The sun was high over Carrington as the Manchester City squad went through their final training session before the Premier League opener away at West Brom. The grass was neatly trimmed, the pitch damp and pristine, the summer breeze soft enough to keep the heat from being a bother. Music was blaring from a speaker nearby—someone had connected their phone to blast a mix of upbeat Latin pop and UK grime. It kept the energy high.
Adriano jogged across the pitch with Kimmich beside him, tossing a ball lightly between their feet as they exchanged teasing words.
"Try not to get sent off again in the first ten minutes like last season," Adriano smirked.
Kimmich rolled his eyes. "Mate, that was one time. Besides, you tackled someone worse two matches later and got away with it because you smiled at the ref."
"I have a charming face," Adriano shrugged.
"Yeah, and a devil's right foot. That ref was scared to book you after watching you hit a knuckleball in warm-ups," Kimmich shot back.
Just ahead, Mbappé and Son were goofing around with Marcus Rashford, trying to juggle a second ball mid-passing drill. De Bruyne yelled at them from the other side of the pitch.
"Do that in a game and I'll pretend I don't know any of you!"
"Kev, relax!" Rashford shouted back, laughing. "We're just getting the flair flowing."
"Flair doesn't win matches. Precision does," De Bruyne replied, but a grin betrayed his amusement.
Casemiro jogged over, slightly out of breath from the fitness drills. "God, you lot have too much energy. You'd think it was the Champions League final tomorrow."
Theo Hernandez passed him a bottle. "Nah, that's in May. This is just West Brom."
"'Just West Brom' is how you lose points early in the season," Casemiro grunted.
Adriano nodded. "He's right. Can't underestimate them. Opening match always has weird vibes."
Ruben Dias, who'd just finished a short sprint set, clapped his hands. "We play like champions, from match one. Let's start the season like we mean to finish it."
Everyone cheered at that.
But while the mood on the field was light-hearted, something entirely different was brewing off it.
As the squad finished their session and headed toward the locker rooms, a few of the staffers started whispering near the bench. One of the analysts checked his phone, eyes wide. "Guys... check Twitter."
Inside the locker room, someone turned on Sky Sports News. The breaking headline ran across the bottom of the screen in bold red:
"NEYMARGATE? Reports Emerge of Unhappiness at Barcelona"
The anchor's voice was tense with excitement.
"Speculation has erupted surrounding Neymar Jr.'s future at FC Barcelona. Sources close to the player suggest he's growing frustrated with life at Camp Nou, despite the club's insistence that he remains a central figure in their plans. While Barcelona have denied the claims, Neymar himself has remained silent—only adding fuel to the fire."
"Woah," said Aguero, towel around his neck. "That's a big one."
"Do you think it's real?" Son asked, sipping water.
"Players don't usually go radio silent unless something's actually going on," Hummels murmured.
"Maybe he just wants a new contract," Trent mused. "Sometimes these leaks are planted to get the board moving."
Adriano was quiet, seated in front of his locker, towel slung around his neck. He stared at the screen, watching footage of Neymar scoring a brilliant goal from last season.
Yaya Toure came over, sitting beside him. "You know how these things go. If he is unhappy, someone's already been making calls."
"Imagine him leaving Barca," Adriano said. "Just feels… weird."
De Bruyne chimed in from across the room. "The market's crazy now. If you're worth your weight, clubs will come knocking, no matter how big your current team is."
"Would be funny if he came to England," Theo added.
Adriano raised an eyebrow. "Would be funnier if he joined us."
Everyone laughed, but Ruben Dias smirked. "Be careful, man. With your contract, they'll say you're funding his move yourself."
That got the room going. "Adriano owns Etihad now!" shouted Rashford.
"He is the oil money!" Mbappé grinned, ducking a towel Adriano tossed at him.
"You lot are annoying," Adriano chuckled, but the joke helped ease the tension.
Back in the players' lounge after showering, the debate was still going. The TV now featured a split screen—on one side, Neymar highlights; on the other, pundits arguing.
"Let's be honest," said one analyst, "if Neymar wants out, every top club will move heaven and earth to get him. But who can actually afford him?"
"City could. PSG could. Maybe Chelsea with their recent revenue spike. But that's about it," replied another.
Adriano grabbed a protein shake from the fridge and slumped into the couch beside Donnarumma and Mac Allister.
"You think he's serious about leaving?" Donnarumma asked.
"Hard to tell. Neymar always keeps things close to the chest," Adriano replied.
"But if he does leave…" Mac Allister raised an eyebrow. "That'll change everything."
"Yeah," Adriano nodded. "A lot of dominoes would fall."
Before long, staff members were ushering the team to the bus. It was time to head out to Manchester Airport for the trip to Birmingham. The mood inside the team bus remained lively, despite the Neymar bombshell still echoing through football media.
As the bus rolled onto the motorway, Kimmich was seated beside Adriano, scrolling through Instagram.
"You seen this?" he said, handing Adriano his phone.
It was a meme of Neymar wearing a Manchester City shirt with the caption: 'The Oil Boys Strike Again.'
Adriano laughed. "They work fast, don't they?"
"Your face is in the background too," Kimmich added. "Like you're welcoming him with a bottle of champagne."
"Maybe I should post it," Adriano grinned. "Caption it, 'We got room for one more.'"
"You'll break the internet," laughed Rashford from the seat behind them.
The conversation shifted to their upcoming match.
"West Brom away is never fun," said Casemiro, flipping through the team sheet. "Compact back five. Lots of pressing."
"Just need an early goal to crack them open," said Kevin. "Then it's game over."
Adriano leaned back in his seat, earbuds in, looking out the window as the cityscape blurred past. Despite the noise, the jokes, and the Neymar chaos, his focus was locked. A new season was about to begin, and with it, a new chance to write history.
This was only the beginning.
****
The bright August sun loomed overhead as the Manchester City team bus rolled into The Hawthorns. The energy was buzzing—summer still clung to the air, and the streets around West Brom's stadium were packed with fans. Blue and white kits dotted the stands early, and chants had already begun to echo long before kickoff.
Inside the bus, there was a sense of eager calm. The first match of the Premier League season was always a different kind of beast—there were no injuries yet, no points dropped, no standings to obsess over. Just raw anticipation.
"Smells like fresh blood," Kevin De Bruyne joked as he stretched his legs, earning a smirk from Kompany sitting opposite.
"Smells like they watered the pitch this morning," Adriano said, glancing outside. "They think slowing us down will save them."
"Won't stop you from sending another one to the top corner though, eh?" Joe Hart called from the front, where he was tying his boots. "Just don't give me a heart attack going all striker mode again."
Adriano flashed a grin. "No promises, Cap."
Hazard leaned forward from his seat and pointed at the trio of attackers. "We've got Salah, me, and Kane. I say we score six. One for each of us and then rotate."
Salah raised an eyebrow. "Only one?"
"Relax," Kane interjected with a small laugh. "Let's just make sure we win. Clean sheet for Joe, three points, everyone goes home happy."
Behind them, the younger bench players were chatting among themselves. Mbappe sat next to Rashford, whispering something in French that made the latter laugh out loud. Son was nearby, legs crossed, earbuds in, nodding to the beat of whatever music was playing, but his eyes flicked to the starting eleven, particularly to Hazard.
"You think Eden will pass today?" Son asked suddenly, drawing laughs from Trent and Theo who were sitting a row behind.
"Eden?" Trent grinned. "Nah, he's gonna dribble until his boots fall off."
"That's why I stay on the bench," Casemiro deadpanned. "Less running. More watching Eden chase five defenders at once."
The banter continued as the bus pulled into the final stretch. Outside, signs for The Hawthorns came into view, and the real buzz of matchday hit them like a wave. Camera crews had already staked out their spots. Sky Sports was live, and somewhere near the tunnel, reporters were trying to confirm the swirling Neymar rumors that had exploded online.
Even before they got off, Kimmich was scrolling on his phone.
"Barca released a statement. No Neymar quote. Just the club," he said aloud.
"That's not good," Hummels muttered.
"What, you worried he'll come to the Premier League?" Adriano asked casually, strapping on his boots.
Kimmich nodded. "Not worried for us. Just... it's going to be chaos if he does. Transfer market's already insane."
"Brother," De Bruyne said, tapping his temple. "You signed the biggest contract in history three days ago. You are the chaos."
The locker room at The Hawthorns was compact but polished—white tile floors, clean benches, and a wall-mounted screen already displaying the line-ups.
Pellegrini entered a moment later, clipboard in hand, flanked by the assistant coaches. "Alright lads, time to switch on," he said. "You know the drill. First match of the season—eyes open, legs fresh, no room for slip-ups."
He clicked the remote. The screen flickered to show West Brom's starting XI.
"Compact back four. They'll sit deep, crowd the midfield. That's why we're using the 4-3-3. Silva, Kevin, Adriano—you'll need to control the rhythm. Kane, keep dragging their centre-backs, create gaps. Eden, Mo—drive inside, take shots early."
He turned to Adriano, his voice calm but clear. "You'll have space. Use it. Don't force it."
Adriano nodded, already visualizing the zones he'd exploit.
As the team changed, the atmosphere was light but focused. Kane helped tie his laces, while Salah hummed some Arabic tune under his breath. Hazard and De Bruyne were already tossing a ball between them in the corner.
Just before heading out, Adriano pulled his phone for a second and saw a message from Kate:
"Good luck, babe. Score one for me. ❤️"
He smiled and texted back quickly:
"For you, I'll score two."
The tunnel felt narrow and humid. The scent of freshly cut grass wafted in. The buzz from the crowd, the sounds of drums, chants, and cheers—it all filled the air with electric tension.
"Feels good, doesn't it?" Kompany muttered as he adjusted his armband, looking ahead at the West Brom players lined up in white kits.
"Yeah," Adriano murmured beside him. "Like coming home."
*****
PREMIER LEAGUE OPENING DAY
WEST BROMWICH ALBION vs MANCHESTER CITY
Live on Sky Sports – The Hawthorns, West Midlands
With kickoff against West Brom just minutes away, Sky Sports' pre-match broadcast hummed with energy, cutting between fan reactions outside the stadium, close-ups of the players arriving, and sharp analysis in the studio.
Gary Neville, arms crossed and expression focused, was the first to weigh in.
"This is a scary City side, honestly. People talk about their spending — fair, because they've spent big — but this isn't just flash. It's structure. It's balance. Look at the midfield — Silva, De Bruyne, and Adriano. That's creativity, vision, and chaos all rolled into one."
Jamie Carragher, sitting beside him, leaned in.
"You're right. But I'm looking at the bench too — Son, Mbappe, Dybala, Rashford — this is a squad that could play two different XIs and still compete. But it's not just about names. It's about what Pellegrini does with them."
"And for me," Carragher continued, tapping the touch screen beside him, "this is where it starts."
He pulled up the City line-up graphic:
4-3-3 – Hart; Kimmich, Kompany, Hummels, Robertson; Silva, De Bruyne, Adriano; Salah, Hazard, Kane.
"What I love about this set-up is Adriano as that advanced 'free eight.' It's not quite a number 10 role—he's not just floating behind the striker. He drops deep when needed, pulls wide to overload, and links directly with the wingers. He's the glue. Kevin and Silva anchor possession, but Adriano adds that vertical chaos. He's going to be a nightmare to track."
Rio Ferdinand, chuckling as the third voice on the panel, added:
"And don't forget, he's not just playmaking . He's added a lot of goals to his game. That same swagger was seen in pre-season , the guy's a machine. It's AR10 for a reason."
They all shared a laugh before Neville pointed to West Brom's likely approach.
"They'll sit deep. Tony Pulis always does against big sides. Two tight banks, maybe a back five. They'll try to frustrate, slow the game, wait for set-pieces. But with Kimmich and Robertson overlapping, and Salah and Hazard cutting inside, they're going to be stretched all night."
Cut to The Hawthorns:
Fans were filing in. The away end, full of travelling City supporters, sang Adriano's name. Kids waved signs. One even held up a bright blue poster that read: "AR10 – The King Is Here!"
The referee gave the nod. The teams walked out to a chorus of roars and applause, with cameras flashing, kids waving from the sides, and the Premier League anthem playing overhead. Flags waved in the crowd, and the away fans near the corner erupted into chants of "Champions, Champions!"
The match hadn't even started, and already, the defending champions were under the spotlight.
"Let's set the tone," Hart said, clapping his gloves and turning to shout instructions.
Adriano looked up toward the stands as the announcer listed off their names—each one followed by a roar.
"…Number 10, Adriano Riveiro!"
The fans in blue answered with thunderous applause.
He inhaled deeply and rolled his shoulders.
New season. Same mission. Different fire.
He jogged to his position between De Bruyne and Silva, flashing a quick grin toward Kane up front, who gave him a thumbs-up.
As the referee blew the whistle and the ball rolled underfoot, everything else—the noise, the rumors, the Neymar saga, even the money talk—faded into background.
Now it was time for football.
****
Martin Tyler:
"Good afternoon from The Hawthorns, where the champions of England begin their title defence. Manchester City, retooled and reloaded, with the eyes of the world firmly on their number 10 , Adriano Riveiro, the highest paid footballer. Alan, this City team looks terrifying on paper."
Alan Smith:
"It does, Martin. And it's not just the names. It's the chemistry. You can already see from the warm-ups — they're sharp, hungry, and confident. West Brom have a tough task here."
From the very first whistle, it became apparent that there was only one team on the pitch with genuine ambition.
City lined up in a fluid 4-3-3 — Kane leading the line, with Salah right and Hazard left. Adriano floated just behind, drifting with elegant control. Silva and De Bruyne rotated positions, keeping West Brom guessing. The fullbacks, Kimmich and Robertson, pushed so high they were practically wingers. Kompany and Hummels? Barely involved, standing on the halfway line, arms folded at times, as City suffocated West Brom deep in their own half.
Within the first five minutes, the tone was set. Salah danced past his man on the right, cut it back to Kane who swung but missed narrowly. Adriano recycled the ball with a flicked pass to De Bruyne, whose shot was blocked.
Martin Tyler:
"There's a rhythm here… a tempo. City aren't just playing — they're orchestrating. Adriano's touch count is through the roof already."
Adriano was omnipresent. He dropped between the lines, always available, always calm. One moment he'd be pinging a first-touch pass to Kimmich, the next switching it diagonally forty yards to Hazard. His control under pressure made three West Brom midfielders look like cones in a training ground.
In the 12th minute, Adriano nearly opened his account.
A City corner. Silva whipped it near post. Adriano, ghosting in unmarked, met it with a glancing header.
Alan Smith:
"Ohhh, inches wide! Brilliant movement from Adriano. That was nearly a dream start."
But it didn't take long.
17th minute, It started with De Bruyne and Adriano exchanging slick one-twos down the left. De Bruyne played it through to Robertson on the overlap. The Scottish full-back whipped it low across the box.
Hazard, always alive at the back post, darted in behind the static right-back and tapped it in with the outside of his boot.
Martin Tyler:
"And there's the breakthrough! Eden Hazard… and that goal has been coming for the last sixteen minutes!"
The away end erupted. Hazard sprinted to the corner flag, slid on his knees, arms outstretched. Adriano was the first to reach him, jumping on his back as the rest of the team mobbed him.
Kane shouted, "That's one! Let's go again!"
Salah fist-bumped Robertson. Pellegrini gave a single nod on the touchline.
The body language of West Brom told the story. Heads dropped. Their front two hadn't touched the ball in five minutes.
City weren't done.
After Hazard's opening goal, the pace of the game didn't drop. If anything, it accelerated.
Manchester City moved like a well-oiled machine, their passes sharp and crisp, snapping across the slick surface of The Hawthorns. Adriano began to dominate the center of the park, orchestrating everything with the calm authority of a seasoned veteran—though he was still just nineteen. Every time he touched the ball, the crowd buzzed. Every flick of his foot sent ripples of anticipation through the away end.
At one point midway through the half, he dropped unusually deep, drawing both Claudio Yacob and Craig Gardner in. With a cheeky backheel drag, he turned between them in one smooth motion, leaving the pair flat-footed. The crowd gasped. Then he burst forward, riding a late challenge from Morrison, and surged into the final third. Kane peeled wide to make space. Salah darted diagonally. Adriano picked the perfect thread — sliding the ball through for Salah, who took one touch before clipping it across goal to Kane.
Kane met it first-time with a full-body swing, but Boaz Myhill got down low to his right and got a glove on it. The rebound pinged off the post and was hacked clear.
Martin Tyler:
"That would've been one of the goals of the season! What a run, what a move!"
Alan Smith:
"Adriano… he's toying with them, Martin. Like a chess master. It's effortless."
The away fans behind the goal were already standing, hands on heads, stunned they hadn't just witnessed a masterpiece. Some were still laughing at the audacity of that spin in midfield.
Moments later came the goal that silenced even the home support.
West Brom had barely recovered from the last attack when Kimmich, reading a lazy pass from Brunt, stepped forward and intercepted cleanly. Without hesitation, he laid it off to David Silva in midfield, who didn't even need to look — he knew where Adriano would be. The pass rolled across the turf with perfect weight.
Adriano was already turning as the ball reached him. One touch to control. Gardner closed in — too slow. Adriano rolled the ball through his legs without breaking stride. Then came Olsson. Adriano dropped a shoulder, shifted the ball to his left, and blew past him like he wasn't there.
Now 25 yards out, he didn't rush. He looked up once, spotted Myhill just a half-step off his line — and curled a sublime left-footed shot that arced like a painter's brushstroke into the top right corner.
Martin Tyler:
"Oh my word… oh my goodness! Adriano Riveiro — starts his Premier League scoring list!"
The ball struck the net with that sweet snap, and for a moment, there was silence. Just a beat — then the away end erupted.
"The King is Here! Adrianooo!"
The chant came in waves, loud and rhythmic.
Adriano sprinted to the corner flag, kissed his fingers and pointed to the club badge. Then he slowed, arms wide, spinning slowly as if embracing the moment. De Bruyne caught up first, grabbing him in a laughing headlock. Silva followed, clapping behind him, and the trio stood smiling, enjoying the celebration like schoolboys on a playground.
Kompany applauded from halfway, a knowing grin on his face. The captain didn't rush in — he simply nodded in approval, eyes fixed on the young number ten.
Alan Smith:
"That's a world-class goal, Martin. The control, the awareness, the confidence — that's why he wears the number 10. That's how a superstar performs."
Martin Tyler:
"And he's only nineteen, Alan. You'd think he's been doing this for a decade."
With the score at 2-0, West Brom were visibly rattled. They started giving away cheap fouls in frustration. Hazard, who had been dancing down the left wing all evening, was brought down twice in under a minute. First Dawson lunged in late, clipping his ankle. Then Gardner came in with a clumsy body check that sent Hazard tumbling into the advertising boards.
The referee marched over, arms raised, and gave them both a stern talking-to. The home fans groaned. The away fans jeered, chanting "He's too quick for you!"
City didn't back down.
Adriano remained the nucleus of every attack. He was constantly scanning, gesturing, pointing — not just playing but directing. He floated into spaces nobody else even noticed, always a pass ahead of the game.
Another moment of brilliance came when he picked the ball up just outside the box after a cleared corner. With Yacob rushing out, Adriano dropped the ball behind his standing leg — a dazzling reverse flick that split the defender and set De Bruyne free on the right. The Belgian whipped in a cross. Kane again connected with a diving header — but it went inches wide of the post.
Martin Tyler:
"They're slicing them apart, Alan. That young man is a magician."
West Brom barely managed a reply. Morrison did have one attempt — a speculative shot from 30 yards — but it skidded harmlessly wide. Joe Hart hadn't touched the ball more than twice.
City's midfield trio were unplayable. Silva's vision, De Bruyne's engine, and Adriano's invention — it was overwhelming. The ball pinged from foot to foot with ease.
Then, just before halftime, came the third.
It began with Robertson, who pressed high to win the ball back near the halfway line. He knocked it forward to Adriano, who sent a first-time pass wide to Hazard. The Belgian drove at Dawson, pulled him wide, then cut inside to Adriano again, who flicked it between the lines to De Bruyne.
KDB didn't hesitate. He curled a low pass around Olsson to Salah on the far side.
Salah timed his run perfectly, ghosting in behind the fullback. With only Myhill to beat, he kept his cool and slotted the ball low into the far corner with his left foot.
Martin Tyler (shouting over the roar):
"Mohamed Salah! And it's three! Three goals before the break — and this is a statement from Manchester City! The Champions are back in style."
Salah ran over to the away fans, arms spread wide, grinning from ear to ear. Adriano joined him, clapping him on the back and laughing as they posed for a brief photo-op by the corner flag.
The camera panned to the stands. City fans were bouncing, singing loud:
"We've got Silva, KDB too, and Adriano, he'll dance through you!"
West Brom fans could only look on, heads shaking, arms folded. Some had already begun making their way to the concourse, hoping for something stronger than coffee.
As the halftime whistle blew, the scoreline read 3-0.
City players jogged off the pitch calmly, smiling and high-fiving. Pellegrini stood near the tunnel, nodding in satisfaction. He didn't say much — he didn't need to.
The first half belonged to City. And Adriano had made it his stage.