The morning after the intense Denmark match, the streets of Lisbon still carried the faint echo of celebration. Portuguese flags hung proudly from balconies, car horns had quieted, and newspapers featured images of Adriano and Ronaldo on the front pages, surrounded by their teammates in jubilation. But for Adriano, the high of victory had gently given way to something quieter, something warmer.
A single day off.
It wasn't much, but to him, it was everything. After the long months of club football, the whirlwind of Champions League glory, the engagement, media tours, and now the qualifiers, today wasn't about goals or tactics. It was about slowing down. About family.
He drove himself back to his childhood neighborhood in a matte black Range Rover that almost looked comically out of place next to the modest row houses. But it wasn't the car that drew attention—it was him. Neighbors waved as he passed, older women peeking out from their windows like they had when he was a kid. A boy kicked a ball on the sidewalk, stopping mid-dribble to gasp and shout, "Adriano!"
Adriano grinned, rolled down the window, and gave the boy a thumbs up. "Nice footwork, champ. Keep at it."
At the front door, Rosa had been watching from the moment she heard the car. The moment he stepped out, she wrapped him in a tight hug, one of those motherly embraces that never lost strength no matter how tall or famous he got.
"You're too thin," she said automatically, patting his face. "They don't feed you right at the national team camp?"
"I literally had three plates of bacalhau yesterday," Adriano laughed, stepping inside. "And I'm a professional athlete, mom."
"That's not an excuse to starve. You sit. Eat."
Julio greeted him next with a clap on the back and a grin. "You looked sharp yesterday. That backheel flick to Ronaldo? Genius."
Adriano sat at the kitchen table where familiar smells drifted from the stove. Rosa had already started preparing a late breakfast—chouriço, scrambled eggs, fresh bread, and a bowl of cut fruit. She made enough for five people, as always.
They spent the morning talking and laughing. Conversations drifted easily—from football to gossip about the neighborhood. Rosa mentioned how Mrs. Silva next door still bragged that she once babysat Adriano when he was five, even though it only happened once. Julio showed him a homemade scrapbook of his son's recent magazine covers, clippings, and photos from the press. Adriano rolled his eyes but smiled at every page.
"Dad, you know the internet exists, right?"
Julio chuckled. "And when it crashes one day, we'll still have this."
Midday sunlight poured through the windows as Adriano, full and content, leaned back on the couch scrolling through his phone. His fingers paused over Kate's contact and with a smile, he hit the video call button.
It only rang once before her face popped up on the screen, fresh-faced and beaming despite looking like she was in the middle of a whirlwind.
"There he is! My favorite midfielder-slash-financial advisor."
Adriano laughed. "And there's my favorite chaos sorceress."
Kate was in her trailer, half in costume, hair curled but makeup half-done. "You wouldn't believe this shoot. One of the fake buildings fell mid-scene. Chris [Evans] screamed like a duck."
"Please tell me someone recorded it."
"Oh, they did. I'll send it to you later."
Rosa appeared in the background, leaning in toward the screen. "Kate! Sweetheart, we miss you!"
"Miss you too, Rosa! And that pão de ló. Adriano, you better bring some back."
"I already packed two boxes," he said proudly. "Don't worry."
Kate smiled. "How's the old man?"
Julio waved from the back of the room. "Still handsome."
They laughed together, the conversation flowing effortlessly between languages, teasing and affection. Eventually, Kate leaned back and said, "I wish I was there."
"Me too," Adriano admitted, voice softer. "After these two away games, I'll be free. Let's do that getaway. No cameras. No calls. Just us."
Kate nodded slowly. "I want that. Somewhere remote. Like Iceland. Or New Zealand. Or... that island you told me about—what was it?"
"The Azores."
"Yes! That. Just sea, stars, and seafood."
"We'll make it happen," he promised. "Soon."
"Now go spend time with your parents. I'll call tonight."
"Love you."
"Love you more."
He hung up and placed the phone down, still smiling.
The rest of the day passed like a warm breeze. They went out for a drive along the coast, stopping at one of Adriano's favorite childhood haunts—an old lighthouse where he used to sit and dream of playing at the top. Julio snapped a photo of him and Rosa with the lighthouse in the background, arms around each other like time hadn't passed at all.
Lunch was a small picnic in the park they used to frequent, with homemade sandwiches, pastries, and a thermos of coffee Rosa insisted on bringing. Kids recognized him from afar, some cautiously approaching. Adriano smiled at each one, signed a few shirts, and even joined in a five-minute kickabout in the grass.
By late afternoon, they were home again. Rosa brought out an old album from the attic, and together they flipped through pages of Adriano's childhood. Photos of him as a boy—grinning with missing teeth, clutching his first football trophy, asleep in a Portugal jersey three sizes too big.
"You've done us proud," Julio said, placing a hand on his son's shoulder. "But even if you hadn't, we'd still be proud."
Adriano nodded quietly, the words settling into his chest like a warm stone.
Later that night, after dinner and a second round of coffee, Adriano packed his bag for the trip to Serbia. He knew this would be the last time he'd be home for a while—between the qualifiers, preseason, and media obligations. There was a quiet sadness in that, but it was the life he had chosen. And he was grateful.
As he zipped up his duffel, Rosa came into the room holding a small plastic bag. Inside it was a simple red wristband—faded, frayed, but still intact.
"You wore this in your first junior league match," she said. "Thought you might want to keep it."
Adriano took it gently, smiling. "Thanks, mom."
He hugged them both tightly before heading off to bed. Tomorrow, the road continued. Serbia. Then Albania. Then back to Manchester. The mission wasn't over yet.
But tonight, in this little Lisbon home, he wasn't a millionaire athlete or the face of a nation's footballing hopes. He was just their boy.
****
After bidding farewell to Rosa and Julio with long hugs and promises to call after the Serbia match, Adriano joined the Portuguese national squad at Lisbon Humberto Delgado Airport the next morning. The terminal buzzed with passengers going about their day, but it was hard to miss a group of tall, athletic men in sleek Portugal tracksuits gathering by Gate 17.
Adriano strolled in with a rolling duffel in one hand and a hoodie pulled loosely over his head. Bruno Fernandes was already there, sitting on a carry-on like it was a throne, scrolling through his phone with a smirk.
"Late as always," Bruno muttered without looking up.
"Early as ever," Adriano grinned back, dropping his bag beside him. "Did you sleep at the airport?"
Bruno tilted his head dramatically. "I don't sleep. I meditate on assists."
Ronaldo, lounging near the windows with a protein bar in one hand and sunglasses pushed up onto his hair, chuckled. "Just don't meditate too hard, or you'll start assisting their striker."
Pepe joined in, slapping Bruno's shoulder. "He'll pass to the wrong guy just for balance."
"Unlike you who passes to no one," Bruno shot back, but he was grinning.
Soon, the rest of the squad assembled—Moutinho, with his ever-calm presence, Cancelo teasing Quaresma over his ever-changing hairstyle, and Rui Patrício chatting quietly with the coaching staff. The camaraderie was natural. A team of men who had tasted glory together, but hadn't let it change the way they interacted with each other.
The flight to Belgrade was just under four hours, and for most of the journey, the cabin was filled with easy laughter, music, and the occasional heated discussion over who the real GOAT was—mostly led by Quaresma insisting it was still Ronaldinho, and Danilo defending Messi's passing vision.
Adriano sat beside Ronaldo and Moutinho. They shared a pack of almonds and poked fun at old photos from their World Cup win that had resurfaced online. At one point, Ronaldo leaned in with a sly grin. "So, when are you and Kate dropping the wedding date? Don't leave us hanging."
Adriano raised an eyebrow. "Oh, you want to be a flower girl now?"
"I want a front-row seat. And a plus one," Ronaldo replied smoothly, pointing toward his phone where a picture of a gorgeous model flashed up. "She says hi, by the way."
Moutinho snorted. "She probably doesn't even know he's on a plane."
By the time the plane began descending into Belgrade, the mood was light but focused. Fernando Santos stood at the front, clearing his throat. The squad fell into a casual silence.
"Alright, boys. We rest today, train hard tomorrow. Serbia won't lie down for us. They're tough, fast, and physical. Let's make sure we play our game and keep it clean."
They nodded, a quiet confidence passing through the group like a wave.
Upon arrival in Serbia, the weather was mild, the air a bit humid but comfortable. The hotel they were staying in was tucked not far from the Danube, offering a beautiful view of the river cutting through Belgrade. The check-in was smooth—staff well-prepared, privacy ensured.
Adriano and Bruno were roomed together. As they walked into their room, Bruno flopped onto the bed immediately.
"Remind me again why I ever chose football over becoming a full-time Twitch streamer," Bruno sighed.
"Because your FIFA skills are mid at best," Adriano said as he opened his suitcase. "I've seen your ultimate team."
Bruno raised a pillow like a weapon. "Say that again and I'll suffocate you in your sleep."
Training started the next morning. The team gathered at a nearby facility with lush green pitches and state-of-the-art equipment. The Serbian Football Federation had gone all out with security and facilities—perhaps in part due to Portugal's world champion status, or maybe because they simply knew the draw of Ronaldo and Adriano brought global eyes to the city.
The next few days were packed with tactical drills. Fernando Santos had the team working on transitions and off-the-ball movement. Serbia's backline was physical and their midfield fast—it would take more than flair to break them down.
In one session, Adriano and Ronaldo practiced one-touch sequences, working on synchronized diagonal runs that had defenders spinning in circles.
"Again!" Ronaldo barked after a near-perfect play. "Let's push it."
"Relax, you're not twenty anymore," Adriano teased.
Ronaldo huffed but smirked. "You'll understand when you're my age. Still better than most."
Meanwhile, Pepe was in the middle of a heated scrimmage with Bruno, shoving him lightly after a tackle.
"Try that in the match, old man, and I'll nutmeg you so bad your knees will retire," Bruno warned.
Pepe grinned. "Try it, and I'll send you back to the under-21s."
João Cancelo was buzzing with energy, overlapping constantly on the right during tactical drills. At one point, he darted past Moutinho and crossed the ball, which Quaresma volleyed perfectly into the net.
Quaresma spun, arms wide, and yelled, "Sign me up for the Ballon d'Or!"
"Yeah, maybe for haircuts," Adrien Silva quipped from the sideline.
Team dinners were just as lively. One night, they gathered in a private dining room where seafood, pasta, grilled meats, and plenty of pastéis de nata were served. Moutinho led a toast before everyone dug in.
Adriano FaceTimed Kate briefly that evening from the balcony, showing her the Danube twinkling in the night. She smiled sleepily, wrapped in a blanket.
"You look tired," he said.
"Blame the press junket," she yawned. "But I miss you more than sleep."
They exchanged quiet smiles and hung up.
Later, back in the lounge, Bruno and Cancelo tried to convince Rui Patrício to join their "Team Fantasy League," while Quaresma was huddled in the corner reading conspiracy theories on who would direct the next Marvel movie.
It was lighthearted, the kind of atmosphere only found in a squad that had already faced and overcome mountains together. Everyone was focused, but the bond was just as vital. They didn't feel pressure anymore. They felt expectation—of excellence, of showing again why Portugal now walked among the footballing giants.
And soon, game day would arrive. Serbia awaited. The third match of the qualifiers loomed.
But tonight, they were still brothers in arms—sharing stories, teasing each other, prepping for battle in the way footballers have done for generations.
They were ready.
****
EURO 2016 QUALIFIERS – MATCHDAY 3
SERBIA vs PORTUGAL – Stadion Rajko Mitić, Belgrade
Commentary: Martin Tyler & Alan Smith
Attendance: 45,600
The Belgrade night was cool but electric. Stadion Rajko Mitić was packed well before kickoff, with flares already flickering behind the southern goal. Serbian fans, passionate and vocal, had turned the stands into a sea of red and white. Flags draped across barriers, chants rang from every corner, and the sound of drums echoed through the Balkans air.
Down on the pitch, Fernando Santos stood with arms crossed, watching his players warm up. This was a different Portugal tonight—not just in location, but in shape. He had opted for a new tactical experiment: a 4-4-2 diamond formation. Rui Patrício remained in goal, with Pepe and Ricardo Carvalho forming the veteran centre-back pairing. João Cancelo and Fábio Coentrão occupied the full-back roles. William Carvalho sat deep in midfield, shielding the back line, while Moutinho and André Gomes played either side of him. Adriano, playing just behind the forwards, operated as the attacking point of the diamond, tasked with linking play and feeding the front two—Cristiano Ronaldo and Eder.
"There's a lot of curiosity about this new shape," Martin Tyler said, as the teams emerged to whistles from the home support. "It's narrow, compact, and relies heavily on the fullbacks to provide width."
"Exactly," Alan Smith added. "And while Serbia aren't the most threatening side Portugal will face, trying this system away from home is a bold move."
The match kicked off to a chorus of jeers from the Serbian faithful, who made sure every Portuguese touch was met with whistles and taunts. Serbia, lined up in a standard 4-2-3-1, pressed quickly from the front. Their intent was clear—disrupt Portugal's build-up and prevent the diamond from dictating tempo.
Early on, Portugal looked uncertain. The compact midfield structure meant fewer wide outlets, and with Cancelo and Coentrão still feeling out their roles in the new system, there were hesitant exchanges and several misplaced passes. William Carvalho, often the calm anchor, looked flustered under pressure from Nemanja Gudelj and Zoran Tošić, who hunted him in packs.
"In this kind of setup, William needs to dictate rhythm," Martin noted. "But Serbia are doing well to shut him down early."
Despite the sluggish start, Portugal settled somewhat after ten minutes. Adriano, positioned at the tip of the diamond, began to find small pockets of space behind Serbia's midfield line. In the 13th minute, he picked up the ball from Moutinho, turned sharply, and slipped a clever ball into the path of Eder. The striker's first touch took him wide, and his shot from a narrow angle was comfortably smothered by Serbian keeper Vladimir Stojković.
"It's a start," Alan said. "That's what Adriano brings. He's the one player in this new system who hasn't had to change his role."
Portugal's next opportunity came in the 18th minute when Cancelo, venturing forward for the first time, won a corner off Kolarov. Moutinho whipped it into the box and Pepe rose above everyone—only to power his header just over the bar.
The Serbian fans jeered again, banging drums and clapping in rhythm. Every near-miss from Portugal only seemed to fuel their energy. On the pitch, Serbia remained disciplined, defending in a mid-block that forced Portugal into central congestion. Ronaldo, tightly marked by Ivanović, was forced to drift wide, often abandoning his central striker role to find space on the flanks.
"Cristiano's getting frustrated," Martin observed. "He's not seeing enough of the ball, and when he does, it's with his back to goal."
In the 25th minute, Portugal almost paid the price for their lack of width. Serbia broke quickly down the right, Filip Kostić outpacing Coentrão before cutting inside. His curling effort looked destined for the top corner until Rui Patrício leapt to tip it over.
"Outstanding save!" shouted Martin Tyler. "That had danger written all over it."
The resulting corner was cleared only as far as Gudelj, who hammered a volley toward goal, but it smacked off Pepe's chest and deflected away. Serbia appealed for handball, but the referee waved it off, to the fury of the home crowd.
Portugal continued to probe, but the midfield diamond still felt restricted. Adriano, constantly moving, tried to link with Eder and Ronaldo, but Serbia's midfield trio of Gudelj, Tadić, and Tošić were compact and combative. João Moutinho had a half-chance in the 31st minute after a quick exchange with André Gomes, but his curling shot from outside the box sailed over the bar.
"It's not quite clicking, is it?" Alan noted. "Portugal look like a team trying to remember who's supposed to be where."
The best chance of the half came in the 36th minute. Adriano, again the architect, received the ball on the half-turn, dodged a challenge, and lofted a perfectly weighted ball over Serbia's back line. Ronaldo timed his run perfectly, took it on the bounce, and struck it with venom—but the ball cannoned off the post and rolled across the goalmouth before being cleared by Ivanović.
"Oh, what a let-off for Serbia!" Martin exclaimed. "So close from Ronaldo, and it was Adriano again with the vision."
The away section in the corner of the stadium leapt to their feet, clutching scarves and screaming in disbelief. A few Portuguese fans had already jumped up in celebration before sinking back down, heads in hands.
That moment briefly lifted Portugal. A minute later, Coentrão charged up the left and floated a ball into the box, but Eder's header lacked power and drifted wide. Soon after, Adriano threaded another through ball to Ronaldo, but the flag went up for offside—tight, but correct.
The final moments of the half saw Serbia wrestle back possession. A clumsy foul by William Carvalho on Tadić near the edge of the box gave Serbia a dangerous free-kick. Kolarov stepped up and struck it low, trying to sneak it under the wall, but Rui Patrício was alert and gathered cleanly.
The referee looked at his watch and blew the whistle.
"No goals in this first half," said Martin Tyler as players made their way to the tunnel. "But it's been an intriguing tactical contest. Portugal still adapting to this diamond, and while Adriano looks right at home, the rest of the side are still figuring it out."
Alan nodded. "It's a tough place to try something new, but they've done enough to stay level. Let's see what Santos adjusts in the second half."
As the players disappeared down the tunnel, the Serbian fans clapped their side off with pride, while the Portuguese contingent stayed standing, hopeful.
The match still hung in the balance. The score at the break remained 0–0.
****
As the teams returned to the pitch after halftime, the Serbian fans were in full voice. A thick atmosphere of anticipation clung to the cool night air in Belgrade, with flares crackling behind the goals and chants echoing across the stands. The first half had ended without a goal, and while Serbia had held firm, Portugal's adjustments hinted that the second half might unfold differently.
Fernando Santos made one change at the break. Bruno Fernandes came on to replace André Gomes in central midfield—a move that immediately brought a new edge to Portugal's passing.
"Interesting substitution from Santos," Martin Tyler said as the players lined up again. "Fernandes offers a bit more pace in possession, and he's far more aggressive going forward."
"It's a clear statement," Alan Smith added. "They want to control this game now, not just sit in it."
With the change, Portugal's diamond suddenly became sharper. William Carvalho continued to sit deep, Bruno Fernandes brought urgency, Moutinho pushed higher, and Adriano had more freedom to operate between the lines. The narrow formation started clicking—Portugal began finding lanes, angles, and rhythm.
The first warning shot came in the 52nd minute. João Cancelo charged forward from right-back, combined with Fernandes, and delivered a whipped cross that sailed just past Eder's head. Moments later, Ronaldo drifted wide left and tested the keeper with a low shot that Stojković saved well at the near post.
The breakthrough came in the 57th minute—and it came through Adriano.
He received the ball from Moutinho just outside the right edge of the penalty area, with two Serbian defenders closing in. Instead of looking for an early pass, Adriano decided to take matters into his own hands. A quick stepover fooled Maksimović, allowing Adriano to slip past him. A sharp cut inside beat Kolarov, and as a third defender lunged to tackle, Adriano spun away, keeping control with remarkable balance.
"He's still going—Adrianoooo!" Martin Tyler exclaimed, rising with the moment.
With a clear sight of goal now, Adriano steadied himself and fired a low right-footed shot across the face of the goal. It flew past Stojković and tucked neatly into the bottom corner.
Stadium Announcer (in Portuguese):
"GOOOOOAALLLL! PORTUGAL! NUMBER 10– ADRIANO!"
The away end exploded. Portuguese fans erupted in screams, fists in the air, scarves twirling. Adriano sprinted toward the corner flag, pumping both fists, then dropped to one knee and pointed both index fingers to the sky. His teammates surrounded him, hugging, slapping his back, and shouting with joy.
"What a goal that is," Alan Smith said. "Pure individual brilliance. He cut through that defense like it wasn't there."
"It's exactly what this game needed," Martin added. "And Portugal lead, thanks to a moment of magic from their number 10."
The momentum shifted immediately. Serbia tried to respond, pushing their full-backs higher and moving to a more attacking shape.
But Portugal stayed compact. Pepe and Ricardo Carvalho remained disciplined at the back, calmly repelling every ball into the box. William Carvalho began to assert himself in midfield again, intercepting, covering ground, and launching quick counters.
In the 65th minute, Serbia nearly responded through Filip Kostić, who got behind Cancelo and lashed a powerful strike just over the bar. The Serbian fans stood up briefly, urging their team forward, but Portugal held firm.
Santos didn't make any hasty changes. His side was in control now. Bruno Fernandes and Moutinho kept recycling the ball, and Adriano continued to glide in the half-spaces, combining well with both strikers.
Portugal's second goal arrived in the 76th minute after a spell of composed passing. Moutinho spotted Ronaldo making a darting diagonal run between the centre-backs. The pass was inch-perfect, and Ronaldo took it in stride with his left foot before calmly slotting it past Stojković.
Martin Tyler: "Ronaldo makes it two! Serbia stretched, and Portugal punished them with clinical precision!"
Stadium Announcer:
"GOOOOOAALLLL! PORTUGAL! NUMBER 7 – CRISTIANO RONALDO!"
This time, Ronaldo pointed to the Portuguese badge on his chest, then jogged to the sideline with arms outstretched as teammates rushed to embrace him. The away supporters were in raptures, bouncing, clapping, singing louder than ever.
"Perfectly timed run," Alan Smith said. "You won't stop Ronaldo with space like that. Moutinho deserves credit for the vision."
At 2–0, Serbia were stunned. They tried to surge forward, but their attacks became desperate—crosses overhit, shots rushed, and their midfield started to give the ball away more frequently. Portugal, by contrast, looked composed and confident, content to play on the break.
In the 82nd minute, Portugal nearly scored a third through Bruno Fernandes, whose swerving shot from outside the box forced another smart save. A minute later, Eder had a close-range header saved off the line by a scrambling Ivanović.
Then, in the 86th minute, Adriano struck again.
It started with William Carvalho winning the ball near the halfway line and immediately feeding Bruno Fernandes. Fernandes pushed forward and slid the ball into Ronaldo, who drew defenders with him before laying it off for Adriano, arriving at the top of the box.
One touch to control. One step to shift it onto his stronger foot. And then, a thundering strike into the top-left corner.
Martin Tyler: "That is sensational! Adriano again—and Portugal are running away with it!"
Stadium Announcer:
"GOOOOOAAALLLLL! PORTUGAL! Number 10 – ADRIANOOO!"
Adriano raced toward the corner flag again, this time sliding on his knees as his teammates chased after him. He held up three fingers to the crowd—his second goal of the match, and Portugal's third. Behind him, the away supporters jumped wildly, a thunderous wall of red in the far corner of the Serbian fortress.
"Two goals, both superb, and a performance to match," Alan said. "He's been unplayable tonight."
As the clock wound down, the match was effectively over. Portugal continued to manage possession, calmly moving the ball as Serbia faded. The full-time whistle came as a relief to the home fans, many of whom had already begun filtering out of the stadium.
The Portuguese players embraced, then walked toward their supporters, clapping above their heads. Adriano lingered a moment longer in the centre circle, receiving pats on the back from both coaches and teammates.
Martin Tyler: "Full-time in Belgrade. Serbia nil, Portugal three. Another clean sheet. Three wins from three. And tonight belongs to Adriano—a match-winning performance of real class."
Alan Smith: "He ran the game. Santos took a gamble with the diamond, but Adriano made it look like it was built for him."
As the crowd thinned and the players left the pitch, Portugal's fans stayed to sing and wave their flags. Their team had silenced the noise in Belgrade—and they had done it with confidence, control, and a number nine who looked like the heartbeat of something special.
Euro Qualifiers Stats of Adriano
Matches: 3
Goal : 3
Assists: 2