I woke up to the soft glow of dawn filtering through my room's curtains. The events of last night—our thrilling victory and the press conference afterward—still swirled in my mind, a mix of triumph and lingering lancholy. As I reached for my phone, the screen lit up with hundreds of congratulatory ssages. Fans, teammates, and even so old acquaintances had sent their well-wishes. Among them, I saw a ssage from Blanca. It read simply, "Congratulations, Adriano. Proud of you." Although her ssage brought a small spark of warmth, it also reminded of the growing distance between us. I sighed, tapped out a brief reply, "Thanks, Blanca," and then closed the ssage, not daring to linger on the thought any longer.
I freshened up slowly—taking a cool shower to wash away the weariness, dressing in casual training gear—and decided that so fresh air might help clear my mind. I stepped out into the bustling streets of Málaga, where the early morning energy was palpable. The city was already stirring; vendors setting up their stalls, the aroma of freshly baked bread and strong coffee mingling in the air. I headed toward a nearby café, determined to have a proper breakfast and regain so composure before my next training session.
A Call from ndesJust as I settled into a quiet corner of Café del Sol, my phone buzzed. It was Jorge ndes. I glanced at the screen and saw his ssage:
"Adriano, I'm on my way to your place."
I quickly texted back, "Why don't you et here? I'm having breakfast." The café's warm, inviting atmosphere felt like the perfect backdrop for what was about to unfold.
Within minutes, ndes arrived. He was carrying his usual confident air, but today there was sothing different about his expression—a mix of excitent and urgency. As he approached my table, I noticed he wasn't alone. Flanking him was a middle-aged man in an expensive, impeccably tailored suit. His presence was commanding, and he carried himself with an understated grace that imdiately set him apart.
The Breakfast etingndes greeted with a friendly nod as we sat down. "Morning, Adriano. Hope you're feeling better today," he said, his tone warm but businesslike.
Before I could respond, the suited gentleman extended his hand with a cordial smile. "Good morning, Adriano. I'm Khaldoon Al Mubarak, Chairman of Manchester City." His handshake was firm and confident, and his accent lent an air of global sophistication to his words.
I was montarily taken aback by the unexpected introduction. "Mr. Al Mubarak, it's an honor to et you," I replied politely. "I understand you're here on behalf of Sheikh Mansour?"
Khaldoon nodded. "Indeed. Sheikh Mansour is a great admirer of your play. In fact, during a press conference last month, you ntioned that your favorite car is the Lamborghini Veneno Roadster. When he heard this, he was so impressed that he insisted on gifting one to you—no strings attached, just a gesture of admiration and goodwill."
I nearly dropped my coffee. A car worth around 4.5 million dollars? The idea was both surreal and humbling. I managed a chuckle, trying to keep my tone light. "That is incredibly generous, Mr. Al Mubarak, but honestly, I don't really need a car like that."
Khaldoon smiled, his eyes twinkling. "I assure you, it isn't a bribe or any sort of coercion. It is simply a gift—a token of Sheikh Mansour's appreciation for your talent. We've even arranged a custom license plate with your na, should you choose to make it yours. Think of it as an extension of our support for you."
At that mont, ndes let out a low laugh, and I saw him shaking his head in amusent. "Adriano, sotis you should just keep your mouth shut," he teased softly, causing a few heads to turn. I blushed, feeling a mixture of embarrassnt and disbelief. "It's too expensive, and I really don't need it," I protested, though I knew deep down that the offer was extraordinary.
Khaldoon's tone softened. "Even if you decide you don't want it right away, you could always keep it in your garage as a prized possession. But more importantly, I'm here to let you know that Sheikh Mansour has given us a blank cheque for you. Manchester City is prepared to offer any price for your transfer after the World Cup. They respect your wishes and will wait until you decide what's best for you. In fact, there's even talk that your current coach, Pellegrini, might co along if you choose to make the move."
I nodded slowly, having heard whispers of an 85-million-euro offer before. "How is Manchester City doing in the league these days?" I asked, curiosity mingling with genuine interest.
Khaldoon sighed. "We'll qualify for the Champions League sohow, but truth be told, we haven't won a trophy recently. Sheikh Mansour believes it's ti to overhaul the squad next season. He absolutely loves your playing style—he was ecstatic when he saw your goal against Real Madrid. I even heard he threw a file into his hands in excitent!" His amusent was evident, and I couldn't help but smile at the vivid description.
Lowering his voice, Khaldoon continued confidentially, "The owner would also like to et you personally after the World Cup to discuss transfer possibilities further."
I felt a surge of gratitude and awe. "I'm honored, truly. It ans a lot to know that soone of Sheikh Mansour's stature admires my work. After the World Cup, I'd be delighted to et him and talk further."
We shook hands once more, and after a few more polite exchanges, Khaldoon and ndes excused themselves. As they walked away, ndes turned to while picking up a slice of bread. "So, Adriano, are you really interested in Manchester City?" he asked with a teasing smile.
I grinned and replied, "ndes, you probably prefer Real Madrid for . What did Florentino say?" I couldn't resist the banter, and ndes sputtered in response, clearly caught off guard.
I patted him on the back. "I know your style, ndes. You called last night again because of this," I said lightly.
ndes leaned in and joked, "You could quit football and start fortune-telling, and you'd still earn millions." Then his tone turned conspiratorial. "By the way, Florentino asked to try and convince you to move to Real Madrid after this season—he's promised to break Bale's record transfer fee for you."
I let out a soft laugh. "Real Madrid is where I'd love to go soday, but now isn't the right ti. I want to finish this season strong and win our trophies first."
ndes looked both surprised and amused. "So, you're not seriously considering Manchester City?" he asked. "They're rich, yes, but their team isn't exactly balanced, is it?"
I laughed, shaking my head. "Sotis an empty canvas offers more opportunities than a classic painting, ndes. I need ti to shape my future on my own terms. I'm not interested in just money or fa."
"Not interested?" he echoed. "Adriano, you might not have a choice soon. When clubs like Real Madrid, Manchester United, and PSG co knocking, you don't just ignore them. They're willing to move mountains for you."
I rubbed my temples. "Jorge, we still have two gas left in the league. A final to win. A World Cup after that. I'm not thinking about transfers right now."
"I hear you," he said, his voice losing a bit of its usual salesmanship. "But listen—these teams aren't just interested. They're desperate. You're the hottest prospect in world football right now. So of them want to start negotiations before the season even ends."
I sighed, "We'll deal with that after world cup."
ndes chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. "You never cease to amaze , Adriano."
He then waved goodbye, leaving to contemplate the whirlwind of offers and possibilities.
Looking Ahead, I stepped out of the café and into the vibrant streets of Málaga. The city was alive with morning energy—bustling markets, friendly greetings from passersby, and the gentle hum of everyday life. Yet, amid all the excitent, I couldn't help but reflect on the conversation with Khaldoon and ndes. The idea of a Lamborghini Veneno Roadster gifted by Sheikh Mansour was almost too extravagant to fathom. More importantly, the confidential news that Manchester City was ready to et any price for after the World Cup lingered in my mind. These opportunities, though enticing, also carried a weight of expectation and uncertainty.
I walked slowly, absorbing the cool morning air and the steady rhythm of the city. My thoughts drifted briefly to Blanca—a ssage from her earlier, a gentle reminder of what I once cherished but now felt increasingly distant. I pushed the thought aside, focusing on the day ahead and the promise of new challenges.
The morning breeze of Málaga carried a crisp freshness as I walked back to my apartnt. Despite the enticing offers and whirlwind of decisions ahead, my mind drifted toward sothing more grounding—family. It had been a while since I had a proper conversation with my parents. With the season nearing its end and the World Cup looming, I felt a strong urge to hear their voices.
Settling onto the balcony with a cup of coffee, I dialed my mother's number. It rang twice before her familiar voice, full of warmth and excitent, answered.
"Adriano! u filho, it's been too long!" she exclaid.
A chuckle escaped . "Mom, it's only been a couple of weeks. How are you and Dad?"
Before she could answer, my father's voice chid in from the background. "We're good, but your mother has been worried sick about you. And ? I'm just waiting for my share of your earnings. You know, the usual." He laughed heartily.
I shook my head with a grin. "You're never going to stop with that joke, are you, Pai?"
"Never!" he said proudly.
My mother sighed but quickly changed the topic. "Actually, Adriano, we have so news for you. Your father and I… we opened a small restaurant here in Lisbon! In the main city, no less."
I nearly dropped my cup. "Wait, what? A restaurant? Since when? How did this happen?"
"It's been a few months now," she explained, a hint of pride in her voice. "We used so savings, found a cozy spot, and your father, believe it or not, has been cooking. And people love it!"
My father laughed. "Can you imagine? , a chef! But the business is doing well, son. We're happy."
A deep sense of pride and joy filled . "That's amazing, Mãe, Pai! I had no idea. Why didn't you tell sooner?"
"We didn't want to bother you while you were focused on football," my mother said gently. "But we're really doing well, and we'd love for you to visit when you have ti."
I nodded to myself. "After the season ends, I'll take you both to Brazil for a little vacation. You deserve it."
"Really?" my mother gasped, excitent clear in her voice. "That would be wonderful!"
My father, always the practical one, added, "Just make sure you don't spend all your money on unnecessary things before then, son."
The conversation naturally shifted to more personal matters, and my mother's tone softened. "Adriano, I heard about Blanca. Seriously, again?
I sighed. "Mom, it's fine. Things just didn't work out."
"That's twice in one year, u filho," she said with obvious concern. "You need to start choosing wisely instead of letting fate do it for you. In fact, should I find you a nice girl from Lisbon? Soone kind and pretty?"
I burst into laughter. "Mom, no. I'm not thinking about love right now."
"That's what you always say!" she huffed.
My father, never missing a chance to tease, chuckled. "Our son, dumped twice in a year. He needs coaching in love more than he does in football."
I groaned. "Dad, please."
"Let the boy be, Julio!" my mother scolded before I heard the distinct sound of her smacking him on the arm. "Stop teasing him."
He let out a playful yelp. "I was just saying—"
"Enough." My mother's voice was stern, though I could hear her trying not to laugh.
Despite their teasing, I felt lighter after our conversation. Before hanging up, I reminded them to start packing. "I an it about Brazil. Start getting ready. We're going."
"We will! Love you, u filho."
"Love you too," I replied before ending the call.
I leaned back in my chair, sipping the last of my coffee before scrolling through my phone. Notifications flooded my screen.
The amount of ssages from fans, acquaintances, and even strangers was overwhelming. But what stood out most were the confessions, so subtle, others outright bold.
I smirked as I scrolled through countless seductive pictures from won trying to get my attention. So were beautifully artistic, others more explicit than necessary.
Shaking my head, I locked my phone. "Not interested," I muttered to myself. I wasn't naive; I knew most of them only cared about the fa and success, not the man behind the athlete.
Just as I stood up to stretch, my phone buzzed again. The caller ID read: Mrs. Estrella.
I answered. "Good morning, Seniorita Estrella. How are you?"
A soft sniffle greeted . "Adriano, dear, do you plan to extend your lease contract?"
I hesitated for a mont. "No, maam. I won't be staying in Málaga after the season."
A choked sound ca from the other end. "I knew it. I knew this day would co. But still… I had hoped you'd stay longer."
I felt a pang of guilt. "Seniorita, please don't cry. You've been nothing but kind to ."
"It's just… you are such a nice and polite boy. I never charged you rent, only bills and services, because I wanted you to feel at ho. I knew this house was temporary for you, but still, it was nice having you here. Thank you for the mories and joy you brought to us Malaga people."
A sigh escaped my lips. This old lady has been very kind ever since I moved here, even refused to take rent when I started playing for Malaga. "I really appreciate that. And I loved living here—it was quiet, peaceful and felt like ho. But it's ti to move on. But please don't say anything about it to others."
"I understand, dear," she sighed. "Just promise you'll visit when you can."
"I will, seniora. I promise."
After saying our goodbyes, I placed my phone down and exhaled slowly.
It truly was the end of an era. But as always, life moved forward, and so would I.
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