Here starts the epilogue because I was too tired to continue for another 300 chapters
*****
The 2015-16 season was the greatest season in history for Manchester City. They not only defended the Champions League title, they broke all records possible doing it—sixty-seven matches, sixty-seven victories, zero draws, zero defeats.
A perfect season that defied belief, that rewrote what was considered possible in modern football.
Adriano, the key figure behind this miracle, was now being called the best player in the world, even with Messi and Ronaldo still playing at incredibly high levels. The debate was no longer theoretical—his performances had settled it definitively.
But after such an intense, pressure-filled campaign, Adriano needed to escape. The constant attention, the endless expectations, the weight of perfection—it had taken its toll even on someone as mentally strong as him.
So he decided to just go completely off the grid with Kate for a proper vacation to celebrate what they'd accomplished. No schedules, no media obligations, no training sessions—just the two of them reconnecting after months of being pulled in different directions by their careers.
They travelled to some lesser-known tourist spots across Southern Europe, deliberately avoiding the typical celebrity destinations where paparazzi lurked. Small fishing villages along the Portuguese coast where Adriano's grandparents had lived decades ago. Hidden beaches in Greece accessible only by boat, where they could swim in crystal-clear water without a single person recognizing them. Quiet mountain towns in Northern Italy where the elderly locals knew his name but didn't care about football enough to bother him.
Kate would soon be consumed by shooting for Avengers: Infinity War, a massive production that would demand months of fourteen-hour days and constant travel between locations. They both knew this was likely their last chance for real quality time together for a while, so they were determined to make every moment count.
They enjoyed the romantic getaway completely by themselves—no bodyguards, no assistants, no entourage. Just two people in love, pretending for a few weeks that they were normal.
One lazy afternoon in a tiny Greek taverna perched on a cliff overlooking the Aegean Sea, they sat at a corner table shaded by grapevines. The owner, an ancient woman who'd probably never watched a football match in her life, brought them fresh grilled octopus and local wine without being asked.
Kate raised her glass, eyes sparkling with mischief. "To my fiancé, who apparently thought one hundred and two goals in a season wasn't enough of a flex, so he had to go undefeated for sixty-seven straight matches."
Adriano laughed, the sound genuine and relaxed in a way it rarely was during the season. "When you put it like that, it does sound a bit excessive."
"A bit?" Kate's eyebrow arched. "Babe, you literally created a record that nobody will ever touch. Ever. They'll be talking about this season a hundred years from now."
"Maybe someone will break it eventually," Adriano said, though his smile suggested he didn't really believe it.
"Not in our lifetime. Probably not in our grandkids' lifetime either." She took a sip of wine, studying him over the rim of her glass. "So the real question is—what do you do for an encore?"
Adriano considered that, watching the sunset paint the sea in shades of orange and pink. "Honestly? I have no idea. We've won everything. Done everything. Sometimes I wonder what's left to prove."
"Nothing," Kate said firmly. "You don't have to prove anything to anyone ever again. The question is—what do you want to do? Not what you should do, not what people expect. What makes you happy?"
"Right now, in this moment?" Adriano reached across the table to take her hand. "This. Being here with you. No pressure, no expectations. Just us."
"That's not a sustainable life plan," Kate pointed out gently. "We both have careers. Responsibilities. You're not going to retire at twenty to sit on Greek islands."
"I know." He squeezed her hand. "But I can enjoy these moments while they last. Store them up for when things get difficult again."
Kate's expression softened. "You think things will get difficult?"
"Things always get difficult," Adriano said with the wisdom of someone who'd experienced more in four years than most people did in a lifetime. "The question is whether we'll be strong enough to handle it together."
"We will be," Kate said with certainty. "We've made it this far, haven't we?"
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, just holding hands and watching the sun sink toward the horizon. The old woman brought them dessert—baklava dripping with honey—and refilled their wine glasses without a word.
"I love you," Adriano said suddenly. "I don't say that enough."
"You say it plenty," Kate assured him. "But I love hearing it anyway. I love you too."
Later that evening, walking hand-in-hand along a deserted beach under a sky full of stars, Kate brought up something that had been on her mind.
"What happens when I'm in Atlanta filming?" she asked. "We'll be apart for months."
"We've been apart before," Adriano reminded her. "We'll make it work. Video calls every day, visits when we can manage it, counting down until we're together again."
"It's going to be harder this time. The schedule is brutal—fourteen, fifteen hour days sometimes. I won't always be able to call at normal times."
"Then call at abnormal times. I don't care if it's three in the morning. I want to hear your voice."
Kate stopped walking and turned to face him. "You mean that?"
"Of course I mean it. You're my priority, Kate. Always. Football is what I do, but you're who I am. If that makes sense."
"It makes perfect sense," she said, rising on her toes to kiss him. "And it's exactly what I needed to hear."
They spent two more weeks island-hopping through Greece before reality finally called them back. Kate had her first production meeting in Los Angeles. Adriano had pre-season training starting soon, followed by Euro 2016.
Their last night together was bittersweet. They sat on the balcony of their hotel room in Athens, drinking wine and not talking much, both dreading the goodbye they knew was coming.
"This was perfect," Kate finally said. "These three weeks. Exactly what we needed."
"Yeah," Adriano agreed. "Thank you for making the time. I know you had offers you turned down."
"You're more important than any job," Kate said simply. "Always remember that. Your career is amazing, and I'm so proud of everything you accomplish. But at the end of the day, I married the person, not the footballer."
"We're not married yet," Adriano pointed out with a smile.
"Engaged, married, same thing. The point is—I love you for you. Not for the trophies or the records or the fame. For the guy who remembers my coffee order, who calls my parents just to check in, who cries during sad movies even though he pretends he doesn't."
"I don't cry during movies," Adriano protested weakly.
"You absolutely sobbed during The Notebook."
"That doesn't count. Everyone cries during The Notebook."
Kate laughed and kissed him. "My point stands. You're a good man, Adriano. Don't let the football world make you forget that."
*****
After their short break ended, the demands of their respective careers pulled them apart once again. Adriano flew to France for Euro 2016 with the Portugal national team, while Kate reluctantly boarded a flight to Los Angeles for pre-production meetings.
Before they separated at the airport, Kate made him promise something.
"Win," she said firmly. "Win everything. I didn't negotiate time off from my shooting schedule just to watch you lose in the semifinals."
Adriano grinned. "That's a lot of pressure. What if I don't make the final?"
"Then I guess I'll have a week off with nothing to do," Kate said with exaggerated disappointment. "I suppose I could use that time to console you for losing."
"You know what?" Adriano's eyes lit up with mischief. "That actually sounds pretty good. Maybe I should just lose in the group stage. Get all that pampering from my girl, relax on a beach somewhere..."
Kate swatted his arm. "Don't you dare. You win that tournament, Adriano Riveiro. I want to see you lift that trophy."
"Yes, ma'am," he said with a mock salute, then pulled her close for one last kiss. "I'll miss you."
"I'll miss you too. But it's only a few weeks. Then the summer, and then..." She trailed off, not wanting to think about the months of separation that would follow.
"One thing at a time," Adriano said gently. "Right now, I focus on the Euros. You focus on your film. Then we'll figure out the rest."
Portugal's camp in France was focused and determined. They'd made the semifinal in Euro 2012, lost to eventual champions Spain. In 2014, they'd won the World Cup with Adriano as the star. Now, in 2016, expectations were sky-high for them to claim their first European Championship.
The opening match against Iceland was professional if not spectacular. Adriano scored both goals in a 2-0 victory, one from a free kick, one from open play. Clean, efficient, exactly what was needed.
Austria presented more of a challenge in the second group game. They pressed high, tried to disrupt Portugal's rhythm, and actually took the lead through a David Alaba free kick. But Portugal's quality eventually told. Adriano equalized just before halftime, Ronaldo put them ahead early in the second half, and Adriano sealed it with a late third.
The final group match against Hungary was a statement. Portugal rested several key players, giving opportunities to fringe squad members, but still dominated 4-0. Adriano didn't even play the second half, sitting on the bench with a towel over his head, already thinking about the knockout rounds.
Croatia in the round of 16 proved tougher. The match was tight, tactical, with few clear chances for either side. Luka Modrić controlled the midfield for long stretches, neutralizing Portugal's usual dominance. But in the 76th minute, Adriano dropped deep to collect the ball, drove forward past two defenders, and slipped a perfect through ball to Ronaldo. The finish was clinical. 1-0.
Croatia pushed desperately for an equalizer, leaving space at the back. In the 89th minute, they were caught on the counter. Ronaldo to Nani to Adriano, who rounded the keeper and slotted home. 2-1. Game over.
Poland in the quarterfinals was expected to be difficult. Robert Lewandowski was in brilliant form, and their defense had been solid throughout the tournament. But Portugal suffocated them tactically, Adriano and Ronaldo constantly dropping deep to overload midfield, then breaking at pace when they won the ball.
Adriano scored early, a trademark curling shot from the edge of the box that gave the keeper no chance. Poland tried to respond, but Portugal's defense—marshaled brilliantly by Pepe—held firm. Then, late in the second half, Adriano turned provider. He collected a clearance near the halfway line, looked up, and launched a sixty-yard diagonal pass that dropped perfectly onto Ronaldo's head. 2-0. Portugal were through to the semifinals.
Wales awaited in the semis—a team that had captured hearts with their passionate performances and the brilliance of Gareth Bale. But Portugal were simply too strong. They scored early through Ronaldo, added a second before halftime through Nani, and sealed it in the second half when Adriano dribbled past three defenders and squared for Ronaldo to tap in. 3-0. Dominant. Professional. Clinical.
That victory set up a final against France in Paris—the host nation, in their home stadium, with their supporters desperate for glory. The atmosphere in the Stade de France was electric, hostile, overwhelming.
Kate flew in two days before the final, having negotiated a four-day break from filming. When Adriano saw her in the hotel lobby, he literally ran across the room to embrace her.
"You came," he said, holding her tight.
"Of course I came. You think I'd miss this?" She pulled back to look at him. "How are you feeling?"
"Nervous," Adriano admitted. "More nervous than I was for the Champions League final, somehow. This is for Portugal. For my country. For people like my parents who never got opportunities like this."
"You're going to win," Kate said with certainty. "I know you are."
"How do you know?"
"Because you always do when it matters most. It's kind of your thing."
Adriano's parent were watching fondly from the side. Julio remarked, "Look at you, forgetting us old folks as soon as your woman came over."
Rosa smacked him on the shoulder, "Let them be Julio."
The final itself was everything a major tournament final should be—tense, dramatic, filled with moments of brilliance and controversy. France started strongly, their crowd roaring them forward, but Portugal weathered the early storm.
In the 23rd minute, Adriano produced magic. He received the ball thirty yards from goal, took one touch to set himself, and unleashed a curling shot with his right foot. The ball bent around the wall of defenders, dipped viciously, and nestled in the top corner before Hugo Lloris could react.
The Portuguese fans went wild. The French crowd fell silent. On the touchline, Fernando Santos pumped his fist once, then immediately started shouting tactical instructions, refusing to celebrate prematurely.
France pushed hard for an equalizer, and they got it early in the second half. Antoine Griezmann latched onto a loose ball in the box and fired past Rui Patricio. 1-1. Game on.
The match opened up after that, both teams chasing victory rather than settling for extra time. In the 68th minute, Adriano delivered a perfect corner to the far post. Ronaldo rose above his marker and powered a header past Lloris. 2-1 Portugal.
France threw everything forward in the final twenty minutes, desperate to force extra time in front of their home crowd. Portugal defended resolutely but looked increasingly tired. In the 88th minute, France won a corner. The entire stadium held its breath.
The corner was cleared, but only to the edge of the box. A France midfielder struck it first time, aiming for goal. The shot deflected off a Portuguese defender and looped toward the top corner.
Rui Patricio backpedaled frantically, then launched himself into the air. His fingertips brushed the ball, just enough to push it over the bar.
Pandemonium from the Portuguese fans. Despair from the French.
From the resulting corner, Portugal broke. Nani collected the clearance and immediately looked up. Adriano was already sprinting, having read the situation before it developed. The pass was perfect—a diagonal ball over the top that dropped into stride.
Adriano took one touch to control, another to set himself, and a third to slide the ball past the onrushing Lloris. The keeper got a hand to it but couldn't keep it out.
3-1. In the 89th minute. In Paris. In the final.
Adriano didn't celebrate elaborately. He just ran toward the corner flag, dropped to his knees, and looked up at the sky. His teammates mobbed him, everyone screaming, everyone crying.
On the touchline, Fernando Santos had both hands over his face, overwhelmed.
In the stands, Kate was crying and laughing simultaneously, screaming herself hoarse.
When the final whistle blew, confirming Portugal as European Champions for the first time in their history, the celebration was pure, unbridled joy.
Adriano found Ronaldo first. They embraced, both crying openly.
"We did it," Ronaldo said, voice breaking. "We actually fucking did it."
"For Portugal," Adriano replied. "For everyone back home."
Later, after the trophy had been lifted and the medals distributed, Adriano spotted Kylian Mbappé sitting alone on the France bench. The young striker had come on as a late substitute for his tournament debut, and now his head was buried in his hands.
Adriano walked over, still in his Portugal kit, and sat beside him.
"Hey," he said gently.
Mbappé looked up, surprised to see his Manchester City teammate. "Congratulations," he managed.
"You played well when you came on. That run in the 93rd minute almost created something."
"We lost."
"You'll win plenty," Adriano said firmly. "Trust me, Kylian. You're too talented not to. This is just your first tournament. You'll have many more chances."
Mbappé managed a small smile. "Thanks. That means a lot coming from you."
Then the smile turned slightly mischievous despite his disappointment. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Do you think... I mean, would it be okay if I asked Cristiano to exchange jerseys? He's been my idol since I was a kid."
Adriano clutched his chest in mock betrayal, eyes wide. "What? I'm literally sitting right here, just consoled you after a tough loss, and you want Cristiano's shirt?"
Mbappé actually laughed despite the circumstances. "I'm sorry, but he's—"
"I know, I know. Your idol. Fine." Adriano stood up, shaking his head in exaggerated disappointment. "But I'm telling Pellegrini to make you run extra drills when we get back to Manchester. Maybe some double sessions. Really make you regret this betrayal."
"You wouldn't," Mbappé said, grinning now.
"Try me. Now go on, go ask him before he leaves the pitch. But remember this moment, Kylian. Remember when you chose Cristiano over me. I'll never let you forget it."
Mbappé laughed nervously, "I'll get the next one?"
Adriano laughed. "I'm joking man. You already got like 5 jerseys of me. Now go on before he leaves."
Mbappé jumped up, suddenly excited again despite the loss, and jogged toward where Ronaldo was being interviewed. Adriano watched him go with a genuine smile.
The official awards ceremony brought more recognition. Adriano collected the Golden Boot for his 8 goals throughout the tournament. Then came the biggest individual honor—Player of the Tournament, recognizing not just his goals but his 5 assists and his overall impact on Portugal's triumph.
Standing on the podium with the trophy, wearing his medal, holding his individual awards, Adriano scanned the crowd until he found Kate and his parents in the VIP section. She was still crying happy tears, mascara streaked down her face, looking absolutely beautiful in her emotion.
He caught her eye and blew her a kiss.
She caught it and pressed her hand to her heart.
Adriano's parent clapped proudly, smiling at their son.
Later, in the privacy of their hotel room while the celebrations continued outside, they finally had a quiet moment together.
"I'm so proud of you," Kate said, curled up beside him on the bed. "So incredibly proud."
"Couldn't have done it without you," Adriano replied, running his fingers through her hair. "Knowing you were watching, that you believed in me—it made all the difference."
"You would've won regardless. But I'm glad I could be here to see it."
They fell asleep like that, wrapped around each other, completely content.
****
After Euro 2016, Adriano's summer schedule remained packed, but with very different activities. The football was done until pre-season training began in July. Now came the commercial obligations, the charity work, the life beyond the pitch.
First was the Sick Kids Foundation tour. The organization had approached him during his first season at Manchester City, but he'd waited until he had the platform and resources to make a real impact before committing fully.
The tour took him to children's hospitals across Europe—London, Barcelona, Munich, Amsterdam, Paris, and finally back to Lisbon. At each stop, he spent hours with young patients, many of whom were facing battles far tougher than anything on a football pitch.
In London, he walked into a ward for children undergoing cancer treatment and was immediately mobbed—as much as kids hooked up to IV drips and wearing masks could mob anyone. One boy, maybe eight years old and completely bald from chemotherapy, asked if Adriano could show him some tricks.
They spent twenty minutes in the hallway, Adriano demonstrating ball control with a soft foam ball, the boy trying to copy his moves despite his weakness. Nurses and doctors stopped to watch, many of them tearing up.
"You're really good," Adriano told the boy seriously. "Keep practicing. When you beat this thing, you could play professionally."
The boy's eyes lit up with hope. "You think so?"
"I know so. You've got the talent. You just need to get healthy first."
Later, the boy's mother approached Adriano in tears. "Thank you. He hasn't smiled like that in months. You gave him something to fight for."
Adriano had to step outside after that, overwhelmed by emotion.
In Barcelona, he visited the NICU at the Hospital Sant Joan de Déu, spending time with premature babies. The nurses told him that babies responded to voices, so he spent an hour talking softly in Portuguese to the tiniest patients, his presence somehow calming them.
One baby, born three months early and fighting for every breath, seemed to settle when Adriano held his tiny hand through the incubator opening. The parents, who'd been keeping vigil for weeks, broke down in gratitude.
"You don't have to thank me," Adriano said quietly. "Your son's the strong one. He's fighting every day. I'm just visiting."
In Lisbon, he organized a charity match between Portuguese national team legends and current players, with all proceeds going to children's hospitals across the country. The match raised over two million euros. More importantly, it gave thousands of kids and their families a day to forget about illness and just enjoy football.
At a press conference after the event, a journalist asked the inevitable question: "Why do you do this? You've just won the Euros, you're about to start another demanding season. You could be relaxing on a beach somewhere. Why spend your time off visiting hospitals?"
Adriano considered the question carefully before answering. "I grew up without much. My parents—my dad was a construction supervisor, my mom helped at a bakery. They worked themselves to exhaustion just to give me opportunities. Food on the table, boots for training, bus fare to matches. That was a struggle for them."
He paused, gathering his thoughts. "Some of these kids I'm visiting? They won't get those chances unless someone helps. Their families are spending everything on medical bills. College funds, savings, retirement—all gone, trying to keep their children alive. So if I can help ease that burden even a little bit, how can I not?"
The journalist pressed: "But you're already doing so much with your foundation—"
"It's never enough," Adriano interrupted gently. "I have more money than I'll ever need. What's the point of having it if I don't use it to help people? My parents taught me that. You take care of your own, and you take care of your community. These kids are my community now."
The clip went viral within hours. Major news networks picked it up. Social media exploded with praise. Within a week, the Sick Kids Foundation reported a 300% increase in donations, all attributed to Adriano's tour and comments.
He was embarrassed by the attention, telling Kate over the phone: "I didn't do it for publicity."
"I know you didn't," she assured him. "But it's okay that good things came from it anyway. You inspired people to help. That's beautiful."
The commercial obligations were less emotionally taxing but somehow more draining. Two days of shooting for a Rolex campaign—countless takes of him looking at expensive watches, pretending to check the time dramatically, walking in slow motion through fancy locations.
"This is harder than football," he told the director after the fifteenth take of the same shot.
"Football you've been training for since you were a child," the director replied. "Modeling? Not so much. But you're doing great. Just a few more takes."
The Louis Vuitton campaign was more elaborate—a full fashion shoot in Milan with multiple outfit changes and artistic direction that Adriano didn't fully understand.
"Stand there. Now look brooding. More brooding. Like you're thinking about... I don't know, expensive leather goods."
"I don't brood about leather goods," Adriano pointed out.
"Pretend it's a football then. Brood about football."
That he could do.
The campaign brought an unexpected reunion. The lead female model was Blanca Suarez—his ex-girlfriend from years ago, the one he'd dated briefly during his Malaga days before their careers pulled them apart.
They hadn't seen or spoken since the breakup, and the first moment on set was deeply awkward. The crew sensed it immediately, the tension palpable as Blanca and Adriano carefully avoided eye contact.
Finally, during a break while lighting was being adjusted, Adriano approached her.
"Hey," he said simply.
Blanca looked up from her phone, clearly having been expecting this conversation. "Hey."
"This is weird, right?"
"So weird," she agreed with a nervous laugh.
"Can we talk? Privately?"
They stepped out to an empty hallway, away from the crew's curious stares.
For a moment, neither spoke. Then Adriano broke the silence.
"You look good. Happy."
Blanca's smile was genuine. "Thank you. So do you. I heard about Kate, your engagement. Congratulations."
"Thanks. I heard you're with someone too. A director?"
"Producer, actually. Diego. We've been together about eight months."
"That's great. Really. I'm happy for you."
Blanca studied him carefully. "You mean that."
"I do," Adriano said honestly. "What we had was real, Blanca. But we both knew it had an expiration date. Your career was taking off, mine was too. The timing was just wrong."
"It was more than timing," Blanca said quietly. "I wasn't ready for what you needed. The support, the understanding of what it's like to be with someone at that level. I was selfish, focused only on my career. You deserved better."
"You weren't selfish. You were ambitious. There's a difference." Adriano leaned against the wall. "I don't regret us. You were there for me during a really difficult transition. Leaving Malaga, joining City, all that pressure. You helped me through it."
"And now you have someone who can be what I couldn't be," Blanca said. "Kate seems perfect for you."
"She is. But that doesn't diminish what you and I had."
They stood in silence for a moment before Blanca spoke again, her voice thick with emotion. "Can we still be friends? Or is that too weird?"
"Friends works," Adriano said, extending his hand.
Blanca took it, then pulled him into a brief hug instead. "Thank you for not hating me. For understanding why it didn't work."
"Thank you for being part of my journey," Adriano replied. "Even if that part is over now."
When they returned to set, the tension had evaporated. The rest of the shoot went smoothly, even enjoyably. They could laugh together, be professional together, without the weight of unresolved feelings hanging over them.
When the campaign wrapped, they hugged goodbye one last time, both knowing they probably wouldn't stay in touch but grateful they'd ended things with mutual respect and closure.
2016-17 Season - New Challenges
As pre-season training for 2016-17 began, the atmosphere at Manchester City was noticeably different. The transfer market had been chaotic, and several difficult decisions loomed.
Sheikh Mansour called a meeting with the board, Pellegrini, and Adriano to discuss the squad's future. They gathered in a conference room at the training facility, the mood serious.
"We have too many world-class players," Al Mubarak began without preamble. "It's a good problem to have, but it's still a problem. Youth players can't develop without playing time. Some senior players are unhappy with rotation. We need to make decisions."
Pellegrini spoke next. "Several teams have made inquiries. Real Madrid are aggressive in their pursuit of Mac Allister and Courtois. Chelsea want Courtois back. Juventus are interested in Dybala. We need to decide who's untouchable and who might be allowed to leave."
All eyes turned to Adriano.
He shifted uncomfortably. "Why are you looking at me? This is a board and manager decision."
"Your opinion matters," Sheikh Mansour said. "These are your teammates. You know their mindsets, their desires, better than we do."
Adriano sighed, knowing he had to be careful here. Whatever he said could be interpreted as him wielding power over teammates' futures, which was the last thing he wanted.
"My advice," he began slowly, "is to retain as many players as possible. We have something special here—chemistry, understanding, a winning mentality. That's hard to rebuild from scratch."
"But?" Al Mubarak prompted, sensing there was more.
"But if players are genuinely unhappy, if they're determined to leave for more playing time or a different challenge, don't force them to stay. Unhappy players poison the dressing room. It's better to let them go with our blessing than create resentment."
"And in terms of specific players?" Pellegrini asked.
Adriano shook his head firmly. "That's not my call to make. I'm a player, not management. If you ask me to comment on individual teammates, it creates problems. They'll think I'm deciding their futures, and that destroys trust."
"Fair enough," Sheikh Mansour acknowledged. "But generally—prioritize chemistry over individual talent?"
"Always," Adriano said. "Talent without chemistry gets you nowhere. We've proven that over the last three years. Keep the core together as long as possible."
In the end, despite Adriano's advice, market forces and player desires won out. Alexis Mac Allister, who'd shown flashes of brilliance but wanted guaranteed starting time, accepted Real Madrid's offer. Thirty million euros for a player who'd mostly been a rotation option seemed good business.
Thibaut Courtois, who Chelsea had loaned to Atletico and then sold to City, was moving again—this time to Real Madrid for thirty-five million euros. He wanted to be closer to his children who lived in Madrid, and City respected that.
Manchester City didn't sign anyone in return. The squad was still incredibly deep, and several youth academy prospects were pushing for opportunities. The board decided to trust the existing group.
The 2016-17 season proved significantly more challenging than the perfect campaign that preceded it. Every team in Europe had studied Manchester City exhaustively during the summer, developing specific tactical plans to counteract their strengths.
Teams sat deep, flooding the midfield with bodies, cutting off passing lanes. They forced City wide, then collapsed centrally when crosses came in. They pressed high when City built from the back, trying to force mistakes.
The football was still beautiful, still mostly effective, but it required far more effort to achieve results. Matches that would have been comfortable 3-0 victories the previous season became tense 1-0 grinds. Every opponent raised their game, desperate to be the team that finally beat the Invincibles.
Personal challenges came too. In late October, during a Champions League group match against Bayer Leverkusen, Adriano pulled his hamstring chasing a through ball. He knew immediately it was serious—that sharp, tearing sensation that every athlete dreads.
The medical staff confirmed it: Grade 2 strain. Four to six weeks minimum.
For someone who'd played sixty-seven straight matches without missing a single one the previous season, the injury was mentally devastating. Adriano had never dealt with being sidelined for extended periods before.
Kate, filming in Atlanta, called him every day during his recovery.
"How are you feeling?" she'd ask.
"Frustrated. Useless. Like I'm letting everyone down."
"You're healing. That's not useless. That's necessary."
"The team needs me."
"The team will be fine for a few weeks. And you'll come back stronger. You always do."
Those conversations, simple as they were, kept him grounded during the difficult weeks of rehabilitation.
When he finally returned in early December, City were still top of the league but had dropped points in two matches—a draw against Liverpool and a shock defeat to Leicester. The Champions League group was secure, but the invincibility aura had been punctured.
Adriano's return sparked an immediate uptick in form. Not because his teammates were incompetent without him, but because his presence changed how opponents approached matches. They had to account for him, which created space for others.
The season ground on. City won the Premier League, though less comfortably than the previous year—finishing five points clear rather than the twenty-point margin of the perfect season. They claimed the FA Cup with professional victories over lower-league opposition in the early rounds, then tough battles against Chelsea and Arsenal to reach the final, where they beat Tottenham 2-1.
The Champions League followed a similar pattern. Comfortable group stage. Professional round of 16 victory over Monaco. Quarter-final drama against Bayern Munich that went to extra time before City prevailed. A semifinal masterclass against Atletico Madrid—revenge for their earlier Champions League meetings.
The final, held at the Millennium Stadium in Cardiff, pitted City against Juventus—a defensive masterpiece of a team marshaled by the legendary trio of Bonucci, Chiellini, and Barzagli in defense, with Buffon still commanding his goal at age 39.
The match was a tactical chess battle. Juventus sat deep, daring City to break them down. For seventy minutes, neither team created much of note. Then Adriano dropped into midfield, collected the ball, and drove at Juventus' defense. Three players converged on him.
He slipped the ball right to De Bruyne, who'd made a late run into space. First-time cross to the back post. Harry Kane, who'd come on as a substitute ten minutes earlier, rose above his marker and powered a header past Buffon.
1-0 City.
Juventus had to come out now, had to chase an equalizer. That created space. In the 83rd minute, they pushed forward and lost possession. City broke with devastating speed—De Bruyne to Hazard to Adriano, who rounded Buffon and slotted home.
2-0.
Juventus pulled one back in the 85th minute through a Dybala strike that gave the scoreline respectability, but City held on.
But in 89th minute, Bonucci equalized from a corner, putting the pressure back.
3-2 in extra time, with Adriano completing his hat-trick in the 107th minute.
3 Back-to-back-to-back Champions League titles. Unprecedented in the modern era.
When the final whistle blew, Adriano didn't celebrate wildly. He just dropped to his knees, exhausted, relieved, overwhelmed.
Pellegrini found him there and pulled him up into a hug. "Three years. Three Champions Leagues. You've made history, son."
"We made history," Adriano corrected. "All of us together."
Pellegrini smiled warmly. "I'm proud to see you grow up to be such a great player and a greater man, mi chico. I feel lucky abot that day when I came down from my office to watch you try out for Malaga. I never thought I would have these achievement in my final stretch of career."
Adriano hugged him . "You deserve it boss. You have been a great mentor not just for me, but for all of us."