The morning after training, Adriano wasn't heading to the Etihad as usual. Instead, he was chauffeured to a sleek hotel in central Manchester where a press event had been staged by one of his sponsors. Reporters and photographers lined the entrance, lenses snapping the second his car pulled up. He wore a tailored dark blue suit, sharp but understated, his hair styled neatly.
Kate had insisted on the little touches: cufflinks, tie, even the shine on his shoes. She wasn't at his side this time, though; she already had enough these media scrums, preferring to stay out of the spotlight unless she chose it herself.
Adriano felt her absence as he stepped out of the car and into the storm of camera flashes.
"Adriano! Over here!"
"Smile for us!"
"Can we get a word?"
He raised a polite hand, gave a small smile, but didn't linger. His agent guided him inside where the noise dropped to a muffled hum.
The press conference hall was packed. The banners behind the stage carried both Manchester City's crest and the logos of various sponsors. Adriano took his seat at the center of the long table, Pellegrini and a representative from UEFA sitting beside him.
The first questions were straightforward.
"Adriano, 14 wins in 14 Premier League games. How do you feel about maintaining such consistency?"
He leaned into the microphone, voice calm but confident. "It's not just me. The whole squad has worked to make that possible. The defenders, the midfield, everyone. We've built something strong, and I just try to play my part."
Another hand shot up.
"You're still only nineteen. Do you feel the pressure of leading Manchester City, especially after last year's Double?"
Adriano paused, meeting the reporter's gaze. "There's pressure, yes. But it's good pressure. It reminds me that people believe in me. I've got teammates and a coach who trust me, and that makes the weight easier."
The UEFA rep chimed in about professionalism, but the journalists were circling the topic everyone wanted.
Finally, one of them asked directly. "Adriano, your name is already being speculated heavily as the final regular face at yearly Ballon d'Or shortlist with Messi and Ronaldo. Some say you're the favorite for next year as well. What does that mean to you?"
The room quieted, waiting. Adriano exhaled slowly before answering. "It means a lot, of course. When I was a kid, I watched players like Messi and Ronaldo win it year after year.
To even be mentioned in the same breath is surreal. But I can't think about it too much. If I just start chasing awards, I'll stop playing the football that brought me here."
A few reporters scribbled furiously at that line, while Pellegrini beside him gave the faintest nod of approval.
After the press event, Adriano had a series of one-on-one interviews. One was with a well-known European broadcaster, the kind of interview that would air across multiple countries.
The interviewer leaned forward with a practiced smile. "Adriano, you're nineteen, but you've already won the Champions League, the Premier League, and now you're a Ballon d'Or winner. Do you ever feel… overwhelmed?"
Adriano tilted his head slightly, considering. "Sometimes. But overwhelmed can also mean grateful. I know how rare this is. Most players spend their whole careers chasing these moments. I've had them early, but that just means I have to keep earning them every season."
The interviewer pressed. "Some critics say you've had too much too soon. That success at your age can derail careers. What do you say to that?"
He gave a small smile. "They might be right. But I have people around me who keep me grounded. My coach, my captain, my teammates. And of course My parents And…" He smiled briefly. "And Kate. She doesn't let me forget I'm still just a person, not a headline."
The interviewer pounced. "So Kate plays an important role?"
Adriano's smile grew more genuine. "The most important, outside football."
That line was splashed across headlines by evening: "Adriano credits Parents and Fiance Kate as his anchor."
Later that week, back at training, the Ballon d'Or chatter spilled into the locker room. Kane whistled when Adriano walked in.
"Oi, Golden Boy. How's it feel being called the best in the world? Don't forget us mortals aftee you lifted that shiny globe."
Adriano rolled his eyes, dropping his bag. "Relax, Harry. You'll get your turn if you start scoring more than tap-ins."
The room erupted in laughter. Even Kompany cracked a grin.
De Bruyne chimed in, smirking. "If he wins it next year too, he better throw a party. I want limited edition champagne. None of that cheap stuff either."
"Champagne?" Salah scoffed. "I want a bonus assist for all the runs I make for him."
Adriano leaned back in his chair, arms folded. "Fine. If I win, I'll host something big. But only if you lot promise not to embarrass me with your dancing."
Mac Allister piped up from the corner. "Too late for that. Did you see Hummels at the last team dinner?"
Everyone burst into laughter again, Hummels raising his hands in mock protest. "Leave me out of it!"
Kompany finally cut through the noise with his captain's voice. "Ballon d'Or or not, it doesn't change anything. We've got titles to defend. Remember that."
The room fell quieter, the laughter fading into nods of agreement. Adriano met Kompany's eyes and gave a small nod back.
At home that night, Adriano collapsed on the couch while Kate handed him a mug of tea. She slid beside him, resting her legs across his lap.
"You looked exhausted in those interviews," she said gently.
"I am," he admitted. "Everyone wants a quote, a headline, a soundbite. They don't really care about me, just the story."
Kate brushed his hair back from his forehead. "That's why I'm here. I care about you. Not the Golden Boy. Just… my Adriano."
He leaned into her touch, eyes closing. "That's all I need."
For the first time in days, he felt the tension loosen. The trophies, the awards, the cameras — they could wait. Right now, he was just nineteen, with the girl he loved and the game he lived for.
*****
The November night sky above Manchester was lit by the floodlights of the Etihad, beams cutting through the chill air like spears of silver. European nights had their own rhythm, their own heartbeat, and the stadium was humming with anticipation hours before kickoff. The home fans had seen this team dismantle Sevilla in Spain, but the return fixture carried a weight of its own. For Pellegrini, it was about control—qualifying with authority, stamping City's name on the group. For Adriano, it was about something more personal. European nights had become his stage, the theater where his growing legend was broadcast to millions.
The squad walked out together from the tunnel, light glinting off the sky-blue kits. Hart adjusted his gloves, Kompany clapped his hands together in ritual focus, and Adriano—wearing no armband but commanding every ounce of presence—took one last deep breath before stepping into the noise of the Etihad. A low roar rolled through the stands when the announcer said his name. Kate was there in her private box, wrapped in a dark coat, scarf raised high, and the cameras inevitably caught her. But Adriano kept his eyes ahead, laser-focused.
The first whistle cut through the air, Sevilla kicking off.
Right from the start, the Spanish side tried to slow things down. They circulated the ball cautiously at the back, knowing what kind of storm City could bring if given a chance to dictate tempo. Kompany and Hummels kept a steady line, urging patience, while Silva pressed forward to close down passing lanes. Adriano hung between Sevilla's midfield and defense, a predator waiting for the wrong touch, the wrong pass.
It took only four minutes for City to draw first blood in the battle for rhythm. Robertson intercepted a loose ball on the left, sliding it into Hazard. Hazard feinted inside, dragged two defenders with him, then played a quick one-two with De Bruyne. The ball spilled toward Adriano, who controlled it in a single touch, but instead of shooting, he flicked it cheekily into space for Aguero. Aguero spun, but the shot bent just over the bar.
The Etihad groaned, but that sound quickly morphed into chants. The message was clear—City had arrived, and Sevilla would have to suffer ninety minutes of it.
The Spanish side managed their own punches. In the 12th minute, Vitolo broke down the right and whipped a dangerous cross toward Gameiro. Kompany rose like a pillar, head thundering through the ball to clear, barking orders at his back line. Hart clapped, shouting "Keep it sharp!"
The exchange only fueled City further. They attacked in waves—Salah darting behind defenders, Hazard cutting inside with those snake-hipped dribbles, Adriano constantly repositioning, dragging markers out of shape. De Bruyne was the metronome, switching play from right to left, forcing Sevilla's back four to constantly turn.
In the 19th minute, the breakthrough came.
It started innocuously enough: Kimmich played a neat pass into Silva, Silva threaded it centrally to De Bruyne. A Sevilla midfielder lunged to close him down, but De Bruyne slid the ball forward into the half-space where Adriano had been waiting. One touch, the ball set across his body, and then—bang.
A thunderous strike from 25 yards arrowed toward the top-right corner. Beto dived full stretch, fingertips brushing air, not leather. The net bulged, the stadium erupted, and Adriano wheeled away, sliding on his knees toward the corner flag as Hazard and Salah sprinted to pile onto him.
Kate was on her feet in the box, scarf waving wildly. The cameras caught her clapping furiously, mouthing words that were lost in the roar, but the smile on her face told its own story.
"Adriano! Adriano!" echoed through the stands as Kompany jogged over to clap him on the back.
The scoreboard read 1-0, and the sense in the stadium shifted. From anticipation to inevitability.
Sevilla, to their credit, tried to fight back. They pushed men forward, attempting to stretch City's midfield, hoping to isolate Yevhen Konoplyanka against Kimmich. In the 27th minute, a quick counter forced Hart into a sharp save at his near post, palms strong, pushing the ball wide. Hart stood up roaring, fists pumping, eyes blazing. "Wake up!" he barked at his defenders.
City did not take long to reassert dominance. De Bruyne began dictating again, Silva drifting into little pockets of space that made Sevilla dizzy. Hazard had his moment in the 35th minute when he picked up the ball near halfway, slalomed past two defenders, and unleashed a shot just wide. The Etihad gasped.
But the second goal felt inevitable, and it arrived in the 39th minute.
Adriano this time turned provider. He collected the ball under pressure near the edge of Sevilla's box, two defenders closing in. A quick shift of balance, a feint to the left, and then an incisive pass through the tiniest channel. Salah had read it perfectly, ghosting in behind. One-on-one with the keeper, Salah remained ice-cold, slipping the ball past Beto with his left foot.
The stadium detonated. The Egyptian sprinted to the corner flag, arms wide, Hazard jumping on his back, Adriano jogging over with a grin that said he knew it had been coming all along.
"Two-nil to City!" the announcer bellowed over the roar.
The last minutes of the half were about control. Sevilla huffed and puffed, but their moves lacked conviction. Kompany and Hummels were iron in the middle, Robertson bombing forward when needed, and Kimmich—despite his youth—holding his ground firmly.
When the whistle finally blew for halftime, the scoreboard read 2-0. City jogged into the tunnel with confidence radiating from every step. Pellegrini met them with a calm smile, but his words were sharp: "Good. But not finished. Stay hungry. This is our house."
The second half picked up with Sevilla pushing forward in desperation. They pressed higher, throwing bodies upfield to try to claw back into the match. For ten minutes, they had some joy—forcing a couple of corners, pinning City back momentarily. But the home side's defense held firm, and Hart commanded his box with authority.
Then, in the 62nd minute, the final dagger landed.
It began with Hazard weaving past two markers on the left before cutting inside. He slipped the ball to Silva, who shifted it quickly out wide to Kimmich. The right-back delivered a perfectly weighted low cross into the area. Aguero darted across the near post and, with one touch, poked it past the keeper.
The net rippled, Aguero ran toward the fans with his trademark celebration, fists pumping, and the Etihad roared louder than ever.
3-0. Game over.
The rest of the match was about management. Sevilla knew it, City knew it, and the fans settled into their chorus of songs. Pellegrini rotated lightly, giving minutes to younger players, while Adriano stayed on, orchestrating moves, keeping the tempo alive. Even without further goals, every touch of his carried weight.
Kate stood and applauded at the final whistle, proud and radiant as always. Adriano blew her a small kiss as he walked off, arm around Hazard, chatting and laughing. The team walked down the tunnel to a standing ovation, unbeaten, untouchable, and one step closer to sealing the group.
*******
The Etihad was alive with color, sound, and rhythm. After the Champions League triumph against Sevilla, the City faithful turned up in numbers to watch their heroes return to Premier League action. Pellegrini rotated his squad slightly, resting some of his regulars and giving fresh legs a chance. Donnarumma, still only sixteen, pulled on the goalkeeper's shirt again, while Theo Hernandez and Trent Alexander-Arnold filled the fullback roles. The core remained—Kompany and Van Dijk as the defensive wall, Casemiro anchoring midfield, De Bruyne and Adriano pulling strings, and up top a dangerous trio of Rashford, Son, and Kane.
The whistle blew, and City went to work.
From the very first seconds, it was clear Stoke City were in trouble. They tried to press early, but City's passing triangles were sharp, crisp, unhurried. Trent swung the ball across to Theo, Theo to Casemiro, Casemiro out to De Bruyne. The Belgian took one touch, lifted his head, and already Adriano was signaling for the ball. A threaded pass followed, splitting Stoke's midfield like glass. Adriano spun, shoulders dropping to evade a tackle, before laying it off wide to Rashford.
The 18-year-old, fearless and full of energy, darted past his marker and whipped in a cross. Kane met it, powerful header, but the ball flashed wide. The Etihad roared its approval regardless—the message was clear: City had come to play.
Stoke's response was to sit deeper, banking bodies behind the ball. But that only played into City's rhythm. Casemiro relished the control, breaking up any loose passes, his physicality stopping Stoke's midfield runners before they could even turn. Van Dijk kept his composure at the back, calmly stepping into challenges, distributing forward with ease. And Adriano… Adriano was at his mesmerizing best.
In the 14th minute, he opened the scoring.
It came from what looked like nothing. De Bruyne slid a ball into his path 30 yards from goal. Two Stoke defenders closed in, expecting him to recycle possession. Instead, Adriano shifted the ball onto his right, took a single stride forward, and unleashed a rocket. The ball swerved viciously, dipping at the last second, smashing into the top corner. Jack Butland had no chance.
The stadium erupted. Adriano wheeled away, arms stretched, and was engulfed by his teammates. Kane slapped his back, Rashford ruffled his hair, Son wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Kompany jogged upfield with a grin, clapping his hands. The scoreboard read 1-0.
Stoke's plan to frustrate was already in ruins.
City didn't ease off. They pressed relentlessly, Hazard or Salah weren't even needed on this day; the new lineup clicked beautifully. Rashford, especially, was electric. In the 22nd minute, he picked up the ball near halfway, darted between two defenders with a burst of acceleration, and drove straight at Stoke's back line. Adriano shouted for the ball, Kane pulled wide to drag his marker, but Rashford went alone. One cut inside, a quick step-over, and then he struck low and hard into the bottom corner.
2-0.
The teenager sprinted to the corner flag, sliding on his knees, arms wide. Adriano was the first to arrive, laughing, hugging him, whispering something into his ear. Son arrived next, pointing at Rashford as if to say "remember this name." The crowd's chants of "Rash-ford, Rash-ford!" echoed across the Etihad, a new hero being anointed alongside the old.
Stoke looked rattled. Their midfield had no answer for the control Casemiro and De Bruyne exerted. By the 30th minute, it was pure domination. City moved the ball as if they had more men on the pitch, triangles everywhere, possession suffocating. The visitors tried to hold their line, but it was only a matter of time.
In the 34th minute, the third goal arrived.
It began with Son dropping deep, combining with Theo Hernandez down the left. Theo overlapped, whipped a dangerous low cross into the box. Kane had been quiet so far, waiting, lurking. This was his moment. He darted in front of his defender, stretching his right boot, and guided the ball neatly into the far corner.
Kane punched the air, roaring as his teammates mobbed him. "Come on!" he bellowed, voice echoing even above the cheers. Adriano clapped him on the back, telling him to keep hunting.
3-0 before halftime, and Stoke's body language was already broken.
But City weren't done yet.
Just before the break, in the 42nd minute, Adriano struck again. A free kick from 25 yards out, dead center. The Etihad held its breath as he placed the ball. De Bruyne offered, but Adriano waved him off. He stepped back, focused, ran up—and curled the ball over the wall with perfection. It dipped just under the bar, clipping the net with a hiss.
The stadium exploded. Fans leapt to their feet, Kate in her VIP box clapping furiously, scarf raised high. Adriano stood still for a moment, arms folded, before being swarmed by his teammates.
4-0 at halftime.
When the second half began, Pellegrini urged calm. No need to humiliate, but no need to drop tempo either. "Control, keep the ball, let them run," he instructed. The players obeyed.
City moved the ball around with almost arrogant ease. Stoke chased shadows, legs tiring, morale shattered. Kompany and Van Dijk hardly broke a sweat. Donnarumma had barely touched the ball beyond goal kicks.
Casemiro, however, wanted his name on the scoresheet. In the 55th minute, he got it.
De Bruyne delivered a corner, swinging it toward the near post. Casemiro rose highest, shrugging off his marker, and thundered a header past Butland. Pure power, pure dominance. The Brazilian pumped his fists, teammates mobbing him as the scoreboard changed again.
5-0. Game over, if it hadn't been already.
The remaining minutes were a training exercise. Pellegrini used the opportunity to rest legs—Son was subbed off to applause, Rashford received a standing ovation when replaced late on. Adriano stayed on, orchestrating calmly, feeding little passes, keeping the rhythm alive. Kane nearly added another in the 70th minute, but his shot was tipped wide.
Stoke had one half-chance late on, a long-range shot that Donnarumma palmed comfortably. Otherwise, the Italian teenager spent the evening as a spectator, watching his team carve open opponents at will.
When the final whistle blew, the Etihad rose to applaud. A 5-0 demolition, another statement win, another clean sheet. Adriano, with two goals and an assist, was the undisputed star once again, but Pellegrini would have been just as pleased with the balance—the young guns stepping up, the squad rotation seamless.
As Adriano walked off the pitch, he glanced up toward the VIP box. Kate was waving down at him, beaming. He lifted a hand in acknowledgement, a small smile curling his lips.
Life was good. The winning streak continued, the hunger showed no signs of fading. Manchester City marched on.
But for now, he had to join Portugal squad for the next Eueo qualifier rounds.
******
Adriano's Stats 2015-16 Season
Premier League
Match: 15
Goals: 24
Assists: 10
Champions League
Match:4
Goal: 7
Assist: 3
Community Shield
Match: 1
Goals : 2
Assists: 2
Capital One Cup
Match: 1
Goal: 3
Assists: 0
Euro Qualifiers
Match: 4
Goals: 6
Assist: 2