The 3–0 win over Burnley had gone exactly as planned. A calm, clinical performance. No panic, no drama. Just three goals, three points, and another clean sheet for the books. It wasn't the kind of match that people would talk about for years, but it served its purpose—keeping momentum intact and avoiding injury before the looming clash in Barcelona. After the defeat against Middlesborough in FA cup, City had a much easier schedule. The only needed to focus on the Premier League and Champions League, and they were set to win both.
With six days until the second leg at Camp Nou, Pellegrini gave the squad a breather. No meetings. No press duties. No drills. Just rest. It was the calm before the storm, and everyone knew it.
Adriano, though, had something else in mind.
He was already up before Kate that morning, scrolling through boat rental options on his phone while sipping black coffee. The sky outside the window was uncharacteristically bright for Manchester—pale blue with streaks of white, and the breeze drifting in through the open window carried the faint scent of grass and salt.
Kate shuffled into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes, wearing one of his oversized sweatshirts and mismatched socks.
"You're up early," she murmured, yawning.
"I had a plan," he said, sliding his phone into his pocket. "No football. No cameras. No one asking about tactics or goals. Just you and me."
Her eyebrows lifted slightly. "You're not dragging me to a tactical analysis session again, are you?"
He chuckled and held up a pair of keys. "Boat's waiting. Irish Sea. Come on."
Kate blinked. "Wait, seriously? You booked a boat?"
"I figured it was time I made up for that time I made you sit through film of Barcelona's high press for forty-five minutes," he said, grinning. "This time, it's sandwiches, sunshine, and ocean breeze. Unless you're scared of water."
She gave a slow smile. "You're not secretly planning a proposal out there, are you? While seagulls attack us and I'm mid-bite into a sandwich?"
"No," he said, putting on an expression of fake indignation. "But if another bird tries to mug me for my lunch, I might propose to the ocean instead."
By late morning, they were drifting in a modest but comfortable rental boat just off the coast. The boat rocked gently with the rhythm of the water. A steady wind cut across the waves, tossing Adriano's hair as he kept one hand on the steering handle and the other wrapped around a steaming paper cup of coffee. Kate sat stretched out on a cushioned bench across from him, legs crossed at the ankles, hoodie drawn up, hair tied back, and sunglasses perched on her nose.
She tilted her head back, soaking in the sun. "This is better than I expected," she said.
"I'm full of surprises," he replied.
"That's what scares me."
They laughed and fell into a comfortable silence. It wasn't the kind of quiet that demanded small talk. Just the kind that settled between two people who didn't feel the need to fill every second. They sat like that for a while, letting the open sea do the talking.
When lunchtime came, Adriano unwrapped a few sandwiches and laid them out with bottled drinks and fruit. It was simple but enough. They ate facing each other, legs brushing occasionally with the movement of the boat.
But peace was short-lived.
A flock of seagulls began circling above, squawking aggressively. One particularly bold bird made a dive just as Kate was mid-bite into her sandwich.
She shrieked and ducked, sandwich still in hand. "Oh my God! Did you see that?"
Adriano burst out laughing, nearly dropping his own food. "He was committed. I'll give him that."
"This happens every time we're near the sea," Kate said, glaring at the bird circling back. "Why is it always me they target?"
"Maybe they recognize you. 'Famous actress on a boat? Must have the good snacks.'"
She threw a small piece of crust overboard. A group of gulls immediately changed course, diving after it in a frenzy.
Kate narrowed her eyes. "You trained them, didn't you?"
He grinned. "Not personally. But I respect the strategy."
The gulls eventually gave up, disappointed. With the air quiet again, they leaned back on the cushions, stretched out and content. The sun warmed the wooden deck. Water lapped gently against the sides. Adriano rested one hand behind his head and watched the sky. Kate sat beside him now, legs folded, arms around her knees.
She looked over at him. "You really know how to plan a good getaway."
"It's not hard," he said, glancing at her. "Just pick somewhere without goalkeepers or match previews."
She smiled and leaned against his shoulder.
They didn't speak for a while. The kind of silence that didn't feel like silence at all. Just calm. Just presence. The soft rhythm of the boat, the occasional distant cry of birds, and the slight hum of the wind through the open sea were enough.
Whatever pressure was coming—whatever storm waited in Barcelona—none of it existed out here.
Just them.
Later in the afternoon, they returned to shore. The steady sway of the boat gave way to solid ground, but the peaceful rhythm of the day still lingered. The sun had dipped slightly lower in the sky, casting a golden wash over the harbor. Adriano's matte black Lamborghini Veneno Roadster was already waiting by the curb, parked at an angle like it belonged in a magazine shoot.
Kate gave the car an amused glance as she stepped off the dock. "Of course you brought this thing."
Adriano grinned, tossing her the passenger door key fob. "I figured if we're escaping reality, we might as well do it properly."
As she climbed in and tugged the seatbelt across her lap, the leather interior hugging her like a glove, she glanced over and said, "You know people are going to think we're either lost... or filming a music video."
Adriano pressed the start button, and the engine snarled to life like a wild animal waking from a nap. He slid his sunglasses on with practiced ease and shot her a look. "Let them guess. Maybe we're doing both."
The car pulled away from the harbor with a smooth growl, slicing through the streets with purpose but no destination. The windows were down, and the spring breeze tangled through Kate's hair as they drove.
There was no rush. No plan. Just music flowing through the speakers—sometimes upbeat, sometimes mellow—as they followed impulse instead of a route. They weaved through Manchester's maze of familiar streets: Piccadilly Gardens buzzing with people; the old warehouses by Deansgate, now full of loft apartments and cafes; the winding roads near Castlefield where bridges arched low over the canals. The city felt different when you weren't trying to get anywhere.
At one point, Kate leaned her head against the window and looked out at the buildings blurring past.
"You ever think about just… disappearing for a bit?" she asked, voice low over the hum of the engine.
Adriano kept one hand on the wheel, glancing sideways. "All the time."
She smiled faintly. "You? Mr. Spotlight?"
"Especially me," he said. "But I'd only disappear if you came with me."
Their drive eventually brought them to a quiet overlook on the edge of the city, the kind of spot you didn't find unless you were looking to be alone. From there, the Manchester skyline stretched in the distance, its glass towers catching the last rays of the sun. The car idled in park, both of them just sitting there, not needing to talk.
But peace didn't last.
From a nearby café patio, a small group of people spotted them. There was a brief moment of disbelief. Then someone pointed. Then came the telltale glow of phone screens.
A teenager, probably no older than seventeen, slowly walked toward them, holding his phone like it might explode.
"Um… sorry to bother you," he said, nervously. "Adriano? Could I get a quick photo?"
Adriano looked over at Kate with a mock groan. "You're famous now."
She rolled her eyes with a smile and leaned toward him. "Smile nice, or I start charging."
Adriano laughed and hopped out of the car. The next ten minutes turned into an impromptu meet-and-greet. More people gathered—fans, passersby, a pair of old men who didn't know who Adriano was but were convinced they were witnessing something important.
Adriano signed whatever was handed to him—napkins, phone cases, a crumpled bus ticket. He posed for pictures with arms around shoulders, fingers throwing peace signs. Kate joined in a few shots, flashing a practiced but genuine smile. For the fans, it was a moment. For the couple, just another shared detour.
Eventually, the crowd started to thicken.
"We should bail before someone brings a drone," Kate whispered.
Adriano nodded and eased them back into the car. As they pulled away, he shook his head. "Next time I'm bringing a wig."
Kate burst out laughing. "Next time, let's not take a spaceship on wheels through the middle of the city."
They rolled the windows down again as they drove, letting the fresh air sweep through the car. The traffic faded. The city gave way to quiet roads and tree-lined streets. No schedule, no pressure—just movement and music.
By the time they reached their home on the outskirts of town, the sky had turned dark, a deep blue fading into black, with stars starting to peek through the clouds. The driveway lights flickered on as the car approached, and the gate opened with a soft mechanical hum.
Inside the mansion, everything felt still. Warm lights lit the hallway in a golden glow. Kate kicked off her heels near the door and pulled her hair free from its tie, running her fingers through it as she walked barefoot across the floor.
Adriano followed behind her, quiet, watching her in the soft light. As she reached the kitchen, he stepped closer and wrapped his arms around her from behind.
"This was a good day," he said, his voice low near her ear.
Kate leaned back into him, letting her head rest against his shoulder. "Yeah. I needed it."
They stood there like that for a long moment. No words. Just warmth, contact, and breath.
Eventually, they made their way upstairs together, hand in hand, the day's noise left behind.
And when the door closed behind them, it wasn't trophies or matches or cameras on their minds.
Just each other.
And how rare days like this really were.
****
After two full days spent away from football, lost in Kate's company and the quiet calm of their shared moments, Adriano returned to Carrington with a clear mind and fresh legs. The early morning light filtered over the training ground in a pale golden hue, and a cool breeze danced across the pitch as the players trickled in. There was an energy in the air—easygoing, upbeat, but also sharp with focus. In four days, they would travel to Barcelona for the second leg of the quarter-finals, and despite the 7–0 thrashing they'd handed the Spanish giants in Manchester, no one was treating it like a dead rubber.
As Adriano walked toward the main training pitch, he was greeted by familiar voices and familiar jokes. Sergio Aguero and Vincent Kompany had returned after weeks out through injury. Though they were still some distance away from playing full matches, their presence lifted the entire squad. It wasn't just about tactics or experience—it was about leadership, personality, and the feeling that City were finally whole again.
"Look who's finally remembered where the pitch is," Adriano called out as he approached the group gathered near the sideline.
Aguero turned, flashing that boyish grin. "Had to take a break so the rest of you could shine," he said, opening his arms for a quick hug.
"Please," said Eden Hazard from nearby. "We scored seven without you. Maybe stay out one more game?"
Aguero raised an eyebrow and pointed. "You're lucky I like you."
Kevin De Bruyne smirked. "He means it, Eden. That's as threatening as Sergio gets."
Silva walked over, patting Aguero on the back. "You've missed all the good banter, hermano."
Aguero gestured at Silva's boots. "Have I missed your finishing too, or are you still sending balls into the car park?"
A burst of laughter followed as Silva held up both hands in mock surrender. "He's back already."
Meanwhile, Kompany was holding court with a different group—Adriano, Kimmich, Robertson, and Hummels stood in a loose semi-circle around the club captain as he stretched out his legs.
"Missed the chaos?" Adriano asked, lightly tossing a ball toward Kompany, who caught it with a small smile.
"Missed the shouting more," Kompany said dryly. "Not yours—Pellegrini's, when we mess up the shape during drills."
Kimmich chuckled. "Good thing we've been perfect in your absence."
"That's funny," Robertson added. "I remember you slipping during rondos last week."
Kompany laughed. "You lot think you're comedians now, huh?"
"Only when you're around," Adriano said, grinning. "Gives us material."
On the far side of the pitch, Salah, Kane, Zabaleta, Kolarov, and Casemiro were lounging near a pile of cones, having what appeared to be a deep philosophical discussion about something completely unrelated to football.
"I'm just saying," Kane said, pointing at Salah's water bottle, "pineapple does not belong on pizza."
Salah blinked. "That's your big opinion for the day?"
"It's a matter of principle," Kane insisted.
Kolarov chimed in, deadpan: "Tell that to my grandmother. She makes it with pineapple and hot peppers."
Kane looked horrified. "What kind of monster…?"
Zabaleta leaned in. "The kind that scores screamers from 30 yards."
Casemiro just shook his head. "You guys need to eat more normal food."
Not far from them, Yaya Touré and Fernandinho were jogging side-by-side doing warm-up laps while Sinclair and Milner exchanged playful shoves over who could tie their laces faster. Even with the looming Barcelona rematch, the atmosphere was light—like a summer camp before a big tournament.
Pellegrini stood quietly near the touchline, arms crossed, watching it all with a rare, approving smile. He let it go on for a few minutes longer before clapping once to signal the start of the session.
"All right," he called out. "Let's get to work!"
Training began with a series of warm-up drills—short sprints, side shuffles, and resistance band work. The coaches guided the players through dynamic stretches while music quietly pulsed from speakers nearby. No one was slacking off, but the jokes kept coming between exercises.
During passing drills, Adriano and Hazard teamed up in one group, with De Bruyne and Silva across from them. Adriano tapped the ball Hazard's way, then held a hand to his ear. "Still not used to passing without seeing you trip over it."
Hazard flicked the ball back with a look. "Still not used to your ego fitting in the stadium."
They high-fived after the sequence, laughing.
On a separate grid, Aguero and Kane went through finishing routines with the goalkeepers, working on near-post drives and first-touch shots. Aguero, despite not being fully fit, was sharp and accurate. After burying one into the top corner, he turned toward the watching group and shrugged.
"Old man still got it."
Kane whistled. "Barely moved your legs, mate."
"Efficiency," Aguero replied. "You should try it."
The defenders worked with Kompany on positioning during transitions. Hummels led the backline during a drill designed to defend short counters. Kimmich, always observant, asked questions after nearly every rep.
"What if they press both flanks at once? Do we hold or push the full-backs up?"
Kompany smiled. "You cover, Josh. Like you always do. Just trust the shape."
Meanwhile, Adriano continued working on his off-the-ball movement, switching roles with Silva and De Bruyne as they rehearsed attacking runs and timing crosses from the wing. Every few minutes, someone cracked a joke, usually at their own expense.
When Salah sliced a shot wide during a game simulation, Robertson shouted from the sideline, "That one's heading back to Egypt!"
Salah held up two fingers. "Two assists, last match. I'm allowed one."
"Only one?" Milner said, jogging past. "I've been missing on purpose for years."
As the session progressed, the intensity naturally built. The small-sided games at the end were fast, tight, and competitive. No one was holding back, but there was no ego. Players encouraged each other. Mistakes were met with claps and nods instead of scowls.
In one sequence, Adriano received a pass under pressure, spun between two defenders, and slipped a disguised through ball to Silva, who finished first-time. As the ball hit the net, Adriano pointed across the pitch.
"Textbook," he called out.
"More like improv," Silva replied, grinning.
When Pellegrini blew the final whistle, sweat clung to every jersey, but the smiles hadn't faded. The team gathered around him, shoulder to shoulder, breathing hard but satisfied.
"Good session," Pellegrini said. "Four more days. Let's stay focused."
As the players dispersed, Adriano caught up with Aguero again. They walked toward the dressing room together, chatting casually.
"Think you'll be ready for Barca?" Adriano asked.
Aguero shrugged. "Maybe not to start. But if I get twenty minutes... I'll make them count."
Adriano nodded. "We're going to finish what we started."
Behind them, laughter echoed from the showers as Hazard argued with Kolarov about who ran more. Kompany tossed a towel over De Bruyne's head. Robertson attempted to steal someone's shampoo.
It didn't look like preparation.
Just a few friend having fun, doing what they love.
****
Matchday, Champions League Quarter Final, 2nd Leg
Manchester City vs Barcelona (Agg 7-0)
The streets around the Etihad Stadium buzzed with electricity hours before kickoff. It wasn't just another European night. This was the second leg of a Champions League quarterfinal, and not just against any opponent—it was Barcelona. Normally, such a fixture might bring nervous excitement, a sense of the impossible. But this night was different.
Manchester City led 7–0 from the first leg.
That result had sent shockwaves across Europe. City hadn't just beaten Barcelona at the Camp Nou—they'd humiliated them. The press in Spain had turned on Luis Enrique's men, questioning everything from their hunger to their tactical identity. And when the Catalans arrived in Manchester two days before the return leg, the mocking songs and chants from City supporters started before they even got off the plane.
"This is Manchester now, not your playground!" one banner outside the Etihad read.
Despite the antagonism, the atmosphere remained respectful—just laced with cold confidence. City fans remembered the taunts, whistles, and jeers from the Camp Nou all too well. Now it was their turn to answer—but in typical Mancunian fashion, the response came not with aggression, but swagger and wit.
By kickoff, the Etihad was packed to the rafters. Sky blue flags waved across every corner of the stadium. Banners hung from the upper tiers—"The Empire Strikes Back," one read. Another simply said, "Adriano: Our King."
Fans sang in rhythm:
"He dances through the field,Painting our dreams,Adriano Riveiro,He is our King!"
The pitch glowed under the stadium lights, pristine as ever. Ball boys stood lined up in navy jackets, photographers crowded the touchlines, and inside the tunnel, two sets of players stood preparing to walk out—one with the weight of history on their shoulders, the other, with the wind behind them.
In the commentary box, Martin Tyler and Alan Smith took their seats as the broadcast cut to them. The camera zoomed in over the top of the stands, capturing the breathtaking noise as the Champions League anthem echoed around the ground.
Martin Tyler:"Welcome to the Etihad Stadium in Manchester for what might be the most unusual Champions League quarterfinal second leg in history. Manchester City 7, Barcelona 0 on aggregate. Alan, it's not every day we see a result like that in the first leg—especially against a side like Barcelona."
Alan Smith:"No, Martin, it's surreal in many ways. Barcelona have been on the receiving end of some criticism back home, and rightly so. But for Manchester City, this is an opportunity not just to finish the job, but to announce themselves as a new European force. And the fans—well, they've turned this place into a fortress tonight."
Martin Tyler:"Let's take a look at how they line up tonight then."
The screen showed City's familiar 4–3–3 formation, though with a subtle twist.
Joe Hart in goal.
Zabaleta at right back, Kolarov on the left.
The centre-back pairing tonight was Hummels and Mangala, with Vincent Kompany on bench.
In midfield, Casemiro would sit deepest in a holding role, flanked by Kevin De Bruyne who pushed slightly forward.
The front three featured Eden Hazard on the left, Mohamed Salah on the right, and Adriano as Central attacking Mid.
Harry Kane, however, was listed as a central striker—a hybrid approach that would allow Adriano to float and Kane to pin defenders.
Alan Smith:"This has been one of Pellegrini's cleverest tactical tweaks this season. Kane gives them that fixed point, but Adriano's movement—well, it's been unplayable. He's not just scoring—he's dragging defenders into no-man's land, creating room for the wingers."
Martin Tyler:"And how about that midfield duo? Casemiro anchoring, and De Bruyne connecting. It's the perfect blend of steel, flair, and vision."
Switching to Barcelona's team graphic, there was a familiar structure—but also tension.
Claudio Bravo in goal.
Jordi Alba and Dani Alves as full-backs, Gerard Piqué and a returning Javier Mascherano at centre-back.
Sergio Busquets sat as the pivot, with Ivan Rakitić and Andrés Iniesta as the advanced midfielders.
Up front, the famed trident: Neymar, Luis Suárez, and Lionel Messi.
Alan Smith:"That front three—on paper—is terrifying. But they looked disconnected in the first leg. Tonight, it's not about scoring seven; it's about pride. If they don't leave with something, the questions about this Barcelona era will grow louder."
Martin Tyler:"And the pressure's on for Luis Enrique. Tactically, he's gambled big before. But City have looked one step ahead all year—especially here at home."
As the teams emerged from the tunnel, the stadium exploded into deafening chants.
"Blue Moon! You saw me standing alone…"
Scarves swirled through the air. City's players looked relaxed—focused, but clearly enjoying the moment. Adriano, flanked by Salah and Hazard, exchanged a grin with De Bruyne before they walked out. Kane adjusted his captain's armband and patted Mangala on the back.
Barcelona's players, in contrast, looked guarded. Messi and Neymar avoided eye contact with the crowd. Suarez snarled something under his breath. The pressure was palpable. This was foreign territory for them.
Martin Tyler:"What a transformation we've seen over the course of this campaign. This used to be the kind of fixture where City fans would dread a drubbing. Now? They're the ones doing the drubbing. And as one City fan said before the match,'As long as we have Adriano, we fear nobody!' And they are right to say that, with 58 goals and 30 assists in this season from just 31 matches, This one of the best performances in Europe. "
Alan Smith:"And the supporters sense something historic here. Whether or not more goals come tonight, this is symbolic. City aren't just competing—they've arrived. And behind this change, it is one man who is the central star of the 'Blue Moon Galacticos', Adriano Riveiro. The 19 year old Portuguese suparstar has made the world eager to watch his every single performance, that's how breath taking his form has been. 3 goals and 3 assists last time, let's see what he has in store tonight."
As the teams lined up for the Champions League anthem, the crowd held their breath… and then let it out in a single unified roar that shook the roof.
Pellegrini stood calm on the touchline, arms folded. Luis Enrique crouched forward, barking last-minute instructions.
Kickoff was minutes away. But the tone had already been set.
Tonight was about validation. About dominance. About making Europe listen.
And the fans in Manchester? They knew what was coming.
****
Current Stats of Adriano:
Premier League
Matches: 21
Goals: 28
Assists: 20
Current top scorer of the Premier League, and top on the assists list.
*
Champions League
Matches: 9
Goals: 21
Assists: 8
Current top scorer and top on Assists list.
*
FA Cup
Matches: 1
Goals: 2
Assists: 2