The sky over Manchester wore its usual grim grey shroud as Adriano turned into the private entrance of the City Football Academy. The hum of his Lamborghini Veneno Roadstar echoed against the damp concrete walls of the underground lot. It wasn't subtle—but then again, nothing about Adriano's arrival ever was.
He parked between a matte-black Range Rover and a sleek team-issued Audi RS Q8. As he stepped out, the doors rising dramatically, a few academy staff gave nods of acknowledgnt. So were already used to the spectacle. Others still watched with that mix of amusent and admiration.
Inside, the locker room was already alive. The sharp scent of muscle rub mingled with fabric softener and faint sweat. Soone—likely Toure—had hooked their phone to the Bluetooth speakers, blasting a mix of UK gri and Latin beats.
The bassline bounced off the tile floors as players greeted each other with backslaps, inside jokes, and flying socks.
Adriano had barely crossed the threshold when Kevin De Bruyne looked up from tying his laces.
"There he is," Kevin called out, pointing like a host announcing the headliner. "Mr. FIFA 15 himself."
Without missing a beat, he lobbed a football toward Adriano. Adriano caught it smoothly with his chest, let it drop, and bounced it twice off his knee before cradling it under his arm.
"Still wearing cologne to training?" Agüero asked, leaning back on the bench, arms behind his head with a lazy smirk. "Who are you trying to seduce—the sprinklers?"
Adriano laughed. "If I sll good, I play good. Scientific fact."
Vincent Kompany chuckled from his corner. "I think you're confusing science with superstition."
"Big words from a man who prays to his shin pads before every ga," Adriano shot back.
Kompany raised a brow. "And how many tackles did those prayers save you last season?"
"Enough to still be walking," Kevin chid in.
Zabaleta strolled in, towel slung over his shoulder. "Are we going to talk, or are we going to train? Or do you all just want to admire Adriano's eyebrows again?"
"Don't be jealous, old man," Adriano said. "So of us are born with symtry."
"Symtry, sure," Hazard muttered, walking past. "But the real question is—how much gel does it take to make that hair defy gravity?"
Agüero leaned forward with mock concern. "He's not using gel. It's confidence. Pure, undiluted ego."
The locker room burst into laughter. Even Pellegrini, walking by the open door with a clipboard in hand, cracked a faint smile before continuing down the hall.
As Adriano made his way to his locker, Humls gave him a little nudge. "You're adjusting fast."
Adriano shrugged, a small grin playing on his lips. "You either blend in or stand out. I figured I'd try both."
"Well," De Bruyne said, clapping a hand on his shoulder, "just don't nutg the manager in training. We actually like this one."
Adriano smirked. "No promises."
The typical Manchester drizzle had held off just long enough for the team to hit the pitch. The turf was pristine, the air crisp, and the session began like a well-rehearsed play.
Pellegrini stood by the chalkboard, his laser pointer slicing across tactical diagrams with quiet authority. The players gathered around in semi-circles, jerseys slightly damp from pre-warmup stretches.
"Today," he began, tapping a cluster of circles that represented the midfield, "we're focusing on rotations between the central three and the overlapping fullbacks. Transitions need to be instinctive—when one pushes, one covers. Fluidity, not chaos."
Then his pointer darted to a glowing red circle just behind the striker's spot. "Adriano… you'll drift between the lines. At tis a 10, sotis a false nine. Think of yourself as…" he paused, looking up with a smirk, "chaos in a very expensive pair of boots."
Adriano tilted his head, arms crossed. "That's how my mom used to describe my dancing."
The group chuckled, and soone—probably Kompany—muttered, "Explains the nutgs."
Warmups dissolved into link-up play. Short bursts, tight spaces. Silva, De Bruyne, and Adriano began moving like they shared the sa brain. One touch, flick, dummy, spin—there was rhythm, not rehearsed but instinctual.
Silva passed to Adriano, who cushioned with the outside of his boot before threading it to De Bruyne without even looking.
"Oi!" shouted Zabaleta, already panting. "Are we training for football or performing Swan Lake?"
"Both," De Bruyne grinned, jogging back. "It's called tactical elegance, my friend."
Agüero clapped mockingly. "Bravo. Next ti bring a tutu."
Next up was attack vs defense.
It started structured. Ended chaotic. Adriano would ghost into a wide channel, pull a marker with him, then drop a lofted pass behind the line. Hazard would dart in, low center of gravity making him impossible to body off the ball.
Silva would trail, unnoticed, arriving like a whisper at the edge of the box. The defenders, usually composed, began second-guessing everything.
"Where the hell is he going now?" Kolarov grumbled, watching Adriano drift between zones like a wraith.
Humls tried to cut off a pass—only to get nutgged again.
He stood frozen for a second, hands on hips. "You're doing this on purpose now."
Adriano jogged past, grinning. "You should've closed your legs, mate."
"Flashbacks of Brazil," Humls muttered.
"Touché," Adriano replied.
On the far side, Kane, Agüero, and Casemiro were running their own drills. Casemiro pinged long diagonals and whipped passes through tight lanes while the strikers honed their finishing.
Adriano strolled over, watching Kane bury a volley with unnerving calm.
"Should I even be here?" he said.
Agüero turned, sweat pouring from his brow. "You're here for the flair. And the press photos."
"And who else will upload slow-mo goal clips with overdramatic captions?" Kane added.
"'Art in motion'," suggested Agüero, wiping his face.
"'We don't chase dreams—we finish them,'" Kane countered.
Hazard walked by, toweling off. "You forgot the most important part—'#blessed.'"
From the sideline, Pellegrini clapped sharply. "Enough with the hashtags! Back to work. Or I'll bench all your Instagram accounts."
The group groaned but laughed as they got back into position, the camaraderie flowing as naturally as the football. It didn't feel like preseason anymore. It felt like the start of sothing real.
Toward the end of the session, they played a short scrimmage. Adriano linked with Salah on the wing, feinted past two defenders, and launched a curling strike that nestled into the top corner.
He stood frozen for a second, arms stretched, then turned to the group with a smirk. "What's that, Agüero? My role as striker?"
Agüero pretended to unzip his jersey and hand it to him. "Just don't take my parking spot."
After training, with muscles stretched and banter still echoing, Adriano clapped his hands together.
"Right. Nobody's going ho. Put on sothing decent—we're having dinner."
"Where?" asked Casemiro, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
"San Carlo. Private room booked. Coach, you're coming too. You can ignore your diet for one night."
The reaction was a mix of cheers and mock gasps.
"Wait, the Gaffer's coming? That ans no alcohol," groaned Kolarov.
"Or worse," added Hazard, "we have to talk about tactics while eating steak."
Pellegrini, walking by, gave a dry smile. "Don't worry. I'll only talk about formations if you chew too loudly."
***
The sun had dipped low by the ti the players pulled up outside San Carlo, engines purring and cara flashes starting to catch wind of the night ahead.
Adriano stepped out first, dressed in a sleek navy button-down and dark jeans, not flashy—just clean. He waited for the others with a knowing grin, adjusting the cuffs on his shirt as one by one, the squad arrived.
Inside, the private lounge had been prepped with white linens, flickering candles, and long tables already lined with antipasti. The waiters welcod them like royalty—half in awe, half in fear of spilled red wine and too much laughter.
"Slls expensive in here," Casemiro muttered, eyeing the hanging chandeliers.
"That's because you're not paying," Adriano shot back, leading them in. "Sit, eat, act like professionals—at least until dessert."
They took their seats—Hazard already pocketing a breadstick, Agüero swirling olive oil like a wine connoisseur. Pellegrini sat at the far end, posture formal, expression relaxed.
"Alright," Adriano said, rising with a glass of Barolo in hand. "To good friends, great football, and better-looking hair than the squad across town."
A cheer rang out, glasses clinked. Kolarov leaned over to De Bruyne. "He's obsessed with hair. I bet he has a stylist in his boot compartnt."
"No, no," said Hazard. "He just whispers to it in Portuguese every morning."
"Swears in Portuguese when it doesn't listen," Adriano muttered, sitting down. "Had to bench a shampoo once. Got too cocky."
As the starters arrived—crisp calamari, thin-cut carpaccio, burrata with roasted tomatoes—the tone shifted from playful to genuinely warm. Pellegrini sipped wine with a small nod, content to listen.
Kane broke the ice with a story from his early Spurs days. "Once in training, I slipped on a sprinkler and shot the ball right into a coach's face. He just... stood there. Stunned. Said I had promise but needed better aim."
Agüero leaned in. "Was the coach blind?"
"Not before that, no."
Even Pellegrini cracked a smile at the joke.
Hazard took the baton. "We once switched Fellaini's phone language to Russian. Took him three days to figure out why he couldn't find WhatsApp."
"Classic prank," said Adriano. "At Porto, we once wrapped the school physio's scooter in cling film. The poor guy thought it had lted."
They roared, the table shaking with laughter.
Yaya Toure paused mid-chew to say, deadpan, "That's nothing. Once ate piri piri chicken at halfti. Thought I was dying. Played the second half like my shorts were on fire."
"Explains the hat-trick," said Kompany. "And the extra laundry bill."
As the mains arrived—plates of tagliatelle, grilled bass drizzled in lemon, aged ribeye with rosemary butter—the volu dipped for a mont, replaced by that sacred sound of a satisfied squad eating well.
Then Kompany leaned back, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
"You know," he said, "I rember coming here my first year. Alone. Didn't know anyone. Didn't speak much. Wasn't until Zaba dragged to a FIFA night that I felt like I belonged. That changed everything."
Adriano looked around. "FIFA, huh?"
"FIFA, beer, banter. You figure out who shares, who sulks when they lose. All that—translates to the pitch. Trust doesn't start with a tackle. Starts with a shared bag of crisps."
"Sounds like a TED talk," muttered Hazard.
"Shut up and pass the steak," Kompany replied, chuckling.
Adriano nodded. "Honestly? That's why I dragged you all here. It's not just the passing drills and heatmaps. It's this." He gestured to the table. "Talking crap. Laughing. Giving each other a hard ti. If we do this often enough, no one's breaking us. Not Chelsea. Not Man united, not Liverpool. Not anyone."
There was a quiet mont of agreent. Even Pellegrini raised his glass.
"This team," he said, "has all the tools. But it's monts like this that sharpen the edge. Carry this into the locker room. Onto the pitch. And into the season."
Silence, then Kane raised his hand.
"Just to clarify—are we allowed dessert now?"
"You never needed permission," Pellegrini replied dryly.
Within seconds, the waiters brought out the sweets. Panna cotta with raspberries, tiramisu that vanished too quickly, and an enormous gelato platter that sohow ended up in front of Agüero.
"You order this?" Joe Hart asked, eyes wide.
"No," Agüero said. "But it knows who I am."
De Bruyne mock-scowled. "He has dessert loyalty cards at every restaurant in Manchester."
"Only five more visits till he gets a free cardio session," Adriano quipped.
As spoons clinked and conversation simred to a low hum, Adriano leaned back in his chair. Around him, laughter mixed with good food and real camaraderie. No spotlight, no pressure—just teammates who were becoming sothing more.
A family.
And that, he thought, was how titles were built.
After two hours of plates scraped clean, wine glasses drained, and stories traded with the kind of laughter that never makes the post-match interview, the team finally began filtering out of San Carlo.
Adriano lingered near the kitchen as the night wound down, chatting with the manager while a waiter packed up a few leftovers—rigatoni al forno, grilled zucchini, and two slices of tiramisu. Hazard spotted him from across the zzanine.
"Oi, Adriano—stealing dinner now?"
Adriano held up the bag with a grin. "Not stealing. Delivering. For Kate."
Casemiro leaned back in his chair, smirking. "Kate? You have only one girlfriend? I swear I red sowhere you had like 3 or sothing."
"Yes," Adriano said, shaking his head with a chuckle. "My actual and only girlfriend."
"Could've sworn he ant Kate Beckinsale," said Hazard.
"Nah," De Bruyne chid in. "More like Upton. Rember that photo from preseason? I thought that was a fan edit."
Kane raised a hand. "Wait, so it's not Margot Robbie? I had got money riding on that."
Yaya sipped his wine, deadpan. "I had ten pounds on Adriana Lima. I demand a refund."
Adriano waved them off, laughing. "You lot have actual betting pools about who is my girlfriend?"
Agüero nodded solemnly. "So of us had brackets. World Cup format. It was down to Shakira and Scarlett Johansson in the final."
"Scarlett lost on penalties," added Kolarov. "Tough one."
Adriano didn't know how to respond for a while. " You guys do realize both of them have partners? Atleast Yaya chose soone single!"
Kolarov patted Adriano's shoulder. "Take notes, lads. This is veteran survival instinct."
Hazard shrugged, " Those are just details."
Pellegrini, passing by at just the wrong mont, raised an eyebrow. "If you all spent this much ti analyzing opponents, we'd win the league by November."
"Or at least win the dressing room gossip league," De Bruyne said, grinning.
Adriano shook his head, grabbing the food bag. "You're all mad."
"Maybe," said Hazard, "but we're not the ones in a secret relationship with half of Hollywood."
"Tell Kate I voted for her," said Kompany. "She beat Gal Gadot by two votes in the semi-finals."
As Adriano walked out, chuckling, he called over his shoulder, "You lot need hobbies."
"You are our hobby!" Kane shouted after him.
And the laughter followed him out into the Manchester night.
Adriano smirked, waved them off, and slipped out into the cool Manchester night.
***
By the ti he got ho, the lights in the mansion were low, soft jazz humming from the living room speakers. He stepped through the door quietly, balancing the takeout bag like it held crown jewels, and toed off his shoes with the tired grace of soone who had sprinted both on the pitch and in conversation.
Kate was curled on the couch, one leg tucked under her, wearing a silk robe and an unimpressed expression. On the screen behind her, a nature docuntary droned on—wolves in snow, perhaps, or sothing equally majestic and thoroughly ignored.
She glanced up. "Look who rembered this was his actual ho."
Adriano held up the takeout like a shield. "I co bearing peace offerings from the realm of overpriced pasta."
She stayed seated, arms folded, eyes narrowing. "You were gone for whole evening. You don't even like calamari that much."
"I had to blend in. You want them to accept , don't you?" He set the bag down reverently on the coffee table. "Diplomacy. That's what this is. International relations."
Kate stood, walked over slowly, and lifted the lid of one box with her manicured finger. "Rigatoni. Grilled veg. Tiramisu. This diplomacy has taste."
"I picked your favorites," he said. "And I only laughed at Kolarov's jeans twice."
She looked up at him, mock-serious. "You think a few roasted courgettes make up for ignoring my texts all evening?"
He leaned in, kissed her cheek. "I was going to bring flowers too, but the tiramisu travels better."
Kate exhaled, lips twitching. "You're lucky you're charming. And you know how to order dessert properly."
They sat down together on the couch, unboxing the food like it was a treasure map.
She forked so pasta onto a plate, handed it to him, then took a bite of tiramisu straight from the carton.
"I had so light al in afternoon," she said, mouth full. "But it didn't involve famous Belgians mocking each other's hair."
"You missed a full roast session," Adriano said, stretching out beside her. "Kompany basically gave a TED Talk on FIFA bonding. Kolarov defended Milanese denim like it was a national treasure. Pellegrini even told a joke. Sort of."
Kate raised an eyebrow. "Did he smile?"
"Almost. He kind of nodded and let his wine do the smiling."
They ate quietly for a mont, the TV still murmuring behind them. Kate nudged his foot with hers.
Kate playfully smacked his chest. "Let's go to sleep early. Because tomorrow we have to go to Guildford for your FIFA Pro photoshoot. It's quite a long drive."
He sighed dramatically. "Ah yes. Glamour, flash photography, and being told to look 'intense but humble' for two hours. I hope the pay is well atleast. I have to talk with ndes later."
"You'll be fine," Kate said, pecking his cheek. "You were born for this."
"And you?" he said, pulling her close.
"I was born to keep you grounded, Mr. Superstar."
They drifted into silence again, the kind that cos easy when everything feels right. Adriano leaned back, head against the cushion, one arm around her shoulders. Kate nestled in without a word, stealing another bite of tiramisu.
He looked down at her, relaxed in her robe, the glow of the TV casting soft shadows across the room.
"This," he murmured, more to himself than her. "Feels like ho."
Kate didn't answer imdiately. She just leaned her head against his chest and whispered, "That's because we made it a ho. A aafe haven for us."
And for the first ti since touching down in England, Adriano didn't feel like a guest in soone else's story.
He felt like he'd written the first line of his own.
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