Wednesday morning at The Oaks was quiet. The kind of quiet that cost £4.5 million.
Rio sat on the stone patio of his new ho, wrapped in a thick hoodie.
The Manchester rain was falling softly on the four acres of green grass, misting the goalposts he'd had installed in the garden yesterday.
He held a steaming mug of coffee, watching a squirrel bury a nut near the oak tree.
"Peace," Rio whispered. "Finally."
SLAM!
The French doors flew open.
"Rio! Madre de Dios! Put down the coffee! We are rich! Again!"
Leo Lance stord onto the patio. He was wearing a suit. At 9 AM. In his own house. He was holding a tablet like it was a holy relic, his eyes wide and vibrating with caffeine and capitalism.
"Leo," Rio sighed, not turning around. "We were rich yesterday. We were rich the day before. What is it now? Did you sell my kidney?"
"Better!" Leo scread, sliding on the wet stone in his dress shoes but recovering with the grace of a drunk ballerina. "We sold your na! We sold your back! We sold... the cotton!"
Leo shoved the tablet into Rio's face.
[Manchester City Official Store Data]
[Item: 24/25 Ho Kit - LANCE 7]
[Status: SOLD OUT (Global)]
[Waitlist: 45,000 ]
Rio blinked. He wiped a raindrop off the screen.
"Sold out?" Rio asked. "In two days?"
"In forty-eight hours, hermano! Look at the graph!" Leo swiped the screen. A blue line shot up vertically, looking like a rocket launch. "You have outsold Haaland. You have outsold De Bruyne. You have even outsold the retro Aguero shirts!"
Leo grabbed Rio's shoulders and shook him.
"Do you know what this ans? The royalties! The image rights! The percentages!"
Rio looked at the numbers.
Units Sold: 185,000
Revenue Generated: £14,000,000 (approx)
Fourteen million pounds. In shirts. Because he kicked a ball into a net at Wembley.
"It's just cotton, Leo," Rio muttered, feeling a strange heaviness in his stomach.
"It is not cotton!" Leo gasped, offended. "It is polyester! High-grade, sweat-wicking polyester! And it is printing money! Get dressed. We have a eting at the Etihad. The marketing director is crying tears of joy. He wants to hug you."
The Drive to the Store
They took the Range Rover this ti. It felt more "business-like," according to Leo.
As they drove through the grey streets of Manchester towards the stadium, Rio looked out the window.
He saw a bus stop. There was a kid, maybe ten years old, waiting in the rain.
The kid was wearing a sky-blue shirt. It was three sizes too big for him. On the back, peeling slightly in the damp air: LANCE 7.
Rio felt his breath hitch.
"Leo, slow down."
"Why? We are late!"
"Just slow down."
Rio watched the kid. The boy was kicking a crushed soda can against the bus shelter glass. He trapped it, did a little step-over, and then kicked it.
Then, the kid raised his hand. He mid a paintbrush stroke in the air.
The Artist.
Rio sank back into the leather seat.
It hit him then. Harder than the transfer fee. Harder than the wages.
That kid spent his pocket money—or his dad spent his hard-earned wages—to wear Rio's na on his back. That kid was copying Rio's moves.
"Fuck," Rio whispered.
"What?" Leo asked, checking his hair in the mirror.
"It's real, Leo. It's actually real."
"Of course it is real! The wire transfer cleared this morning!"
"No, not the money. The... influence."
[System Notification]
[Hidden Stat: 'Legacy' Activated]
[Current Level: Cult Hero]
[Next Level: Global Icon]
[Note: Heavy is the head that wears the crown. Heavier is the back that carries the city.]
The Boardroom
The offices at the Etihad Stadium were sleek, glass-walled, and slled of expensive cologne.
Rio and Leo sat at a long mahogany table. Opposite them sat Sarah, the Head of Comrcial Revenue, and a man nad Steve who looked like he hadn't slept in a week.
"Unprecedented," Sarah said, tapping a pen on her notebook. "We expected a spike, Rio. The 'Leeds Missile' narrative, the young English talent angle... but this?"
She pointed to a screen on the wall. It showed a heat map of sales.
"The UK is blue. Obviously. But look at this."
She pointed to Asia.
"Japan. South Korea. Thailand. The 'Artist' celebration has gone viral on TikTok. They love the aesthetic. We have 50,000 orders from Tokyo alone."
"Tokyo?" Rio frowned. "I've never even been to Tokyo."
"You don't need to go," Steve chid in, grinning. "Your brand is already there. The 'World's Desire' effect... whatever it is, it's working."
Leo looked like he was about to faint from happiness. "So... the bonus structure?"
"We're triggering the Tier 1 escalator clause," Sarah nodded. "Rio gets a percentage of every shirt sold over 100,000 units."
She slid a piece of paper across the table. It was a check. An advance on the royalties.
£250,000.
Leo snatched it before Rio could even look at it.
"Thank you, Sarah. Pleasure doing business. Rio, smile for the lady."
Rio gave a weak smile.
"One thing, Rio," Sarah added, her face turning serious. "We need content. Unboxing videos. Signing sessions. Maybe a painting tutorial?"
Rio laughed. "I can't paint, Sarah. I mi it."
"Doesn't matter," she shrugged. "If you paint a stick figure, we can sell it for charity for ten grand. Just keep scoring, yeah? If you stop scoring, the shirts stop selling."
There it was. The hook.
If you stop scoring, the shirts stop selling.
Rio nodded slowly. "I'll keep scoring."
The Locker Room Banter
They drove back to the City Football Academy for afternoon training.
Rio walked into the dressing room. He expected peace.
Instead, he found Jack Grealish standing on a bench, wearing a Rio Lance mask (a cutout of Rio's face on a stick).
"HELLO! I AM RIO!" Jack shouted in a terrible Yorkshire accent. "I AM WORTH MORE THAN GOLD! BUY MY SHIRT! IT SLLS LIKE LAVENDER!"
The whole room erupted. Haaland was laughing so hard he dropped his protein shake.
"Jack, get down," Rio sighed, walking to his locker.
"No way, Mr. Best Seller!" Grealish jumped down, ripping the mask off. He held up a phone. "Have you seen the numbers, lad? You're outselling ! ! The face of Gucci!"
"Maybe if you scored more than three goals a season, you'd sell more," Rio shot back, pulling off his hoodie.
"Ooooooh!" Foden yelled. "Emotional damage!"
Grealish clutched his chest. "That hurt, Rio. That actually hurt. I create chances! I am an artist too!"
"You're a finger painter, Jack," Rio grinned.
Erling Haaland walked over. The giant lood over Rio.
"Rio."
"Yeah, Erling?"
"I bought ten shirts."
Rio blinked. "You what?"
"For my cousins in Norway," Haaland said seriously. "They like the celebration. They think it is funny. So, I bought them. You owe £800."
"I'll buy you lunch," Rio offered.
"Steak?"
"Two steaks."
"Deal."
Kyle Walker leaned over from his locker. "Don't let it get to your head, kid. I've seen players sell a million shirts in August and be on loan to Turkey by January."
The room went quiet for a second. Walker's voice was light, but the warning was real.
"I know, Walks," Rio said quietly. "Cotton tears easily."
"Exactly," Walker nodded. "Now get your boots on. Pep is in a mood. He thinks we celebrated too much on Sunday."
The Quiet Reflection
Later that evening, Rio sat in his new "Sanctuary"—the garage workshop at The Oaks.
His dad, Carlos, was tinkering with an old lawnmower he'd found in the shed. The sll of oil and gasoline filled the air. It was a grounding sll.
Rio sat on a toolbox, looking at his phone.
[Chat Room Active]
Rio_7: The shirts sold out. Global. Millions of pounds. It feels... fake.
The_King: It is part of the ga. The circus. The clowns dance, the people pay.
Zizou_5: Enjoy it, Rio. It ans you are loved. But rember... the shirt is just fabric. The player inside is flesh and blood. Do not beco the brand.
Total_Football_14: Comrce is dangerous. It demands consistency. When you are a product, you are not allowed to be human. You are not allowed to have a bad day.
Rio_7: Walker said I could end up in Turkey if I stop performing.
The_King: Turkey has good kebabs. But Walker is right. The fans love you today because you are new. Because you are shiny. When the shine fades... only the football remains.
The_King: My advice? Give the money to your family. Keep the football for yourself. And never, ever do a painting tutorial. That is dignity suicide.
Rio laughed aloud. The sound echoed in the garage.
"What's funny?" Carlos asked, looking up from the engine, grease on his nose.
"Nothing, Dad," Rio smiled, hopping off the toolbox. "Just... advice from a friend."
"Is it about the car?"
"No. It's about staying on the road."
Rio walked over and picked up a wrench.
"Need a hand with that mower?"
Carlos bead. "Hold this bolt."
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