A generous gift

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 melancholy. As I reached for my phone, the screen lit up with hundreds of congratulatory messages. Fans, teammates, and even some old acquaintances had sent their well-wishes. Among them, I saw a message from Blanca. It read simply, "Congratulations, Adriano. Proud of you." Although her message brought a small spark of warmth, it also reminded me of the growing distance between us. I sighed, tapped out a brief reply, "Thanks, Blanca," and then closed the message, 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 some 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 some composure before my next training session.

A Call from MendesJust as I settled into a quiet corner of Café del Sol, my phone buzzed. It was Jorge Mendes. I glanced at the screen and saw his message:

"Adriano, I'm on my way to your place."

I quickly texted back, "Why don't you meet me here? I'm having breakfast." The café's warm, inviting atmosphere felt like the perfect backdrop for what was about to unfold.

Within minutes, Mendes arrived. He was carrying his usual confident air, but today there was something different about his expression—a mix of excitement 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 immediately set him apart.

The Breakfast MeetingMendes greeted me 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 momentarily taken aback by the unexpected introduction. "Mr. Al Mubarak, it's an honor to meet 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 mentioned 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 name, should you choose to make it yours. Think of it as an extension of our support for you."

At that moment, Mendes let out a low laugh, and I saw him shaking his head in amusement. "Adriano, sometimes you should just keep your mouth shut," he teased softly, causing a few heads to turn. I blushed, feeling a mixture of embarrassment 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 come 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 somehow, but truth be told, we haven't won a trophy recently. Sheikh Mansour believes it's time 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 excitement!" His amusement 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 meet you personally after the World Cup to discuss transfer possibilities further."

I felt a surge of gratitude and awe. "I'm honored, truly. It means a lot to know that someone of Sheikh Mansour's stature admires my work. After the World Cup, I'd be delighted to meet him and talk further."

We shook hands once more, and after a few more polite exchanges, Khaldoon and Mendes excused themselves. As they walked away, Mendes turned to me 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, "Mendes, you probably prefer Real Madrid for me. What did Florentino say?" I couldn't resist the banter, and Mendes sputtered in response, clearly caught off guard.

I patted him on the back. "I know your style, Mendes. You called me last night again because of this," I said lightly.

Mendes 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 me 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 someday, but now isn't the right time. I want to finish this season strong and win our trophies first."

Mendes 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. "Sometimes an empty canvas offers more opportunities than a classic painting, Mendes. I need time to shape my future on my own terms. I'm not interested in just money or fame."

"Not interested?" he echoed. "Adriano, you might not have a choice soon. When clubs like Real Madrid, Manchester United, and PSG come knocking, you don't just ignore them. They're willing to move mountains for you."

I rubbed my temples. "Jorge, we still have two games 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. Some of them want to start negotiations before the season even ends."

I sighed, "We'll deal with that after world cup."

Mendes chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. "You never cease to amaze me, Adriano." 

He then waved goodbye, leaving me 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 excitement, I couldn't help but reflect on the conversation with Khaldoon and Mendes. 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 meet any price for me 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 message 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 apartment. Despite the enticing offers and whirlwind of decisions ahead, my mind drifted toward something 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 excitement, answered.

"Adriano! Meu filho, it's been too long!" she exclaimed.

A chuckle escaped me. "Mom, it's only been a couple of weeks. How are you and Dad?"

Before she could answer, my father's voice chimed in from the background. "We're good, but your mother has been worried sick about you. And me? 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 some 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 some 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? Me, a chef! But the business is doing well, son. We're happy."

A deep sense of pride and joy filled me. "That's amazing, Mãe, Pai! I had no idea. Why didn't you tell me 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 time."

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, excitement 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, meu 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? Someone 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 mean it about Brazil. Start getting ready. We're going."

"We will! Love you, meu 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 messages from fans, acquaintances, and even strangers was overwhelming. But what stood out most were the confessions, some subtle, others outright bold.

I smirked as I scrolled through countless seductive pictures from women trying to get my attention. Some 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 fame 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 me. "Adriano, dear, do you plan to extend your lease contract?"

I hesitated for a moment. "No, maam. I won't be staying in Málaga after the season."

A choked sound came from the other end. "I knew it. I knew this day would come. 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 me."

"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 home. I knew this house was temporary for you, but still, it was nice having you here. Thank you for the memories 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 home. But it's time to move on. But please don't say anything about it to others."

"I understand, dear," she sighed. "Just promise me 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.