full-contact soccer in nine months?”
“And Spain games,” Natán added, pointing to a different colored block on the screen.
“International breaks. World Cup qualifiers. Friendlies. If I play all of them… seventy. Seventy games.”
Kylie stared at him, her business-minded brain instantly calculating the sheer, terrifying physical toll that kind of schedule demanded.
“That’s not bad… wait, how many minutes is a game?”
“Ninety,” Natán replied.
“Plus stoppage time. Sometime extra time if it is a cup tie.”
“That’s a lot,” Kylie breathed out, looking back down at the spreadsheet.
Over six thousand minutes of elite, high-intensity athletic performance, completely ignoring the thousands of hours of training, travel, and recovery.
It was a punishing, relentless existence that left virtually zero room for a normal personal life.
Natán nodded solemnly.
“Yes. It is my job.”
Kylie tapped the screen of the phone, her practical, logistical instincts taking over.
“I’m going to send myself this. That way I can sync it with my own travel itinerary, so we can do the dates when you’re actually free and in the country.”
Natán’s face immediately brightened, a massive, genuine smile breaking across his features.
The fact that she was actively willing to navigate the logistical nightmare of his career just to see him again made his chest flutter wildly.
“That sounds nice,” Natán said softly, his dark eyes locking onto hers, completely enamored.
Two hours later, the quiet intimacy of the morning had been entirely violently replaced by the chaotic, highly regimented reality of elite European football.
The squad had boarded the massive, luxury team coach waiting in the parking lot of the City Football Academy.
As the bus rumbled down the highway toward Manchester Airport, the atmosphere inside the cabin was a mixture of focused tension and lighthearted camaraderie.
Sergio Aguero and Nicolas Otamendi were loudly arguing in rapid-fire Spanish about a game of cards in the back.
Kevin De Bruyne was quietly listening to music through massive, noise-canceling headphones, staring blankly out the rain-streaked window.
Natán, sitting in a plush leather window seat near the middle of the bus, was entirely oblivious to the noise, the banter, and the dreary English landscape rolling past.
He had a sleek, silver MacBook Pro resting precariously on his lap, the screen glowing brightly in the dim cabin.
From the absolute second he had sat down on the bus, Natán had launched the turn-based strategy game.
He was a man completely, hopelessly obsessed.
For a nineteen-year-old athlete whose entire physical existence was dictated by the chaotic, lightning-fast, high-pressure decisions of elite football, Civilization V offered a profound, deeply satisfying psychological escape.
In the game, he was entirely in control.
There was no Pep Guardiola screaming at him from the touchline to fix his body shape.
There were no massive, terrifying defenders trying to shatter his ankles.
There was only pure, methodical, perfectly calculated logic.
He had started a new campaign playing as the Roman Empire.
His eyes were locked onto the screen with a terrifying, unblinking intensity, his right hand moving the wireless mouse with rapid, microscopic precision.
He carefully managed his city’s production queues, agonizing over whether to build a new Granary to boost population growth in Rome, or to immediately begin constructing the Great Library to secure an early technological advantage over his AI opponents.
He meticulously moved his units across the hexagonal grid, sending his Roman Legionnaires out into the fog of war to eradicate a frustratingly stubborn barbarian encampment that was threatening his vital trade routes.
He played it the entire journey on the bus.
When the bus finally arrived at the private terminal of the airport, he didn’t even close the laptop.
He simply carried it open in his hands, his eyes still glued to the screen, blindly following the heels of David Silva as they walked through the security checkpoint.
He boarded the luxurious, private club charter plane, immediately took his designated first-class seat, plugged his laptop into the power outlet, and went right back to his campaign.
For the next three and a half hours, as the massive jet soared across the European continent, crossing over the English Channel, the Alps, and descending into Eastern Europe, Natán did not speak a single word.
He didn’t eat the catered airline food.
He didn’t participate in the team banter.
He was completely, utterly hyper-fixated on securing a Domination Victory.
The only time he even looked up from the glowing screen, his eyes slightly bloodshot from the intense, unbroken focus, was because the plane’s landing gear deployed with a loud, mechanical hum, and the heavy thud of the wheels hitting the tarmac in Bucharest physically rattled his tray table.
The following afternoon, the atmosphere inside the press room at the Arena Națională in Bucharest was stiflingly hot and completely packed to the rafters.
Dozens of sports journalists from across Europe had crammed into the small, sterile room, their camera flashes popping aggressively, their microphones shoved toward the central podium.
Pep Guardiola sat behind the microphone, flanked by the UEFA Champions League backdrop, looking immaculate in a dark, fitted sweater.
He rubbed a hand thoughtfully over his bald head, entirely completely in his element as he fielded the relentless barrage of media inquiries.
Pep answered standard, tactical questions about the upcoming game against Steaua București, stressing the importance of not underestimating the Romanian champions and treating the qualifying tie with the utmost, absolute respect.
He expertly navigated difficult questions about the impending, highly controversial signing of Barcelona goalkeeper Claudio Bravo.
The journalists pressed him heavily about the future of Joe Hart, the beloved English national team goalkeeper and long-time City legend.
But then, a British reporter from a major tabloid stood up in the third row, holding a digital recorder.
“Pep,” the reporter called out, his voice cutting through the noise.
“On Saturday, in the first half against Sunderland, there were two moments that caught the cameras. The first one, you shouted aggressively at Natán Comas to pass the ball quicker after he got tackled. And Natán… well, he kind of shouted back at you, telling you to get out of his head. Can you speak on that dynamic? Is there already friction between you and your record signing?”
A hush fell over the press room.
The journalists leaned forward, pens hovering over their notepads, eager for a dramatic, headline-generating quote about dressing room unrest.
Pep Guardiola didn’t look angry.
He didn’t look defensive.
He actually leaned forward into the microphone, a small, genuine, intensely passionate smile crossing his features.
“The reaction with Natán,” Pep began, his voice echoing clearly through the speakers, his thick Catalan accent vibrating with genuine enthusiasm.
“I love it. I like it. Sometimes, in some games, he’s kind of flat and he settles. He gets comfortable. I want him uncomfortable. So I like that energy. I like that anger.”
Pep gestured with his hands, articulating his complex, highly demanding managerial philosophy.
“That is what we need of him,” Pep continued, his eyes scanning the room, “because after that moment, after he shouted at me, he became the best player on the pitch. Always, when you sign a player for a lot of money, you expect the best from day one. It is natural. But always with Natán, I always had that feeling from day one. I knew what was inside him.”
Pep paused, taking a sip from a bottle of water, before leaning back into the mic, delivering the quote that would immediately go viral across the footballing world.
“The moments I shout at him… and the moments I want to kiss him,” Pep stated, completely unashamed of his intense, obsessive affection for the boy’s talent. Follow the newest chapters on g.com.
A ripple of quiet laughter went through the press corps, but Pep’s expression remained absolutely, intensely serious.
“I have that ambivalence feeling with him,” Pep concluded, tapping the table for emphasis.
“He drives me completely crazy, because he does not always want to do the tactical work. But I have to allow him to express his incredible talent. Because when he expresses it, when he is angry and focused, he wins us football matches. It is a balance, and we will find it together.”
Later that evening, the Manchester City squad walked out onto the immaculate turf of the Arena Națională for their final, mandatory open training session before the match.
The massive, 55,000-seat stadium was entirely empty, the echoing silence a stark contrast to the deafening roar they would face the following night.
Natán was juggling the ball near the center circle as they were preparing for the game tomorrow, taking full advantage of the opportunity to practice on the opposition’s pitch.
The ball seemed completely, magically glued to his feet.
He popped it up effortlessly, letting it rest dead on the back of his neck, before rolling it down his shoulders and flicking it back into the air with the back of his heel.
The freezing, crisp Romanian air filled his lungs, completely clearing his mind of everything except the weight of the leather and the satisfying, rhythmic thud of his boots.
When the coaching staff finally blew the whistle to begin the high-intensity rondos and tactical walkthroughs, Natán was an absolute ghost.
The frustrating, agonizing tactical friction he had experienced all week in Manchester seemed to have completely vanished, replaced by a profound, terrifying flow state.
He moved with a devastating, effortless grace.
During the small-sided scrimmage, he didn’t hide on the touchline.
He constantly dropped into the half-spaces, demanding the ball in incredibly tight areas, pinging rapid, one-touch passes with De Bruyne and Silva that left the defending players completely chasing shadows.
He was explosive, turning on a dime, dropping his shoulder, and curling beautiful, dipping shots into the top corners of the training nets.
Pep Guardiola stood on the touchline, watching the teenager tear his defensive setup to absolute shreds, his arms crossed over his chest, completely silent.
There was no need to shout today.
Natán was perfectly in tune with the machine, playing with a joyous, lethal arrogance that proved he was fully prepared to announce himself to the Champions League.
The luxurious, five-star team hotel in the heart of the Romanian capital was quiet, the players adhering strictly to their pre-match curfews.
Natán was propped up in his massive, king-sized bed, wearing a comfortable grey club hoodie and sweatpants.
The room was dark, illuminated only by the bright, glowing screen of his MacBook Pro resting comfortably on his chest.
He was deeply entrenched in the late game of his Civilization V campaign, actively managing a complex, multi-front war against the heavily fortified borders of Gandhi’s Indian empire.
His iPhone, resting on the bedside table, suddenly began to vibrate, the screen lighting up with an incoming FaceTime audio call.
Natán paused the game, reaching over to grab the phone.
He smiled immediately when he saw the name on the screen.
“Hey you,” Kylie’s soft, slightly exhausted voice came through the speaker.
“How’s is it over there?”
“I don’t know,” Natán chuckled softly, his eyes flicking back to his laptop screen.
“I’m in my hotel room. I haven’t seen the city. Just the stadium and the bed.”
“So what you doing?” Kylie asked, the ambient, rushing sound of an airport terminal clearly audible in the background of her end of the call.
“Playing a game,” Natán replied casually, executing a precise mouse click to command an artillery bombardment.
“What you doing?”
“I’m just waiting for my flight,” Kylie sighed, sounding incredibly tired.
“You going back?” Natán asked, pausing his clicking for a moment.
“Yeah,” Kylie confirmed.
“I’m heading back to LA but I’ll be back Sunday for our next date.”
Natán felt a warm, profound rush of affection flood his chest.
“That sounds good. You can stay longer next time if you want. You don’t have to leave the next day.”
“You sure?” Kylie asked, a hint of genuine surprise and delight in her voice.
“Yeah,” Natán smiled, leaning his head back against the plush hotel pillows.
“Next week, I’m in Manchester the whole time. No traveling. Just training and the weekend game.”
“Okay, that sounds fun,” Kylie agreed softly.
“It does,” Natán confirmed.
“I’m just on the runway waiting to takeoff,” Kylie explained, the low, mechanical whine of the jet engines beginning to spool up in the background.
“I thought I would give you a call. So what game you playing?”
“It’s a game called Civilization,” Natán answered, his eyes immediately darting back to the glowing screen of his laptop.
And suddenly, the quiet, sometimes awkward Spanish footballer transformed into an incredibly passionate, highly animated orator.
Once the floodgates were opened on his hyper-fixation, he simply couldn’t stop.
“It is incredible,” Natán began, his voice thick with genuine, bubbling enthusiasm, his Catalan accent rolling heavily over the English words.
“It is a turn-based strategy game.
You start with nothing.
Just one settler in the ancient era.
And you build a city.
And from that city, you build an entire empire.
You research technology, like…
writing, and iron working, and gunpowder.
You build wonders, like the Pyramids or the Eiffel Tower.
It is all about planning.
You must manage your resources—your gold, your science, your culture.
It is like football, but you control the entire world.
Right now, I am playing as Rome.
I have built a massive army of Legionnaires, but Gandhi is very close to discovering nuclear weapons.”
He rambled on, completely lost in the intricate, complex mechanics of the tech trees, the annoying spawn rates of barbarian encampments, and the vital importance of securing luxury resources like salt and marble to keep his citizens happy.
On the other end of the line, Kylie didn’t understand a single, coherent thing about the video game.
She had absolutely no idea why Mahatma Gandhi was discovering nuclear weapons.
But she loved it.
She loved how incredibly, unapologetically passionate he was about something so nerdy and harmless.
She loved that this global sporting superstar, a man who had millions of people screaming his name on a weekly basis, spent his quiet hotel nights conquering digital maps.
But more than anything, she loved the sound of his voice.
His deep, raspy, rolling Catalan accent was incredibly soothing.
As he continued to explain the complex mechanics of naval warfare in the Renaissance era, the sheer, comforting rhythm of his voice washed over her exhausted mind like a warm blanket.
She closed her eyes in her plush, first-class airline seat, her breathing slowing down, letting the sound of his passionate rambling pull her entirely away from the stresses of her billionaire life.
It completely put her to sleep.
Natán didn’t even notice.
He was far too deep in his explanation.
He kept talking, detailing a highly specific flanking maneuver he was planning to execute against the Indian border, his eyes glued to the laptop screen.
He rambled for another five solid minutes, until the low whine of the jet engines on the other end of the line suddenly escalated into a massive, roaring crescendo.
He heard the unmistakable, overwhelming ambient noise of the plane aggressively accelerating down the runway and taking off into the sky.
Natán paused his game, blinking.
He listened to the line.
There was no response, just the steady, rhythmic sound of the plane engines and the faint, soft sound of her deep, even breathing.
He smiled, a wide, incredibly fond expression crossing his face in the dark hotel room.
“My sign to go,” Natán whispered softly into the phone, not wanting to wake her.
“Bon Vol.” (Good flight).
He tapped the red button, hanging up the call.
He closed his laptop, placing it gently on the nightstand, and slid down beneath the heavy hotel covers.
He closed his eyes, his heart incredibly light, completely ready and excited to tear the Champions League to shreds tomorrow.