From Reject to Legend

*** I have edited all the important stuff of Volume 1 and mistakes and errors.

Phew, that took a lot, but I think this is much better, and something everyone will enjoy reading, including myself. Some of things were so mixed up, I had to stay up late and fix them. But it should be good enough for now.

I kept some original stuff intact , cz it was already decent, and there was no better alternatives as the story had already progressed too far. Should have done this before. The part with Blanca is untouched, which will serve as reminder lol

Let me know your thoughts after you read them. I'm trying to get this done when I still have time.

***

The next morning, another rare sunrise cast a soft golden light over Manchester. The usual haze had lifted, and the city seemed almost unfamiliar under the warm glow.

Inside the sleek mansion, Adriano Riveiro was finishing a quiet breakfast with Kate. She sat curled up beside him on the couch, coffee in hand, the morning news playing quietly in the background.

As Adriano stood and began zipping up his black Manchester City training jacket, the gold-stitched club crest caught the sunlight streaming through the window. Kate looked up at him, amusement in her eyes.

"Try not to break too many hearts today," she said, her voice laced with teasing warmth.

He grinned, leaning down to kiss her. "No promises," he murmured. Then, straightening up, he grabbed his keys from the counter. "Feel free to explore if you get bored. Manchester's not Rome, but it's got a few charms. Call me if you need anything."

Kate stood and wrapped her arms around his waist, holding him for a moment. "Don't worry about me," she said, resting her head against his chest. "Just play safely, alright? If you go and break a leg, I might have to cancel my shoot and babysit you."

Adriano laughed softly. "You say that like it's a bad thing. Might just trip on purpose."

She nudged him playfully. "Don't push your luck."

With one last kiss, he stepped out.

The Lamborghini Aventador Roadster purred to life with a deep, aggressive growl. As Adriano cruised through the city streets, the occasional red light gave pedestrians and paparazzi a clear view. Phones were already out. Some recognized the car; most recognized the man.

By the time he reached the City Football Academy, photographers were already stationed by the gates. Security ushered him through quickly, but not before a few cameras captured him stepping out—tall, composed, and unmistakably confident. The subtle shimmer of the gold crown above the "i" on his name stitched into his training top drew more than a few double takes.

Inside the facility, the atmosphere shifted. Conversations dipped, eyes followed him. A few players paused mid-stretch, a couple of staff exchanged looks. Adriano didn't need to say anything—his presence spoke for itself.

As he entered the training building, Manuel Pellegrini approached with his usual calm demeanor. The manager extended a hand, then gave him a light clap on the shoulder. "Big day," Pellegrini said. "Let's see how you settle in."

Adriano returned the handshake and nodded. "I just hope no one's planning to welcome me with a two-footed tackle."

Pellegrini smirked faintly. "If they do, consider it a compliment."

Adriano chuckled. "I'll take it as one—as long as I can walk away from it."

The two men walked together toward the training pitch, the tension easing slightly as the first chapter of Adriano's Manchester City journey began in earnest.

***

Adriano stepped into the training room, the smell of fresh turf and eucalyptus rub hanging in the air. The room buzzed with energy—boots clinking against tile, laughter echoing in pockets, and music thumping low from someone's speaker in the corner. He scanned the space quickly, nodding greetings as eyes turned toward him.

The first to approach was David Silva, calm and unassuming in his gait, yet with a presence that subtly parted the room. His dark eyes studied Adriano with a twinkle of amusement, like he already knew how their partnership would unfold before they ever touched a ball.

"Bienvenido," Silva said, offering a firm but relaxed handshake. "I saw your matches. for Portugal. You move like Iniesta… but with more arrogance."

Adriano laughed, shaking his head. "Gracias David. I think we'll get along just fine."

Silva smirked. "Let's hope your feet speak louder than your mouth."

"Only when they're not scoring goals."

From behind, Kevin De Bruyne approached, rolling his shoulders and rotating his ankle as he stretched. His ginger curls were damp from an early warm-up, and his expression was somewhere between intrigue and challenge.

"So," Kevin said, nodding toward them, "we're going to need a whiteboard and a math degree to organize the three of us."

Adriano leaned against the locker beside him. "Nah. Controlled chaos. One game I drop into the pivot, the next I'm floating into the six-yard box. We'll keep defenders guessing until they start asking for subs ten minutes in."

Kevin smirked. "I'll bait their fullbacks, Silva will play the ghost, and you—" he pointed at Adriano "—just don't hog the spotlight too much."

Silva nodded sagely. "And don't try to dribble past the entire team. Leave one or two for me."

"I'll share," Adriano grinned. "But if I see the spotlight, I'm taking it."

Kevin gestured toward his boots. "As long as you remember who's pinging those passes into your runs. You miss a sitter, and I'm docking your dinner invite."

Adriano laughed. "You're already negotiating assists into steaks?"

"Mate, I play for premium output. You want service, you pay in post-match medium rares."

Silva chuckled. "And a bottle of wine. Spanish, not that supermarket garbage."

Adriano raised his hands in mock surrender. "Fine. For every assist, I'll buy dinner. For every goal I score off your passes, we upgrade to Wagyu."

"Deal, no take back." Kevin said quickly.

Silva looked between them. "And what about me?"

"You pass for fun," Kevin teased.

Silva arched an eyebrow. "Fun doesn't pay for wine."

"Alright," Adriano laughed, "David gets the wine, Kevin gets the steak. You feed me, I feed you back—on and off the pitch."

"Spoken like a proper number ten," Silva nodded.

Just then, Kompany walked in, catching the tail end of the conversation. "You lot planning a restaurant or a season?"

Adriano turned with a grin. "Both. Chaos with structure, goals with garnish."

Company chuckled as he strapped on his shin guards. "As long as we're not cleaning up your mess after every match."

"No promises, captain," Adriano said. "But I'll give you fewer counterattacks to deal with than Fernandinho ever did."

A few players around them burst into laughter. From across the room, Fernandinho, lacing up his boots, called out without looking up, "Heyy! I heard that."

"You were supposed to buddy!" Adriano shot back. Even Toure cracked a smile. The room felt lighter.

As the squad filtered toward the tunnel for warm-ups, Adriano fell in stride between Silva and De Bruyne, the quiet understanding already beginning to take root.

"I've got a feeling this is going to be fun," Kevin said under his breath.

"It better be," Silva added. "Otherwise I'm charging extra for every pass."

Adriano smiled as they stepped out under the Manchester sun, the pitch ahead glimmering under rare blue skies. "Let's make art," he said.

And with that, the trio jogged together onto the field—three artists, one canvas.

Yaya Touré strolled over, tall and imposing, his relaxed demeanor undercut by the quiet authority he carried. Players nearby instinctively gave him space—not out of fear, but respect. He stood in front of Adriano, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"So you're the new royalty," Yaya said, eyes flicking down to the golden crown stitched into Adriano's training kit. "Big boots to fill, my friend."

Adriano grinned. "Only until you un-retire, drop a hat-trick, and demand your birthday cake again."

Yaya let out a loud, rumbling laugh that turned a few heads. "I like you already. You've got jokes. Just don't forget—this is England. Talent makes headlines. Grit wins titles."

Adriano nodded. "Understood. I came here to sweat more than I shine."

Yaya clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Good. Because if you think it's all flicks and fanfare, Kompany will body you first chance he gets."

"He already offered to clean up my mess," Adriano said with a smirk.

"Then you'd better not make one," Yaya said, still smiling as he turned and walked off.

Before Adriano could respond, another figure approached—Casemiro, recently signed from Sao Paolo, dressed in full training gear, his posture loose but confident. He offered a fist bump without hesitation.

"Finally," Casemiro said in Portuguese, "someone in this place who speaks my language other than Fernandinho."

Adriano bumped fists, switching tongues without missing a beat. "Football or Portuguese?"

Casemiro chuckled. "Both. These guys are sharp, but it's nice not to have to think before I talk. By the way, you really didn't hold back againat us in the final , huh?"

"I never hold back when it's necessary, specially world Cup final. " He smirked, to which Casemiro laughed, " Fair Enough."

"Don't worry, You'll fit in fine," Adriano replied. "Just let me know when you're tired of tackling people. I'll take over the rough work."

Casemiro smirked. "You? Pretty boy like you? You even own a yellow card? Oh wait, you mean that fake one you got in world cup ? That one doesn't count."

Adriano laughed. "I'll borrow one of yours if I need it. You've got plenty."

"Fair. Just don't run from the fight," Casemiro said, his voice quiet but serious.

"Never," Adriano replied.

They exchanged a firm nod, that silent understanding between men. No more words needed.

Behind them, Kevin De Bruyne called out, "You two done flirting? Warm-up's starting."

Casemiro turned, deadpan. "Tell him his hair's distracting me."

Adriano laughed. "He gets that a lot."

The group jogged onto the pitch together, the balance between camaraderie and competition already in motion. The season hadn't started yet, but the fire was lit.

***

Later that morning, as the sun rose fully over the training ground, casting long shadows across the turf, Adriano strolled toward the shooting drills where Sergio Agüero and Harry Kane were taking turns ripping shots into the top corner. The ball pinged off the post as Kane leaned back, hands on his hips, catching his breath.

He spotted Adriano approaching and lit up like a kid spotting his idol at Disneyland.

"Oh Mate, It's so great to meet you finally, seriously, Love your style." Kane said, shaking his head, "that goal against Germany—the one where you dragged three defenders, chopped left, and skipped Neuer like he was a mannequin… how the hell did you even think of that?"

Adriano shrugged, grinning. "Didn't you hear? It's the Adriano magic," the he added, "And a bit of samba from the old days."

"Yeah, alright, teach me some of that." Kane laughed, "and leave some magic for the rest of us."

Agüero, wiping sweat from his brow, crossed his arms and eyed Adriano with mock disdain. "Fantastic. First you arrive, steal the spotlight, get your own branding on the kit... now you're giving him new ideas?"

Adriano grinned wider and walked over, slinging an arm casually around Agüero's shoulder. "Come on, Kun. I'm not here to steal goals. I'm here to serve them to you on a silver platter. Tap-ins so easy, you can score blindfolded."

Agüero dramatically wiped a fake tear from his eye. "They grow up so fast. I used to be the golden boy… now I'm the wise old poacher getting fed scraps by midfield princes."

"Scraps?" Adriano raised a brow. "I'll be handing you five-star cuisine. Left foot, right foot, backheel, no-look—name your flavor."

Kane chuckled, stepping in. "You two are ridiculous. But no, for real—Adriano, can we get some extra drills in? I've been watching the way you drop your shoulder and change direction without even losing speed. You sell the dummy like it's prime Messi."

"You're doing just fine yourself," Adriano said, genuinely. "Your timing is elite. But sure, we'll work together. I've got a few tricks you might like—some feints I picked up in Brazil. Make defenders dizzy before they even realize they've been beat."

"I'd kill for that kind of balance," Kane muttered, almost to himself. "I'm all power and timing. You move like gravity doesn't apply."

"I move like I grew up dodging potholes and dogs on concrete pitches," Adriano laughed. "But we can merge styles. Your finishing with a little unpredictability? That's lethal."

Agüero raised his hand like a kid in school. "I want in too. If Kane's getting Brazilian voodoo, I want Argentine tricks to match."

"I've seen you nutmeg people with your first touch," Adriano said. "You don't need training—you need to teach a class."

"Flattery will get you assists," Agüero winked.

"Perfect," Adriano replied. "I take payment in goals and likes on my memes."

Kane tilted his head. "Speaking of memes—did you see the one of you riding that German defender like a horse?"

Adriano groaned. "Yes. My cousin in Lisbon sent it to my aunt. I'll never hear the end of it."

Agüero burst out laughing. "You're famous when your family starts roasting you."

"Painfully true," Adriano said. "Alright, let's make a deal. Tomorrow morning. First ones out here. We'll do cuts, feints, movement drills. The whole kitchen sink."

"I'm in," Kane said instantly.

Agüero looked thoughtful. "Only if there's coffee after."

"Deal. And I'll even bring cake," Adriano said, grinning.

Yaya Touré, passing by with a towel around his neck, suddenly stopped and turned. "Did someone say cake?"

Adriano held up his hands. "I promise, Yaya. If you score 10 goals in league, I'll personally bake you one."

Yaya narrowed his eyes. "It better be chocolate."

"Only the finest," Adriano said, already laughing.

Kane looked at the others. "You know what? I think this is going to be a fun season."

Agüero nodded. "Just don't expect us to go easy on you in training, Riveiro."

"I'd be disappointed if you did," Adriano replied. "Let's sharpen each other. Iron sharpens iron, right?"

And just like that, they returned to the drills, their laughter echoing across the training pitch. The golden hour light fell across the grass as the newest trio of Manchester City's front line began building something that was part friendship, part rivalry, and all fire.

***

In a quieter corner of the training ground, away from the banter and booming shots, Mohamed Salah sat on a bench, focused on tying the laces of his boots with careful precision. His brow was slightly furrowed, eyes low, the soft noise of the others fading into the background.

Adriano noticed and made his way over, easing down beside him with a calm presence. He didn't say anything at first, just watched Salah loop the final knot.

"First week jitters?" Adriano asked gently.

Salah looked up, giving a small, almost apologetic smile. "A little. It's… different. The pace, the eyes on you. In Basel, nobody cared if you missed a pass."

Adriano leaned back on the bench, arms resting on his thighs. "They care here. Not always in a kind way. But that just means they know you're worth watching."

Salah gave a short breath of a laugh. "I don't know if I'm ready for all of it. The pressure. The expectations."

"You won't ever feel ready," Adriano said, glancing at the pitch. "But you don't have to be. You just need to show up. Do what only you can do. You've got speed that breaks systems. Feet that don't follow rules. You've got the spark—don't be afraid to light it."

Salah's eyes flicked toward him, more curious now. "How do you stay calm when everyone's watching, expecting something magical every time?"

Adriano looked at him, serious now. "I remind myself that they watch because they can't do what we do. That pressure? It's proof you've got something they need. You're not here to impress. You're here to express. Big difference."

Salah nodded slowly, as if letting that sink in.

Then he tilted his head, smirking faintly. "And what about the weather? This place feels like the sky cries for no reason."

Adriano burst out laughing. "That's Manchester for you. You'll get used to it."

Salah raised an eyebrow. "You sure?"

"No," Adriano said with a grin, "but get a jacket. Or just run like hell on the pitch—move enough, you won't feel a thing."

Salah chuckled, finally relaxing. "I'll try that."

Adriano stood, offering a hand to pull him up. "Come on. Let's turn some doubters into believers."

Salah took his hand and stood. "Deal. But if I get frostbite, I'm blaming you."

"Blame me all you want," Adriano said, walking toward the pitch. "As long as you're scoring while doing it."

***

Out on the pitch, Eden Hazard was halfway through a deep hamstring stretch when Adriano jogged over, shadowed by the low morning sun. Hazard looked up with a sly grin and stood, brushing off his shorts.

"Well, if it isn't the man who shattered my World Cup dreams," he said, folding his arms in mock offense.

Adriano smirked. "C'mon, I only scored two. Blame Courtois. He left the near post wide open."

Hazard tilted his head. "I blame myself. Should've tracked you better. Or maybe I should've just joined Chelsea back when they first called. But then I heard you were heading to City, and I thought—nah, I'll just go and enjoy while you take all the pressure instead."

Adriano chuckled. "So I'm the reason for your transfer? That's already so much pressure, bro."

"Not pressure," Hazard replied, grinning. "Insurance. I came to keep you grounded. And to steal some spotlight when you're too tired."

Just then, Kevin De Bruyne walked by, toweling off his face, perfectly timed as always.

"Are you two gonna talk all day like lovebirds?" he asked dryly, without slowing his pace. "If this guy wants assists, he's buying us dinner at San Carlo tonight."

Hazard pointed a finger. "And dessert. I'm not running sprints and delivering cutbacks on an empty stomach."

Adriano raised his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. Dinner's on me. But only if you two promise not to nutmeg me today."

De Bruyne shrugged. "That depends on how cocky you get."

Hazard grinned. "No promises, prince. Welcome to Manchester."

Adriano clapped them both on the back and joked. "Be respectful, and it's 'KING'. Let's give this league something it's never seen."

Hazard smirked. "Well, we already have you for that."

***

Adriano eventually made his way to the defenders' quadrant during passing drills, where intensity was measured in sharp eyes and sharper tackles. Vincent Kompany stood at the center, commanding without a word. When he noticed Adriano approaching, he stepped forward and extended a firm, calloused hand.

"Welcome to the lion's den," Kompany said, voice steady, gaze unwavering. "That crown stitched above your name—it carries weight. On the pitch and in here."

Adriano met his grip with equal strength. "I don't take it lightly. I'll lead the line. But only if I've earned your trust first."

Kompany nodded once. "Spoken like someone who gets it. You'll wear the vice-captain's band for now. We'll see how heavy it feels."

Adriano blinked, surprised but composed. "Then I'll make sure I grow strong enough to carry it."

Just behind them, Mats Hummels leaned casually against a goalpost, arms crossed. He smirked as he walked over. "Look who it is. The ghost from my nightmares."

Adriano grinned. "Come on, Mats. That chip over you was clean. You didn't even jump."

Hummels rolled his eyes, mock-offended. "I jumped mentally. My soul tried."

From the side, Zabaleta chimed in, stretching his calves. "He's still better off than me. Adriano put me in a blender during the quarters. Turned me into an extra in his highlight reel."

Everyone laughed, including Kolarov, who slapped Zabaleta's back. "If Portugal had drawn Serbia that round, I would've pretended to be injured. My pride can't take a double nutmeg and a rainbow flick."

Adriano gave him a theatrical bow. "I'll keep it to just eight goals next time, Aleks. Mercy goals."

"Eight?" Kolarov scoffed. "That's your idea of mercy?"

"Hey," Adriano said with a grin, "I didn't say they'd all be against you."

The group broke into chuckles again, and for a moment, the line between teammates and competitors blurred into camaraderie. Even Kompany cracked a small smile before nodding toward the pitch.

"Alright, jokers. Time to work. Let's see if the prince can take a tackle as well as he delivers a pass.

Adriano tightened his laces, straightened his shoulders, and jogged into position.

"Let's find out."

***

By the end of the training session, the structured drills had evolved into a free-flowing rhythm—sharp passes, slick turns, bursts of laughter echoing across the pitch. Nicknames flew faster than the ball: "KDB" barked at "Kun", who returned fire with a cheeky backheel.

"Mo Mo" yelled for a switch from "Hazzy," only to miscontrol and get showered with good-natured jeers.

Adriano, despite the cameras lining the fence and the golden crown embroidered above his name, blended in seamlessly. He ribbed Silva for a rare misplaced pass—"You sure you're Spanish?"—and took a shove from Kompany with a grin, rolling theatrically before popping up with a dramatic wink.

The air was lighter than expected, but the quality wasn't. Then came the friendly match—blue side versus white side.

Pellegrini blew the whistle and stepped back with arms crossed. "Let's see what you've all got when the cameras stop rolling."

Blue side had Adriano, Agüero, Hazard, Hummels, and Casemiro. White side fielded Silva, De Bruyne, Kane, Salah, and Kompany.

From the first touch, the tempo was pure fun, with just enough edge to prove points.

Agüero opened the scoring with a cheeky chip over Joe Hart, turning to Adriano. "See? You're not the only one who can do samba!"

"Yours looked more like tango," Adriano called back, laughing.

Kane answered with a bullet header, shouting, "For England!" as if it were a battle cry. Salah did a dizzying solo run, nutmegging Hazard who promptly fell to his knees.

"Why, Mo? I thought we were friends," Hazard cried, hands to the sky.

Adriano got into his groove after a few teasing feints. One flick up, one no-look pass around Kompany to Agüero—goal.

"You magician or something?" Kompany muttered, shaking his head with a reluctant smirk.

"I do card tricks too," Adriano quipped.

The climax came late—tied 3–3, last goal wins. Adriano picked the ball up deep, slalomed through midfield, played a slick one-two with Hazard, and side-footed it past the keeper.

No celebration. He jogged over, arms wide with a grin. "Dinner's on me tomorrow boys."

"About time!" De Bruyne shouted.

"I want steak," said Casemiro.

"Make it Wagyu," added Kolarov, who hadn't even played.

Pellegrini blew the whistle and walked over. The players circled around him, sweaty and grinning.

"Good," he said. "You played like men who want something more than stats. We've got new faces, new energy, but the same mission: Win it all. League. Cup. Europe. Together."

He looked around the circle. "Play like brothers. Fight like warriors. Leave no regrets."

They all clapped, some bumping shoulders, others just nodding in quiet agreement. As the team broke into groups—some grabbing water, some still teasing each other—Adriano lingered a moment. Watching.

Silva shared a banana with Salah, arguing about who had more assists in practice. Zabaleta was showing Hazard a new way to tape his ankles. De Bruyne was still mock-demanding menu preferences for dinner.

This wasn't about wages or glory. It was about belonging. About purpose.

And for the first time since landing in Manchester, Adriano felt it settle into his bones.

This squad?

They weren't just training to compete.

They were preparing to conquer.

The sun had dipped below the horizon by the time Adriano left the training ground after bidding farewell to his new teammates. His legs were tired, shirt still damp with sweat, but his mind buzzed with energy from the session. As he stepped into his car, his phone buzzed. It was Jorge Mendes.

Adriano connected the call through the car's system."Jorge," he said, with a grin. "Calling to check if I pulled a hamstring already?"

Mendes' smooth voice came through, warm and amused."Not yet. But give it time, boy. You've only been training with City for a day. I wanted to make sure they haven't fed you to Kompany."

Adriano chuckled. "Close call. He tried, but I escaped with dignity. Barely."

"I saw some clips," Mendes said. "You're blending in fast. The media are loving it. They're already calling this Manchesterteam the 'Galácticos of Blue Moon.'"

Adriano snorted. "They'll stop once the moonlight shines too bright for their camera lenses."

"Fair enough," Mendes said, then shifted tone slightly. "But that's not the only reason I called. I've got some news you might like. EA Sports Fifa wants to include your profile for FIFA 15."

Adriano blinked. "Already?"

"Yes. Not just the usual stats and face scan. They want you in the intro cinematic. Big deal. You'll be part of the opening sequence, the one that plays before the main menu. You'll be the face of the next generation."

Adriano whistled low. "What do I have to do?"

"They want you to visit the EA Sports capture studio in Guildford. Motion capture, facial scans, voice lines—maybe a few shots with a ball. Shouldn't take more than a day ."

Adriano nodded to himself. "Alright. I'll go the day after tomorrow. We've got training tomorrow."

"Yes. Day after tomorrow works fine. And—Adriano?"

"Yeah?"

Mendes' voice lowered slightly. "Watch your back on the pitch. They'll target you. Opposing teams, defenders who think it's their job to rough you up. Don't get too flashy unless you're sure. Protect yourself."

Adriano smiled faintly. "I'll be careful. And if someone comes too hard—well, Casemiro's here now. I'll hide behind him."

Mendes laughed. "Smart man. Alright, take care of yourself. And keep winning that dressing room."

"I will. Thanks, Jorge."

They hung up. Adriano leaned back in his seat for a moment, then started the engine and headed home.

By the time he stepped through the door of their Manchester townhouse, the smell of food greeted him before Kate did. She was in the kitchen, tying up her hair, wearing a loose shirt and shorts, barefoot on the polished floor.

"You smell like grass and sweat," she said without turning around.

"You smell like heaven," he replied, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around her waist from behind.

She smirked. "Flattery works better when you've showered."

Adriano chuckled and kissed her cheek. "Fair enough. Five minutes."

Dinner was quiet, comfortable. Just the two of them at the table, with pasta, wine, and jazz humming low from the speakers.

"How was your day today?" Adriano asked between bites.

Kate shrugged. "Pretty good. Some annoying sneaky paparazzis near the house, but nothing I can't handle. My agent asked if I'd consider staying in the UK longer. Apparently I'm 'marketable here.'" She made air quotes.

"You are," Adriano said, serious. "You're marketable everywhere."

She tilted her head. "And you? Still charming defenders out of their boots?"

"Something like that," he smiled. "I got a call from Jorge. I'm going to London—well, Guildford—the day after tomorrow."

Kate raised a brow. "For what?"

"FIFA. They want to use me in the intro cutscene for next year's game. Face, voice, motion capture, the whole deal."

She blinked. "That's huge."

"I know. Come with me," he added. "We'll stay a night, maybe two."

Kate gave him a look. "Won't that cause another media circus?"

Adriano just shrugged, then leaned over and kissed her softly. "Let them talk. I don't care."

She smiled, resting her chin on her hand. "You're really making it hard for me to leave, you know."

"At this rate," she added, "I might just stay in Manchester for good."

He leaned back, smile widening. "I wouldn't mind that."

A moment of silence passed, soft and warm. Then, without warning, Adriano stood, walked around the table, and scooped her up into his arms.

Kate yelped, laughing. "What are you doing?"

"Since we don't have enough time together," he said with a grin, "we make the best of what we have."

She laughed again, arms around his neck. "You're ridiculous."

"Maybe," he whispered, "but I've got you."

The rest of the night faded away—no cameras, no press, no tackles. Just the two of them, tangled in sheets, trading kisses and quiet words, losing themselves in each other.

The world could wait for now.