The harsh, electronic buzzer echoed through the Etihad Stadium as the fourth official raised the substitution board near the touchline.
The bright red numbers glowed clearly: 7 OUT, 72 IN.
Natán Comas wasn’t surprised.
He knew exactly what the plan was.
He didn’t head for the substitutes’ bench to wrap himself in a heavy coat and freeze for another forty-five minutes.
He didn’t even come out for the second half.
Pep had given him explicit permission to hit the showers, and completely switch off.
His job was done.
He had executed the False Nine experiment to near-perfection, and now he was being put in protective custody for the impending, brutal Premier League fixture against West Ham United on Sunday.
Pep Guardiola stood on the edge of the technical area, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his mind churning with a massive, incredibly complex tactical dilemma.
With Natán subbed off, Pep immediately reverted the team’s tactical shape back to a traditional, orthodox 4-3-3 system.
Iheanacho took up a central striker role, flanked by Nolito and Navas holding the width on the wings.
It was a solid, reliable, conventional setup.
But as the second half unfolded, the stark, glaring reality of the Manchester City squad depth became painfully obvious to the Catalan manager.
The front three currently on the pitch completely lacked the terrifying, unpredictable genius and the ravenous, bloodthirsty hunger for goals that Natán and Sergio Aguero naturally provided.
Iheanacho was fast, yes, but his link-up play was raw, and his spatial awareness was entirely linear.
Nolito and Navas were hardworking professionals, but they lacked the sheer, individualistic brilliance required to break down a low defensive block on their own.
They were great professionals, not world-class.
Pep rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
If he was being entirely honest with himself, he currently only possessed two genuinely world-class forwards in the entire squad: Aguero and Natán.
Aguero was a club legend.
An absolute, undisputed talisman.
He was arguably the greatest striker in Premier League history, a player who guaranteed twenty-plus goals a season.
Pep simply could not drop Aguero to the bench for no reason.
Aguero had to play.
But what was he going to do with Natán?
The teenager was still finding his footing in the system, still learning the complex geometry of the pitch, but his output was already staggering.
Despite only playing a handful of games, Natán already lead the team in both goals and assists.
He was performing significantly, undeniably better than he had during his entire debut season under Pellegrini.
The right wing was his natural kingdom, but the tactical flexibility he had displayed tonight operating as a False Nine was incredibly tempting.
Pep didn’t want to limit his team’s attacking threat by forcing his two best players to share minutes.
He needed them both on the pitch simultaneously.
But playing them together presented a massive structural challenge.
If Aguero played centrally as the traditional striker, Natán had to be pushed out wide to the wing, where his growth was hampered.
If Natán played centrally as the False Nine to orchestrate the attack, where did Aguero go?
It was a fascinating, maddening puzzle.
A problem of profound, luxurious abundance.
I need a system that fits them both, Pep thought, his eyes narrowing as he watched the second half drag on in a sterile, largely uneventful stalemate.
The seed of a radical, highly controversial tactical formation was slowly beginning to take root in his brilliant, obsessive mind.
High above the tactical obsessiveness of the touchline, in the luxurious, climate-controlled comfort of the private VIP box, Kylie Jenner was profoundly, unapologetically bored.
The first half had been incredibly exciting.
She had been on the edge of her seat, captivated by the sheer, electric energy Natán brought to the pitch.
She loved watching him move, loved the confidence of his dribbling, and absolutely adored the massive, triumphant smile he flashed her after scoring his spectacular chipped goal.
But when the second half started and she realized Natán wasn’t coming back out of the tunnel, her interest in the game immediately and entirely evaporated.
She wasn’t a football fan.
She didn’t pretend to be.
She didn’t care about possession statistics, overlapping full-backs, or the complex offside traps that Natán had passionately spent hours trying to explain to her over FaceTime. This chapter was taken from NovelPing without permission.
She still stubbornly referred to the sport as ‘soccer’ in her own head.
She was only a fan of Natán.
Her ever-growing feelings for the Spanish teenager were the sole reason she was currently sitting in a stadium in Manchester on a freezing Wednesday night instead of attending a glamorous fashion gala in Paris or managing her empire from a sun-drenched office in Calabasas.
If it weren’t for him, she would never even dream of watching a full ninety-minute match.
But the way he spoke about the game, the way his eyes lit up with intense, unyielding passion when he explained his craft, made her genuinely want to support him.
He was a master of his universe, and she found that level of dedication incredibly attractive.
But with him off the pitch, she spent the entirety of the second half scrolling through Instagram, responding to business emails, and picking idly at a plate of expensive, gourmet cheese.
The game playing out on the television screen in the suite felt completely irrelevant.
And she didn’t think that perspective was ever going to change.
She wasn’t falling in love with the sport; she was falling for the player.
When the referee finally blew the final whistle, cementing a comfortable 3-0 victory on the night and a historic 9-0 aggregate win over Steaua București, Kylie let out a soft sigh of relief.
She grabbed her heavy designer coat and her purse, eager to escape the stadium and finally see him.
Thirty minutes later, the massive, chaotic crowds of supporters had mostly filtered out of the Etihad Stadium, leaving the surrounding concourses quiet and relatively empty.
Kylie, flanked closely by her two massive, highly trained personal security guards, was escorted down through the VIP elevators into the highly secure, heavily guarded underground parking garage reserved exclusively for players and executive staff.
She stood near a sleek, black, heavily tinted Mercedes G-Wagon, pulling her heavy coat tight against the chill of the underground concrete.
She tapped her designer sneaker impatiently against the floor, her heart fluttering with a familiar, eager anticipation.
Suddenly, the heavy metal door leading from the home dressing room swung open.
Natán walked out into the garage.
He looked completely different from the mud-covered, sweaty gladiator he had been on the pitch.
He had showered, his dark hair still slightly damp, and was dressed comfortably in a clean, fitted grey Manchester City tracksuit.
He carried his heavy Louis Vuitton duffel bag slung casually over one broad shoulder.
He saw her standing by the car, and his face instantly lit up.
A massive, brilliant, boyish smile spread across his features, erasing any lingering traces of exhaustion from his grueling week.
He dropped his heavy bag onto the concrete floor without a second thought.
He closed the distance between them in three rapid, eager strides, entirely ignoring her imposing security guards.
Kylie didn’t hesitate.
She stepped forward, throwing her arms around his neck.
Natán wrapped his strong arms securely around her waist, pulling her flush against his body.
He leaned down, capturing her lips in a deep, hungry, incredibly passionate kiss.
It wasn’t a quick, polite peck hello; it was a profound, lingering embrace that communicated exactly how much he had missed her over the past few days.
He tasted of mint toothpaste and his expensive, woodsy cologne.
Kylie kissed him back eagerly, her fingers tangling slightly in the damp hair at the nape of his neck.
For a brief, dizzying second, the freezing concrete garage and the massive security guards entirely faded away.
There was only the warmth of his body and the intoxicating, magnetic pull between them.
When they finally, reluctantly pulled back, Natán rested his forehead gently against hers, a soft, breathless laugh escaping his lips.
“Hi,” Natán whispered, his dark eyes entirely focused on her.
“Hi yourself,” Kylie smiled, running a hand smoothly down his chest.
“You smell much better now.”
Natán chuckled, picking his heavy duffel bag up off the floor.
“Did you like the game?”
“I did,” Kylie nodded, her eyes sparkling with genuine amazement as they walked toward the waiting car.
“I never knew you were that fast.”
Natán scoffed playfully, waving a dismissive hand.
“I’m not that fast.”
“No,” Kylie argued firmly, stopping him near the door of the G-Wagon.
“You’re the fastest person I’ve ever met. I saw it from the box. You were there, by the middle of the field, and then… you were just there, scoring the goal. It was like you teleported. It was terrifying.” Visit g.com for the full chapter.
Natán smiled proudly, opening the heavy car door for her.
“It was a good goal. I liked the chip.”
“It was amazing,” Kylie agreed, sliding into the luxurious leather backseat.
“But you didn’t play the second half? I kind of got bored watching without you out there.”
Natán climbed in after her, pulling the heavy door shut, sealing them inside the quiet, private cabin of the SUV.
He settled into the seat, immediately reaching out to pull her close against his side.
“Ah, rest for Sunday,” Natán explained, wrapping an arm securely around her shoulders.
“We play West Ham. It is a big Premier League game. Pep wanted to keep me fresh.”
Kylie rested her head comfortably against his shoulder, looking up at him.
“Is that like load management? Like what they do in the NBA?”
Natán’s brow furrowed slightly in confusion.
“Load management? I don’t know this word.”
“It’s when they rest star players to prevent injuries during a long season,” Kylie clarified smoothly.
“Yes,” Natán nodded, understanding dawning on him.
“Kind of. But in football, if you rest too much, you lose your rhythm. I wanted to stay on. I wanted to score more goals. But Pep is the boss. If he says rest, I rest.”
The heavy SUV pulled smoothly out of the underground parking garage, navigating the dark, rain-slicked streets of Manchester, heading back toward the quiet seclusion of his Cheshire mansion.
The rest of the night was an absolute sanctuary of quiet, domestic bliss.
When they arrived back at the house, Natán was entirely, profoundly exhausted, but he was buzzing with a happy, comfortable energy.
He didn’t want to talk about tactics, he didn’t want to analyze his missed tap-in, and he certainly didn’t want to think about the impending physical warfare of West Ham United on Sunday.
He just wanted to be with her.
They ordered an obscene amount of high-end sushi for delivery.
They sat cross-legged on the massive, custom-built grey sectional sofa in his minimalist living room, surrounded by dozens of small plastic containers filled with spicy tuna rolls, premium sashimi, and edamame.
Natán, displaying his usual, entirely endearing lack of cultural coordination, struggled massively with the chopsticks.
“This is impossible,” Natán grumbled in Catalan, dropping a piece of salmon sashimi onto his sweatpants for the third time.
He glared at the wooden sticks in his hand as if they had personally offended his family lineage.
Kylie laughed so hard she nearly choked on her water.
She leaned over, picking up the fallen piece of fish with her own expertly handled chopsticks, dipping it lightly into the soy sauce, and feeding it directly into his mouth.
“You have elite, world-class coordination with your feet,” Kylie teased, shaking her head in amusement, “but your hands are absolutely useless.”
Natán chewed the fish happily, entirely unbothered by the critique.
“My feet pay the bills. My hands are just for lifting trophies.”
After they demolished the sushi, they moved upstairs to the master suite.
They didn’t engage in the wild, passionate, athletic intimacy of their first night together.
Natán was simply too physically drained from the ninety minutes of tactical walking and explosive sprinting.
Instead, they curled together in the massive California-king bed under the heavy, Egyptian cotton duvet.
Natán put a movie on the massive flat-screen television—an action movie dubbed heavily in Spanish, completely ignoring the English subtitles for her benefit.
Kylie didn’t care.
She didn’t watch the movie.
She was entirely focused on the feeling of his heavy, muscular arm wrapped securely around her waist, his deep, rhythmic breathing providing a soothing, hypnotic soundtrack to the quiet night.
She traced light, absentminded patterns on his bare chest with her fingertips, feeling the rigid lines of his abdominals and the faint, fading bruises from his earlier Premier League battles.
The sheer, overwhelming exhaustion had finally claimed him entirely.
His breathing evened out into a deep, steady rhythm.
He had fallen fast asleep, completely secure and entirely at peace, holding the woman he was rapidly realizing he never wanted to let go of.
Kylie lay awake for a few minutes longer, listening to the rain begin to patter gently against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the bedroom.
She looked at his peaceful, sleeping face, completely devoid of the intense, arrogant focus that defined his public persona.
He was just Natán.
And for the first time in a very long time, she felt entirely, perfectly content.
She closed her eyes, letting the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest pull her into a deep, dreamless sleep.