From Reject to Legend

Adriano rarely got sick. His body was honed by years of relentless training—a finely tuned machine built for endurance, strength, and precision on the football pitch. Yet even a 17‐year‐old rising star wasn't invincible. After a grueling training session in a sudden downpour, what began as a slight chill had escalated into a full‐blown fever by the next morning. His head pounded, his muscles ached in protest, his throat felt dry and raw, and a nagging pain in his ankle served as a cruel reminder: Adriano was in no condition to play.

The team doctor, a no-nonsense man who had seen his share of prodigies burn out, didn't hesitate. Despite Adriano's protests—and his stubborn insistence that he could push through—he was immediately ruled out for the next two matches. Adriano had played almost every match this season, and his absence, though a rarity, was now necessary for recovery.

That day, as Málaga took to the pitch without their midfield maestro, the void left by Adriano's absence was palpable. Real Betis, always eager to seize any advantage, pressed aggressively from the opening whistle.

Their tactics were simple and effective: close down passing lanes, smother Málaga's build-up play, and capitalize on any lapses in concentration. Without Adriano to pull the strings, the usually fluid attack of Málaga turned disjointed.

Joaquín and Juanmi tried desperately to fill the gap, but their efforts were like ripples in a vast, unyielding ocean.

By the 74th minute, Real Betis had carved open Málaga's defense on a swift counterattack. Nabil Fekir, ever the opportunist, slotted a decisive shot past the goalkeeper, and the stadium fell silent.

The unbeaten dream, nurtured so carefully over the past months, had already begun to crumble against Valencia—and now, with this second defeat, the magic was fading.

The silence that followed the goal was more than just a void; it was a statement of vulnerability, a crack in the façade that had once seemed invincible.

After the match, media outlets descended upon Málaga like vultures. Headlines blared from every direction:

 "Málaga Without Adriano: Just Another Mid-Table Team?"

 "Without Their Wonderkid, Málaga Falters Again."

 "Is Adriano Carrying Málaga Alone?"

Fans, once enchanted by Adriano's skill, now questioned the team's heavy reliance on the young star. On social media, voices of disappointment and anger mingled with accusations: "We looked hopeless without him,"

"He's only 17, and we're already entirely dependent on him? This is a problem,"

"Without Adriano, Málaga is just… average."

That night, as the stadium lights dimmed and Adriano lay in the dark of his room, his phone buzzed relentlessly. The barrage of headlines and harsh criticisms did little to ease his frustration. He knew deep down that the truth was harsher still: Málaga needed to build strength beyond just one player, however gifted he might be. Still, reading the messages felt like a personal indictment—a reminder that his absence had cost them dearly.

Among the deluge of notifications, one name kept appearing: Blanca Suárez. Since word of his illness had spread, she had been texting him nonstop, her messages a blend of concern, playful reprimand, and genuine care:

  Blanca: "I heard you're sick. Are you eating properly?"

  Blanca: "I bet you're just being stubborn and not resting."

  Blanca: "Are you ignoring me? Friends don't do that."

Adriano's replies were terse, almost curt. When he managed a response, it was nothing more than a series of clipped messages: "I'm fine," "Resting," "Stop texting so much."

Finally, Blanca called. Adriano, still groggy and frustrated by his body's rebellion, answered with a tired "What?"

Blanca's voice, sharp yet laced with worry, cut through the haze. "That's all you have to say? You've been ignoring me for hours!"

He rubbed his temple and muttered, "I'm sick, Blanca. I don't have time to entertain you right now."

Her tone turned cold. "Entertain me? Wow. Friends don't talk like that."

He just groaned, " Told you you'll get disillusioned."

A heavy silence ensued, and then, in a final act of exasperation, Blanca hung up. Adriano stared at his phone for a long moment before closing his eyes and murmuring, "Finally." Yet deep inside, a part of him wondered if he had been too harsh—even as his pride demanded solitude.

That very afternoon, Adriano's attempt at rest was interrupted by an unexpected knock on his door. With a groan, he forced himself to sit up and answer it. Standing on the doorstep was Blanca Suárez herself, looking markedly different from the glamorous persona he'd seen on screens. She was dressed casually in a soft sweater and jeans, her eyes brimming with concern, and in her arms, she carried a bag of groceries.

"What are you doing here?" Adriano asked, still half-asleep.

Without waiting for a response, Blanca stepped past him. "I don't trust you to take care of yourself," she said matter-of-factly.

Adriano sighed as he closed the door behind her.

"You could have just stayed home," he grumbled, though a part of him was secretly glad for her presence.

Inside, Blanca moved confidently into his modest kitchen, her eyes scanning the space as though searching for something familiar. "Where do you keep your pots?" she asked, half in jest, as she began unpacking the groceries. Adriano, now fully awake, frowned. "Why?"

She rolled her eyes. "I'm making you soup," she declared with a playful smirk.

Adriano couldn't resist a teasing reply. "You sure you're not just trying to poison me?"

Blanca paused, her eyes flashing indignation for a split second before softening into a smile. "If I was, you'd already be dead," she retorted, and the tension dissolved into a shared laugh.

For the next twenty minutes, the clatter of cutlery and the soft simmer of the soup filled the kitchen. Despite his earlier annoyance, Adriano found himself watching Blanca with a growing curiosity. Here, in the intimate confines of his home, the celebrity façade she usually maintained was gone—replaced by a genuine, caring woman who took pride in nurturing him.

When Blanca finally placed a steaming bowl of soup before him, she said, "Eat." Her tone was both commanding and tender. Adriano hesitated, then took a careful spoonful. The flavors were comforting and rich—a stark contrast to the bitter taste of defeat and criticism he'd endured that day. "I told you I can cook," Blanca said, a triumphant lilt in her voice.

"Surprising," Adriano admitted, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips.

As they sat at the small kitchen table, Blanca's gaze softened, and she asked, "Tell me something about yourself, Adriano. You never really talk about who you are."

He paused, then said quietly, "I grew up in Portugal. I trained at La Masia, suffered a major injury that nearly ended my career, and then… I had to start over."

Blanca tilted her head, unimpressed by the brevity. "That's all?"

He sighed, his eyes reflecting both the weight of his past and the exhaustion of his present. "I don't like talking much about myself."

"Fine," Blanca huffed, then brightened. "What's your favorite food?"

"Simple stuff , like nachos or steak " he replied with a small smirk.

Blanca wrinkled her nose in feigned disdain. "Boring."

"What about you?" he inquired, his tone curious.

"Paella. But only when it's made right," she said, her voice warm with nostalgia.

"Good choice," Adriano murmured.

Their conversation meandered from trivial matters to deeper reflections. Blanca recounted funny stories from film sets, while Adriano offered rare glimpses into the hardships and triumphs of his athletic life. For half an hour, time slipped away in that humble home —a small haven away from the glare of stadium lights and media scrutiny.

Eventually, exhaustion overtook Adriano. Mid-conversation, his eyes grew heavy, and he slumped onto the couch, his head resting against a pile of soft cushions. Blanca continued talking softly for a few minutes, her voice a gentle murmur, until it gradually faded into a comforting silence as she realized he had fallen asleep. Sitting by him, she watched the slow rise and fall of his chest, feeling an unexpected tenderness blossom in her heart.

A few days later, as Adriano's fever slowly receded and his strength began to return, Blanca found herself unable to stay away. With every passing hour, her concern deepened into something more personal. And so, on a cool, overcast afternoon, she made her way to his apartment once again. This time, her visit was quieter, more deliberate—a second chance to bridge the gap that had formed between them.

Inside, Adriano was still resting, his body slowly mending from the relentless assault of sickness and injury. The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting long shadows on the walls. When the doorbell rang, Adriano, now a little stronger but still fragile, answered it with a cautious curiosity. Standing there was Blanca, dressed in comfortable loungewear that contrasted with her usual glamorous attire. Her eyes were gentle, and there was a quiet determination in her smile.

"May I come in?" she asked softly.

"Sure," Adriano replied, stepping aside.

This second visit was different. They settled into the living room, side by side on the couch. The conversation resumed where they had left off during her first visit—about dreams, disappointments, and the loneliness of carrying burdens alone. As the hours passed, the dialogue became softer, more introspective. The room filled with the muted sounds of their voices and the occasional clink of a teacup. The walls that had long separated them began to crumble under the weight of shared vulnerability.

Before long, the soothing cadence of their conversation lulled them into a state of drowsiness. The room, heavy with quiet intimacy, witnessed them drifting toward sleep. Unaware of when exactly it happened, they fell asleep together on the couch—side by side, with Blanca's head resting gently against Adriano's shoulder, their arms loosely entwined.

Hours later, Adriano stirred from sleep. He blinked in the soft, diffused light, his gaze slowly coming into focus. As he looked to his side, he saw Blanca sleeping peacefully. Her head was nestled against him, her arm draped around his torso in a protective embrace. In that quiet, intimate moment, his heart stirred in a way he hadn't expected. For so long he had guarded himself against vulnerability, yet here she was—soft, warm, and unguarded—invading the cold fortress he had built around his heart.

Unable to resist the urge to reach out, Adriano gently ran his fingers along her cheek, savoring the delicate curve of her face. Yet, when he sensed that Blanca was stirring awake, he quickly pulled back and closed his eyes once more, pretending to remain asleep. He didn't want to disturb the fragile peace that had taken hold of the room.

Eventually, Blanca's eyes fluttered open. She blinked, disoriented at first, and then slowly realized that she was still hugging Adriano. A blush crept over her cheeks as she sat up, feeling a mix of embarrassment and tenderness. "I… I must have been too forward," she murmured, her voice barely audible. But then, as she looked at his sleeping face—so calm, so serene, a gentle smile curved her lips. Softly, almost to herself, she whispered, "It looks like I've really fallen for you."

Unable to resist the impulse, she leaned in and pressed a delicate kiss to his forehead once more. Then, with a reluctant sigh and a heart full of quiet yearning, she gathered her things and quietly left the apartment, closing the door behind her.

Unbeknownst to her, as she departed, Adriano lay wide awake in the darkness, his heart pounding wildly. He was fighting every instinct to call out, to pull her back into his arms, to embrace the woman who had slowly but surely started melting his defense.

For most football fans, the last thing they expected to wake up to was a maelstrom of celebrity gossip. Yet that morning, every major Spanish tabloid was ablaze with sensational headlines that couldn't be ignored:

  "Blanca Suárez Spotted Leaving Adriano's House early morning ! Romance Brewing?"

  "Málaga's Star Boy and Spain's It-Girl: Is This Football's Next Power Couple?"

  "From The Pitch to Her Heart? Adriano & Blanca – The Secret Night Together!"

Paparazzi had camped outside Adriano's modest Madrid apartment late into the night, eyes glued to every shadow that passed by. At just past 7 AM, they had struck gold. The photos were unmistakable—a figure in a hooded jacket, head down, hastily departing the residence. There was no doubt about her identity: it was Blanca Suárez, Spain's most trending actress.

By sunrise, social media was ablaze with the news, and every screen in Spain echoed with the scandal.

Across town, in a sleek office at one of the nation's top talent agencies, Blanca sat behind a glossy mahogany desk. She scrolled casually through her phone as her agent, Luis, paced in a storm of frustration. His voice, barely controlled, broke through her quiet focus.

"Do you have any idea what you've done?" Luis hissed, slamming a newspaper with a fresh headline onto the desk. The bold type screamed of scandal: "Blanca Suárez and 17-Year-Old Football Prodigy—Is Romance in the Air?"

Blanca barely glanced at the paper, her expression unruffled. "It's just gossip," she said dismissively, casually flicking the newspaper aside.

Luis groaned, running a hand through his hair. "Gossip? Blanca, this is the biggest media storm of the month! People are convinced you're dating a 17-year-old footballer, and the tabloids won't let up!"

She crossed her legs and leaned back in the plush sofa, her tone cool and detached. "Let them. I don't care what they say."

Luis's exasperation deepened as he paced faster. "For God's sake, Blanca! If you're not dating him, then say so! We can have your PR team clear it up immediately before the media spirals any further."

Blanca paused, then her smile grew mischievous. "And why would I do that?" she teased. "Maybe if that dense guy I like finally accepted what I've been trying to tell him…"

Luis's eyes widened. "What? You're seriously considering this ?"

She merely smirked, leaving Luis shaking his head in exasperation.

Meanwhile, at Málaga's training facilitya couple days later , Adriano sat in the locker room holding his phone. Everywhere he looked, the story was unfolding—teasing texts from teammates, knowing grins, and playful jibes.

Joaquín had even slammed a newspaper onto a bench, reading aloud, "When will you tell us that Spain's most beautiful woman was seen leaving your house at 1 AM?"

Juanmi laughed, adding, "Damn, Adriano. I thought you weren't interested in relationships for now ?"

Adriano simply stared ahead, his expression flat. "I'm not," he said curtly. When someone pressed him about the scandal, he only shrugged. "She just brought me soup when I was sick ," he deadpanned.

Juanmi wiggled his eyebrows jokingly, " Was that before or after she cured your sickness with a kiss?"

Adriano sighed and replied, " Would you guys believe if I say it's all fake?"

The locker room erupted in laughter—an old, well-worn joke that he had grown accustomed to.

Yet, behind his nonchalance, a quiet turmoil churned. The relentless attention, the unyielding gossip—it was becoming an unwanted distraction.

That evening, as shadows lengthened across his apartment, Adriano's phone buzzed again. Reluctantly, he answered a call from Blanca. Her voice, light and playful at first, carried a note of urgency.

"Adriano," she began, "are you enjoying all the attention, my rumoured boyfriend ?"

He sighed, rubbing his temples before replying, "What do you want, Blanca? I'm already tired after getting teased whole day."

Her laughter sparkled through the line. "Oh, come on. Everyone's talking about us. You're hardly even reacting. Do you not care?"

Adriano's tone was measured, yet there was a warmth beneath his guarded words. "I don't care about the rumors," he said flatly.

There was a brief silence before Blanca continued, her tone softening. "Then you won't mind if I don't deny them either."

He hesitated, his voice lowering. "Wait. What do you mean?"

"Relax," she said with a hint of playful mischief. "I'm not confirming anything—just not denying what I feel." Then, almost in a whisper, she added, "Or maybe I'm hoping you're going to come to your senses and realize how I feel about you ."

Adriano exhaled slowly. "It bothers me," he admitted, the vulnerability in his tone evident despite his attempts at indifference. "I don't need distractions right now. Specially if it's like this."

A pause followed before Blanca's voice took on a teasing lilt, "Are you afraid of me, Adriano?"

For a moment, he allowed a small, reluctant smirk to break through. "No, I just think you're a menace," he replied, his tone light yet edged with hesitancy.

Blanca's laughter rang clear and bright. "I'll take that as a compliment," she said, then added, "I'd really like to see you again. You still owe me a nice lunch , don't you?"

Adriano's sigh was heavy with conflicting emotion. "Blanca, I'm not sure if—" he began, but she interrupted softly, "I won't force you. But if you ever feel like talking , or even to vent, I'm just one call away ."

His heart gave a faint thud in response, and after a long pause he murmured, "Good night, Blanca."

"Sweet dreams dear ," she replied before hanging up.

Later that night, as Adriano sat alone in his dimly lit apartment, he tossed his phone onto the table and stared blankly at the ceiling. His mind was a tangle of conflicting thoughts.

This woman, with her relentless energy and unexpected tenderness, was an enigma he wasn't sure he was ready to unravel.

"What the hell am I even doing?" he muttered softly into the silence.

(You're doing my bidding to attract readers , hehehe * Chuckles evilly* )