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***
By the next morning, the 3–0 win over CSKA Moskva had settled in like a warm sunrise over the Etihad Campus. But if the squad was moving on, the dia certainly wasn't.
Every major paper plastered Adriano's free kick across their back pages, like a work of art to be admired on repeat.
"Adriano Silences Critics" – The Tis
"Class Over Chaos: Adriano Leads City to Last 16" – The Guardian
"Hollywood Can Wait—This Is His Stage" – Daily Mail
Even the tabloids that had spent the last week dragging his na through the mud now flipped tone with theatrical flair.
"From Kiss to Curler: Adriano Puts On a Show" – The Sun
"Two Goals, No Words—Adriano Keeps Focus Where It Matters" – Mirror Sport
The coverage was glowing. And for the first ti in a week, the spotlight felt like recognition, not surveillance. Not to ntion today the final shortlist for the Ballon D'or was going to be released.
At the CFA training ground, a cool November breeze swept through the gates as the morning routines clicked into place. Staff milled about with coffees in hand, exchanging nods and banter.
Music leaked from the gym. Boots clattered on tiled floors. Most of the starting XI were penciled in for recovery: light jogs, pool work, massage tables. The rest had a full training block.
Adriano arrived early, as he often did. Hoodie up, headphones in, gym bag slung low on one shoulder. He pushed the door open with a quiet nod to the receptionist.
"Morning, Luce," he said softly.
"Morning, Adriano. Big day yesterday," she smiled. "You've got the press office swooning."
He chuckled, eyes cast down as he kept walking. "Let's hope the physio likes free kicks too."
Inside the dressing room, the atmosphere was relaxed, tinged with the easy energy that follows a Champions League win. Humls sat with his feet up, scrolling through his phone with one eye and sipping protein shake . Aguero busy on his phone. Kolarov and Hazard were talking about sothing funny from last match.
"Look who it is—free-kick rchant himself," Humls called out as Adriano entered.
"About ti he earned his hair gel," Aguero added from the other bench.
Kane, on the floor stretching his calves, twisted around and grinned. "Saving those rockets for wedding invitations, mate?"
Adriano raised an eyebrow, tossing his bag onto the bench. "Didn't realise we were printing RSVPs in the top corner."
The room burst into laughter.
Joe Hart leaned back in his locker chair and pointed a finger. "Keeper didn't even flinch. I swear I thought it was a cara trick."
"Still waiting for VAR to confirm it wasn't CGI," said Kompany from the showers.
Adriano finally cracked a full smile, shaking his head. "I'll pass that on to the visual effects team."
"Just make sure you save one for Bayern," Hazard added, towel over his shoulder. "We'll need it."
Despite the banter, training remained sharp. Pellegrini didn't indulge in dia waves or glowing headlines. The day's itinerary held firm—no interviews, no noise. Just recovery and prep for the next challenge.
Still, the manager wasn't oblivious. As Adriano finished his hydrotherapy session—legs subrged, earbuds resting on the pool tiles—he looked up to see Pellegrini approaching. The older man stood calmly at the edge, hands behind his back, his voice soft but certain.
"You did well yesterday," he said.
Adriano pulled out an earbud, glancing up. "Thanks, boss."
Pellegrini nodded, his gaze steady. "You handled the pressure. The noise. All of it."
"Just focused on the pitch," Adriano replied, water rippling around his shoulders.
"Good," Pellegrini said, voice dipping lower. "Because there's more to co."
Adriano gave a slight nod, eyes narrowing.
"You've earned a quiet week," the manager added with a faint smile. "But this club doesn't get many of those."
Adriano chuckled under his breath. "Wouldn't want it any other way."
Pellegrini gave a small nod of approval and turned to leave. "See you in the eting room at ten . And best of luck with the ceremony."
Adriano raised his eyebrows, " What ceremony? "
Pellegrini chuckled, " I guess you haven't checked your mails yet. The dia should also be getting the news now."
Adriano logged into his email and started going through them, then he found it.
" Dear Adriano , we Cordially invite you to the FIFA Ballon D'or Ceremony 5 days later as one of the top 3 contenders to be nominated. We await your response."
Adriano let out a surprised laugh, " Seriously? I'm in top 3 ? I thought I'd just skip it as Ronaldo will probably win and I'll just get so interviews . But now I'm the youngest player ever to be nominated. Might as well go and enjoy."
As he walked away, Adriano leaned back against the pool wall, exhaled deeply, and let the water carry the mont just a little longer. His hard work was paying off.
***
The Manchester City training ground was buzzing. Not just from the usual post-victory energy—but from sothing bigger.
Adriano had made the final shortlist for the Ballon d'Or.
The announcent ca early in the day after their first drill. A short press release from FIFA listed the top three contenders for world football's most prestigious individual award:
Cristiano Ronaldo
Lionel ssi
Adriano Riveiro
The reaction was instant.
Within thirty minutes, reporters gathered outside the Etihad. Fans on social dia were posting clips of his hat-trick against Bayern, his five-goal tally in the Champions League, and monts from the World Cup that had already made him a household na. Adriano was trending worldwide as the youngest player ever to be nominated for the prestigious award.
Inside the City training facility, the players had gathered early for a recovery session. As Adriano walked into the gym, still stretching out a sore shoulder, the room erupted.
Applause, cheers, whistles.
De Bruyne tossed him a towel. "About ti they put so respect on it. Congrats man! "
"Top three in Europe, huh?" Silva grinned. "Let guess—you'll still say you didn't expect it."
"I didn't," Adriano replied, shrugging.
Joe Hart called across the room, "Hey Boss, does this an we can't sub him anymore without clearance from FIFA?"
Even the usually reserved Kompany cracked a smile. "It's well deserved mate. Don't downplay it."
Pellegrini entered mid-laughter and raised his hand. "He'll still be doing press-ups like everyone else. Ballon d'Or or not."
Adriano laughed with them, but stayed quiet when the caras showed up later in the afternoon.
A few reporters tried to get quotes—he gave a short one.
"I'm honored. There are so many great players this year. To be on that list as top 3 ans a lot. I'll just keep playing my best to be worthy of the honor."
He ant it. He didn't think he'd win. Ronaldo had lifted the Champions League with Madrid and the World Cup. ssi had been outstanding again. Adriano's rise had been teoric, but he was still new to this level. Still carving out his place.
But it didn't stop the congratulatory ssages from pouring in.
***
By the ti Adriano stepped through the front door that evening, the house was quiet, almost too quiet for a day that had exploded with noise.
He dropped his gym bag by the hallway bench, kicked off his shoes, and walked into the living room. The lights were low, the television off, but his phone kept vibrating every few seconds in his pocket.
He finally pulled it out, glanced at the screen—and exhaled.
Over a thousand new notifications.
Social dia had erupted. His nomination for the Ballon d'Or shortlist was no longer just news—it was the headline. His na was everywhere, in every language. Twitter was filled with clips from his matches, fan art, World Cup highlights. Instagram flooded with edits, tributes, comparisons.
He sat down on the couch, phone still in hand, thumb scrolling.
Most of the ssages were congratulatory. Many were in Portuguese—his fans there hadn't forgotten him. So in English, so in Spanish. His supporters had multiplied. Fans from Madrid, São Paulo, London, and even Seoul were tagging him, begging for him to win.
One ssage caught his eye: "Whether you win or not, you've inspired an entire generation. Thank you."
He paused there a mont, screen glowing softly, then tapped the phone screen off.
Just then, it buzzed again. But this ti, not a notification. A call.
The screen showed the na : Mom.
He answered instantly.
His mother's voice ca through first. Soft. Trembling. "u filho…"
"Mãe," he said, leaning back against the couch cushion. "It's quite late there. You haven't slept?"
"I don't care," she replied. "I cried, you know. I watched the whole announcent live. They said your na. They said 'Adriano Riveiro'—the whole world heard it."
He could picture her clearly, one hand holding the phone, the other probably covering her mouth like she always did when emotional.
"I didn't win anything yet," he said gently.
"You don't have to," she replied. "You've already made our na known. You've already made us proud. From our dusty streets of our city to Zurich as one of the best, imagine that. Just imagine."
He closed his eyes. "I rember you waking up at four to iron my kit before youth matches."
"And cooking three als for one tournant day," she laughed through her tears.
Then his father's voice entered the line. Calr, more composed, but just as proud.
"You've co a long way, son. But you're still climbing. Don't stop now."
"I won't, Dad." Adriano replied.
His father continued, "Being nominated ans you're on the right path. But staying there—that's the work."
"I know."
They talked for a few more minutes, reminiscing about his early days, the trial in Porto, his first youth tournant in Spain. Before they hung up, his mother whispered, "I love you, u campeão."
He hadn't even made it through dinner before the next call ca. He was still halfway through his rice and grilled chicken, plate balanced on his lap, when the screen lit up again.
Kate ❤️
He wiped his hand quickly on a napkin and answered.
Her excited voice ca through before he could speak. "You did it babe! I'm so happy for you! Wish I was there with you."
He let out a tired smile. "I haven't done anything yet. It's just a nomination babe. "
"Don't even," she cut in. "Top three. Ballon d'Or. You're literally sitting next to ssi and Ronaldo in a few days as equals. Now nobody can say you didn't earn your place."
"It's kinda surreal," he admitted.
Kate's excitent was unfiltered. "I'm so proud of you Babe, I wish I could just dump everything and co with you."
He set the plate on the table. "I wish you could . Honestly, I didn't expect it."
"I did," she said. "I saw this coming months ago. Maybe not the official nomination stuff, but the level you're playing at? It's obvious."
Adriano paused. "Feels like a lot, sotis. Feels like it's all happening too fast."
Kate softened her tone. "Because you're humble. And maybe a little in shock."
He laughed quietly.
"Besides," she continued, "I think you needed sothing good right now. With all the dia, the pressure… this reminds people that what matters is how you play, how you lead."
There was silence for a second.
Then she added, "I posted sothing. Just a little throwback. Hope you like it."
"What did you post?" he asked, suddenly Curious.
She chuckled. "You'll see."
He opened Instagram while still on the call. It loaded slowly, then popped up. Her profile. There it was, the new post.
It was a picture from July. Post-World Cup final. Adriano was holding the golden trophy, sweat still visible on his neck, kit stained with grass. There was a heart sign drawn around him.
The caption read:
Best boyfriend, now best player in Europe (almost). Proud doesn't even begin to cover it. Let's go, Adriano!
The comnt section had exploded. Her fans were cheering him on. So were surprised , others were calling them the 'power couple' of the year. City fans were defending him fiercely, praising his humility at the interview.
He stared at it a while, phone in hand.
"You okay with it?" she asked gently.
He nodded, though she couldn't see. "Yeah. It's… kind of perfect, actually."
"I thought you'd like it. Felt like the right mont."
"I wish you were also in that picture," he said.
Kate paused, then replied quietly, " too."
They talked for a few more minutes. About her schedule. About his next match. About Zurich. Then, before hanging up, she added one more thing:
"Don't spend the next few days trying to prove anything. You've done enough. Just go, be yourself, and enjoy it. The world already knows who you are."
When the call ended, Adriano sat for a while in silence. Not staring at the screen, not checking the notifications.
Just sitting.
All the noise outside—the headlines, the scrutiny, the chants, the pressure—it had weight. But in this mont, it didn't crush him.
It centered him.
He looked over at the World Cup dal hanging in its case across the room. Then at the frad photo on the shelf—him and his parents on the pitch in Portugal after his first youth goal. Then the one with him at Malaga.
And now, this.
He wasn't chasing awards. But he wasn't running from them either.
If they ca, he'd take them with gratitude.
And then get back to work.
anwhile, Kate's post went viral. Talk show hosts picked it up. Fans debated on Twitter whether he'd bring her to the ceremony. So joked about her stealing the red carpet.
Her fans—previously indifferent to football—started flooding City's posts with support for him.
It was surreal. For a mont, football had rged with celebrity culture, and Adriano was at the center. He kept his routine simple. Training. Nutrition. Sleep. Ignore the noise.
But the players didn't.
At team breakfast the day before he flew to the ceremony, Aguero nudged him. "You know they're going to ask you to bring her to Zurich."
"She's in the States man, busy with her shooting." Adriano replied.
Kane leaned in. "Still. You bring that kind of date, you might win just off public vote."
"Shut up," Adriano muttered, but smiled anyway.
Pellegrini pulled him aside after training. "You're handling it well. Keep your head. Rember, this doesn't change the job."
"I know," Adriano said. "This is a bonus. I haven't achieved anything permanent yet."
"You've earned your place,my boy." Pellegrini said. "Whether you win or not, it's not a fluke."
***
Light Snow dusted the streets of Zurich, clean and glimring under the pale city lights. Outside the Kongresshaus, the 2014 Ballon d'Or ceremony was underway in grand style.
The red carpet stretched wide, flanked by sleek barricades and waves of dia flashes. Reporters lined both sides, microphones in hand, eyes scanning every luxury car that rolled up.
From the rear passenger door of a black rcedes, Adriano stepped out into the cold evening air.
His tuxedo—sharp, custom-fitted Burberry —caught the light just enough to glint without showing off. The collar sat clean on his neck, his expression composed. He smiled and waved at the caras and fans.
Nothing too flashy or grand. Just asured steps forward.
Behind him, Hazard exited the car twirling his tie between his fingers like a ribbon, unbothered by the flashes.
De Bruyne followed, squinting at the air. "Colder than Manchester," he said to Silva, who laughed, pulling his coat tighter.
"Zurich's version of hospitality," Silva replied.
Kompany erged last, nodding to the photographers, posture as upright as ever. His coat was buttoned, stride slow but assured.
Pellegrini exited from the next vehicle, moving quietly behind the players. As they made their way along the carpet, José Mourinho stepped into view with his usual half-smirk.
"Enjoying the spotlight, Manuel?" Mourinho asked.
Pellegrini didn't miss a step. "More than you enjoy parking buses."
A few feet behind them, Pep Guardiola, standing with Bayern's contingent, raised his eyebrows and gave a short nod to Pellegrini who returned it.
Adriano kept walking, then paused when he heard his na shouted in Portuguese.
"Obrigado pelo Mundial!"
A boy—no older than ten—stood behind the barrier, waving a Portugal scarf wildly. His parents stood behind him. The kid's arms barely stretched over the barrier, but his eyes were wide and fixed on Adriano.
Adriano stepped over to him, took the scarf with both hands and signed it. "Who's your favorite team?" he asked.
"Benfica!" the boy shouted, starstruck.
Adriano smiled, handed the scarf back, and gave the boy a quick thumbs-up. The kid just stood there, frozen, as if unsure whether he was dreaming.
As he turned back, he nearly walked into a broad chest. A hand landed on his shoulder.
"Kid," Zlatan Ibrahimović said, grinning. "If you ever get tired of England, call . PSG needs so drama to liven it up."
Adriano gave him a side glance, half-grin already forming. "I'll stick to the rain and unspiced food for now. You can rule France for now."
Zlatan burst into laughter. "Good. Paris would be too noisy with both of us around anyway."
Inside the Kongresshaus, the gold lighting cast everything in a soft glow. Round tables, each dressed in crisp white linen, were arranged throughout the ballroom. At
the center of each sat a polished silver football centerpiece. A mix of players, managers, and forr legends milled around before the program officially began.
Adriano walked with the rest of the City delegation until he spotted his place card.
Table 1.
He was placed right Between Cristiano Ronaldo and Lionel ssi.
He hesitated a brief second, then stepped forward confidently. Ronaldo was already seated, well dressed and composed, perfectly at ease.
"Well, well," Ronaldo said, raising an eyebrow. "Look who's Finally here. Saving from boredom, nino?"
Adriano extended a hand. " Hello Cristiano. You're usually surrounded by caras and fangirls. This must be disappointing."
Ronaldo chuckled, standing up and giving him a firm hug ." How have you been ? How's England treating you ? I saw the dia stuff. It's still quite ruthless huh?"
Adriano laughed, " Cos with the territory man. You have seen your fair share too. It gets a little annoying being constantly hounded by them. Thankfully, I have my family, friends and teammates supporting ."
Ronaldo nodded , " Ignore the noise, and shut them up with your performance. Don't forget, you can always reach out to for advice."
Adriano smiled and sat down beside him.
Monts later, ssi also slid into his seat on the other side. He gave Adriano a respectful nod and a handshake. "Congrats again on the World Cup. You made it look easy."
"Easy?" Adriano raised an eyebrow, pointing to Ronaldo. "I had him screaming at for ninety minutes to pass."
Ronaldo smirked. "You deserved it. I still think you had more in you."
Behind them, Neymar walked past with Luis Suárez, loud enough for his words to carry.
"Third place? Should've been mine. I should be there. "
Adriano didn't react. He adjusted his jacket, eyes forward with a smirk. Ronaldo leaned in slightly, voice lower.
"Jealousy slls worse than his cologne. He didn't even play the final and still thinks he's hot stuff."
Adriano didn't laugh. He didn't need to. He just kept facing forward, ready for the night ahead. ssi gave a helpless shrug and a apologetic look .
***
Inside Zurich's Kongresshaus, the room dimd as the ballroom crowd settled. Silver centerpieces shimred gently under the chandeliers, and the murmurs of conversation faded as the stage lights brightened.
Thierry Henry stepped forward in a sharp black tuxedo, mic in hand, his trademark smile just as disarming as it had been on the pitch.
"Ladies and gentlen," he said, his voice warm and charismatic, "bienvenue to football's brightest night!"
A ripple of applause filled the room, followed by cheers from different corners—players, managers, invited guests, and the seated legends who had once held the stage themselves.
The massive screens flanking the stage lit up with a sweeping montage. The crowd hushed.
Cristiano Ronaldo, mid-air, striking a blistering bicycle kick in the World Cup quarterfinals.
Lionel ssi ghosting through Portugal's midfield in a dazzling solo run.
Then, Adriano—the 18-year-old—on the biggest night of his life, firing a hat-trick in the World Cup final. Each goal more audacious than the last. The cara lingered on his celebration—arms raised, jaw clenched, roaring toward the heavens.
A few tables back, Pellegrini leaned in toward Adriano, who was watching the screen with his elbows on the table.
"Next year," Pellegrini said, just loud enough to be heard over the applause, "that reel will be yours."
Adriano nodded faintly. Not as a prediction—just as quiet acknowledgnt. His eyes didn't leave the screen until the lights ca back on and the show began.
The awards started to roll in.
Puskás Award.
The presenter read the winner aloud: "Adriano Riveiro, for his goal against Germany."
The crowd erupted again. The clip played—Adriano weaving past three defenders, lifting the ball over a sliding tackle, touching it around Neuer and, with a mont of pure arrogance, back-heeling it into the net while facing away from goal.
Even ssi leaned forward slightly. "You back-heeled it in a world cup, no wonder Fifa is putting it as their intro." he muttered.
Adriano gave a small smile. "Didn't have ti to turn. Sorry for stealing your thunder Leo."
ssi laughed, " I'm still on the cover.
Ronaldo added from the side, " I'm there too you know! "
As Adriano walked to the stage to accept the award, the applause was genuine. He said little in his acceptance. " Thank you everyone for the amazing support you have shown . I thank the coaches and my teammates who were crucial for my success and growth, the fans who have cheered for constantly, and my friends and important people in my life who helped deal with the sudden fa and pressure.
Most of all, I want to thank my parents, without whom I couldn't have done any of this." A loud applause resounded through the venue.
When he returned to his seat, Ronaldo offered a quick fist bump. "That one's already in FIFA Street."
Next was Best Coach. The envelope was opened, and the na rang out across the hall:
"Fernando Santos."
The Portugal manager made his way to the podium, calm and deliberate, as always. He accepted the trophy, glanced briefly at the crowd, and then looked directly at Adriano and Ronaldo.
"So players," Santos said, "are born to change gas. This one?" He pointed toward the Manchester City star. "He was born to change this era. I couldn't have done this without the effort of the whole team and Cristiano and Adriano leading from front."
Adriano lowered his head slightly. It was hard to et eyes in monts like that.
Then ca the announcent everyone in the room had waited for—the FIFA FIFPro World XI.
"Neuer. Lahm. Humls. Thiago Silva. Kroos. Jas Rodríguez. Muller. Neymar. Adriano. ssi. Ronaldo."
Applause broke out again. Tables scattered with familiar faces stood to greet one another, exchanging brief nods, handshakes, and pats on the back.
As the nad eleven gathered for photos, Adriano stood in the center row. ssi and Ronaldo flanked him, just like the seating arrangent at their table. Adriano caught Neymar's eye briefly from the other side of the lineup. Neymar looked away.
Back at the table, ssi leaned slightly toward Adriano during a brief pause before the final presentation.
"How's the Premier League treating you?" he asked casually.
Adriano gave a small shrug. "Physically tough. dia's obsessed. They ask if I'll 'dethrone' you two."
ssi smiled, a dry kind of smile. "In La Liga, they write novels about my breakfast. You'll get used to it."
Ronaldo laughed at that. "Used to it? Or tired of it? They asked if I was retiring at thirty."
Adriano raised an eyebrow. "What did you tell them?"
Ronaldo flexed his wrist with a smirk. "Told them thirty was halfti. Thirty-two? That's when I warm up."
The group chuckled. ssi, ever more relaxed in private than in public, nodded. "Ignore the noise. Just win your gas. They stop talking when you keep scoring."
"I've noticed," Adriano said.
But the mont of calm was interrupted by a familiar tone—sharp, cutting, too loud not to be intentional.
"He's just a flash in the pan. He'll vanish soon."
It was Neymar again, speaking to Suárez who didn't reply, but loud enough to carry.
The table froze for a mont. Adriano's expression didn't shift, but his posture straightened, shoulders tight. For a mont, it seed like he might respond. But before he could speak, he felt a hand rest gently on his arm.
It was Ronaldo.
He didn't look at Neymar. Just spoke quietly to Adriano.
"Let him bark," Ronaldo said, voice low. "Lions don't chase mice."
Adriano exhaled slowly.
"Not tonight," he said quietly.
ssi nodded. "Not worth it. He's been like that since world cup. The bashing you guys gave to Brazil was a bit much."
The lights shifted again, drawing attention back to the stage.
There were still final remarks to be made, still the biggest award to co.
But at that table—between the greatest of the era, and the one being grood to follow—the mont had already passed. And for Adriano, that was enough.
***
The lights dimd once more in Zurich's Kongresshaus. An expectant silence gripped the room. The stage glowed a soft gold, casting long shadows over the glittering tables where the best in world football waited.
Thierry Henry stepped forward, envelope in hand. He glanced at the front row, letting the mont stretch just enough. He announced loudly, " The 3 candidates for Ballon D'or 2014 are Cristiano Ronaldo , with with amazing performance with Real Madrid and Portugal.
Leonel ssi for his display of brilliance with Barcelona and Argentina. And finally, Adriano Riveiro, for incredible performance with Malaga and Portugal.
The cara zood in tightly: Ronaldo's jaw clenched, his brow furrowed in tension. ssi, ever composed, wore the ghost of a smile, relaxed but unreadable. Between them sat Adriano, his posture relaxed, fingers tapping the cloth beside his water glass giving a drum roll.
Henry opened the envelope slowly.
"The 2014 Ballon d'Or winner is…"
The crowd leaned forward.
"…Cristiano Ronaldo!"
Applause erupted—so loud and exuberant, others more reserved. But the result wasn't a surprise. Ronaldo stood, buttoning his jacket before pulling ssi into a brief, firm hug.
"You'll always be my toughest fight," he said.
Then he turned to Adriano. No caras caught the mont clearly—just a close-up of Ronaldo leaning in.
"Your turn's coming," he whispered, voice low and even as he hugged him.
Adriano nodded with a smile. He clapped while standing as Ronaldo walked towards the podium.
Ronaldo climbed the steps to the stage with the poise of soone who'd been there before. He took the Ballon d'Or from Thierry Henry's hands, cradling it at first like sothing fragile. The applause faded into a hush as he stepped toward the mic.
"I want to thank my teammates at Real Madrid and Portugal, my coaches, and my family. Without them, this trophy doesn't happen."
He paused, eyes scanning the front row.
"I also want to thank soone else." His gaze landed on Adriano. "That guy—who passed the ball even when I was too tired to run. Who covered ground I couldn't.
Football isn't about gold. It's about legacy. And tonight, I feel mine is just beginning. And Adriano gave both myself and Portugal the chance to win our crown."
A warm laugh swept through the crowd. Adriano grinned and clapped loudly. Even ssi chuckled, clapping beside Adriano.
Ronaldo raised the trophy once more, then stepped off stage to a small sea of flashing caras.
The formalities eased after that. Waiters flowed between tables with glasses of champagne. Conversations resud. A few older players made their way to the exits. So of the younger ones drifted toward the lounge music playing near the back of the hall.
Adriano lingered near the dessert table, picking at a piece of dark chocolate but barely tasting it. His mind still reeled, not from disappointnt—he never expected to win—but from everything the night had confird.
He belonged here.
The voices faded for a second until a calm, distinct presence slid in beside him.
Zinedine Zidane.
"Careful," Zidane said, nodding toward the untouched cake on Adriano's plate. "You'll need to stay light on your feet."
Adriano offered a tired smile. "Not really hungry."
Zidane gave him a look—half-serious, half-playful. "Cristiano was right, you know. About legacy. You've got sothing most players don't have at your age. Calmness."
"Is that what it is?" Adriano asked.
Zidane shrugged. "That, and talent you don't over-explain."
Then, without a change in tone: "Next year, this is yours. If you join Madrid."
Adriano blinked once, not in shock, but in recognition of the inevitable.
"You guys don't waste ti."
Zidane smirked. "Neither does ti."
Before Adriano could reply, a familiar hand reached in and patted Zidane on the back.
Pellegrini.
"Zizou," he said, mock-stern, "hands off. He's ours."
Zidane raised his palms in mock surrender. "Just talking football."
Pellegrini turned to Adriano. "Don't eat too much. We've got training in three days."
"I thought I might get a day off."
"You will. When you're thirty-five."
Adriano excused himself for a mont, heading toward the restrooms. On his way back, he rounded a corner and ca face-to-face with Neymar.
The hallway was empty, the noise from the ballroom muted behind closed doors.
Neymar leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
"You think you're special?" he said, eyes sharp. "You're not. You're just having a good year. Wait till you hit a slump. I'll be claiming my spot again."
Adriano stopped walking. The mont stretched. Then he shrugged.
"I'll call you for tips on handling benchwarrs. Or maybe tell my girlfriend to give you so acting lessons, cz Football isn't your thing by the looks of it."
Neymar's face tensed, but before he could say anything else, footsteps approached.
"Hey!" Hazard's voice called, cheerful and oblivious. "Don't tell you're hiding out!"
He appeared, grabbed Adriano's wrist, and pulled him along. "Co on, they've started dancing. Don't make do it alone. Silva is stealing all the spotlight with his Tango!"
Adriano chuckled and followed him . He didn't look back, leaving a seething Neymar muttering curses.
The air was crisp on the balcony overlooking the snowy streets of Zurich. The music was muffled, the crowd's energy distant.
ssi stood quietly, hands in his pockets, watching the snow fall beyond the iron railing. Ronaldo joined him, drink in hand. They didn't speak for a while.
Finally, ssi broke the silence.
"He's pretty good."
Ronaldo didn't reply imdiately. He took a sip, eyes still on the street below.
"He's better than good," he said. "And he knows it."
ssi chuckled, " Think he'll win next year ?"
Ronaldo replied with a smirk, " He's got to keep performing and show why he deserves it. I won't go easy on him just because he's like a little brother to . Neither should you."
Inside, Adriano watched from a distance, just for a mont. The two giants, standing shoulder to shoulder. He didn't interrupt. He didn't need to.
He turned toward the far side of the hall, where the crowd had thinned and so players were beginning to leave.
He hadn't won tonight. But he'd been heard. Seen. Tested.
And he knew sothing now—he wasn't just part of this generation.
He was shaping it.
As he passed the main exit, one of the event staff handed him a small case—a replica of the Ballon d'Or trophy with his na etched at the base. A keepsake for the nominees.
He turned it over in his hands, then held it at his side.
Pellegrini appeared a few monts later, coat folded over one arm.
"Still here?" the coach asked.
Adriano nodded. "Just thinking."
Pellegrini gestured toward the door. "Hungry for more?"
Adriano looked down at the replica. The gold caught the light.
"Starving," he said.
"Good," Pellegrini replied. "Stay hungry. You'll get it next ti."
As their black car pulled away from the Kongresshaus, the lights behind them glowed against the falling snow. Adriano didn't look away.
Next year, It'll be my turn.
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