November 29th, 2027. Paris. The Théâtre du Châtelet. The Ballon d'Or ceremony for the sixth time in Ethan's career.
He sat in the audience wearing a custom navy suit, Sofia beside him in an elegant emerald dress. Lucas was back in Barcelona with Ethan's parents—at seven months old, he was too young for late-night ceremonies and too unpredictable for live television.
"You're going to win," Sofia whispered as the ceremony began.
"You always say that."
"And I'm always right. World Cup as captain. Two Champions League final goals. Back-to-back trebles. This isn't even close."
She was probably right. The betting odds had Ethan as an overwhelming favorite. But he'd learned never to assume anything in football.
The theater filled with football's elite. Mbappé sat three tables away with the Real Madrid delegation. They'd exchanged nods when Ethan arrived—their friendship repaired but still fragile. Vinícius Júnior was there, Haaland, Bellingham, all the usual suspects.
But tonight felt different. Less exciting somehow. More routine.
Ethan had won five of these already. The novelty had worn off. Now it was just another trophy to add to the collection.
Or was it?
The Ceremony Begins
Didier Drogba walked onto the stage at 9:15 PM.
"Welcome everyone to the 2027 Ballon d'Or ceremony. Tonight, we celebrate another incredible year in football. And we honor the players who made it special."
The usual format began. Women's Ballon d'Or first (Aitana Bonmatí won for the second consecutive year). Then the Kopa Trophy for best young player (Lamine Yamal won—Barcelona's 20-year-old wonderkid was already historic).
Then came the main event.
"And now," Drogba announced, "the moment we've been waiting for. The 2027 Ballon d'Or for the world's best men's player."
The screen showed highlights from the year. Ethan's World Cup final goals. His Champions League heroics. His hat-tricks in El Clásico. A year of pure dominance.
"We'll count down from tenth place," Drogba said.
The countdown began:
10th: Rodri (Manchester City) 9th: Bukayo Saka (Arsenal) 8th: Jude Bellingham (Real Madrid) 7th: Lamine Yamal (Barcelona) 6th: Harry Kane (Bayern Munich) 5th: Erling Haaland (Manchester City) 4th: Vinícius Júnior (Real Madrid)
Three players left. Everyone in the theater knew who they were.
3rd: Kylian Mbappé (Real Madrid)
Mbappé stood, accepted the applause, but his disappointment was visible. Third place. Again. Never first.
Two players remained.
"The runner-up for the 2027 Ballon d'Or is... Mohamed Salah, Liverpool."
Wait, what? Salah had an incredible year, but runner-up was surprising. Which meant—
"And the winner of the 2027 Ballon d'Or is... ETHAN LOKI, BARCELONA AND FRANCE!"
SIX BALLON D'ORS.
The theater erupted. Sofia kissed him. Ethan stood, buttoned his jacket, and walked to the stage.
Six. One more than Cristiano Ronaldo. Only two behind Messi's eight.
At twenty-seven years old, he was on pace to potentially surpass everyone.
Drogba handed him the golden ball. The sixth one. Heavier than he remembered. Or maybe just more familiar.
"Six Ballon d'Ors," Drogba said into the microphone. "Only Lionel Messi has more. How does it feel?"
Ethan looked out at the audience. Three thousand people. Cameras everywhere. The world watching.
"It feels like responsibility," he said. "Five was incredible. Six is humbling. But it's also a reminder that I can't stop. Can't rest. Can't be satisfied. Because legends aren't built on past achievements—they're built on what comes next."
Perfect answer. Ambitious. Driven. Exactly what people expected from Ethan Loki.
But inside, he felt different. Conflicted.
Six Ballon d'Ors was amazing. But Lucas was back in Barcelona taking his first real steps (with help from grandparents, not his father). His son was growing up and Ethan was in Paris accepting another trophy.
Was this worth it?
"What's next?" Drogba asked. "Do you chase Messi's eight?"
"Of course. Why not? I'm twenty-seven. I have years left. If I keep performing at this level, eight is achievable. Maybe nine. Maybe ten. The only limits are the ones we accept."
The crowd applauded. Confident. Hungry. The perfect champion mentality.
But Ethan felt like a fraud.
The After-Party
The celebration at the Pavillon Cambon was elegant but felt hollow. Ethan made the rounds—shaking hands, taking photos, accepting congratulations.
Messi approached him, the eight-time winner offering perspective.
"Six at twenty-seven," Messi said. "I had four at that age. You're ahead of schedule."
"Does it ever feel like enough?" Ethan asked.
"No. Not while you're playing. But after you retire, you realize the trophies weren't the important part. The relationships were. The memories were. The time with family was."
"Do you regret missing your kids' childhoods?"
Messi's expression changed. "Every day. My oldest is seventeen now. I missed so much. Practices. School plays. First girlfriends. I was always traveling, always training, always chasing the next trophy. And now those years are gone."
"So what do I do? I'm twenty-seven with a seven-month-old son. Do I keep going like this? Or do I slow down?"
"That's not a question I can answer for you. But I can tell you this: six Ballon d'Ors is already legendary. If you stopped today, your legacy would be secure. The question is whether you're playing for legacy or for love of the game."
Profound words. Ethan absorbed them.
Later, Mbappé found him on the terrace, both holding champagne glasses, looking out at Paris's nighttime skyline.
"Congratulations on number six," Mbappé said.
"Thanks. I'm sorry you didn't—"
"Don't. I'm done being bitter about your success. It's exhausting." Mbappé took a sip. "Can I ask you something honestly?"
"Always."
"Are you happy? With all of this?" He gestured vaguely at the party, the trophies, the ceremony.
Ethan thought carefully. "I don't know. I thought winning would make me happy. And it does, for a moment. But then it fades and I'm chasing the next thing. The next trophy. The next goal. The next Ballon d'Or. When does it end?"
"Maybe it doesn't. Maybe that's what makes us great—we're never satisfied."
"Or maybe it makes us miserable."
They stood in silence, two of the best players in the world, both questioning what it all meant.
November 30th - The Flight Home
Ethan flew back to Barcelona early the next morning. The Ballon d'Or sat in his carry-on luggage, wrapped carefully to avoid damage.
Six of them now. He'd need to build a bigger display case.
Sofia sat beside him on the private jet Barcelona had arranged. She'd been quiet all morning.
"What's wrong?" Ethan finally asked.
"Nothing's wrong. I'm just thinking."
"About?"
"About your speech last night. 'Legends are built on what comes next.' That's very motivating and inspirational. But Ethan, you have six Ballon d'Ors. You've won everything. At what point do you say 'I've done enough'?"
"Messi has eight."
"So what? You're not Messi. You're Ethan. Your journey is different."
"But if I can catch him—"
"Then what? You get a seventh? An eighth? A ninth? When does it end? When do you decide that being Lucas's father is more important than being the best footballer in the world?"
The question hit like a punch.
"I don't know," Ethan admitted. "I'm trying to figure that out."
"Well figure it out soon. Because Lucas said his first word yesterday."
Ethan's heart stopped. "What?"
"His first word. While you were in Paris. He said 'mama.' Clear as day. And you weren't there."
The guilt was crushing. "I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize. Just... think about what you want your legacy to be. Do you want to be remembered as the guy with eight Ballon d'Ors who missed his son's childhood? Or the guy with six who was actually present?"
Ethan didn't have an answer.
December 1st - Home
They arrived home at 2:47 PM. Ethan's parents were there with Lucas, who'd grown noticeably in just two days.
"Mijo!" Ethan said, picking up his son.
Lucas looked at him, smiled, and said: "Mama."
Not "dada." Not "papa." "Mama."
Because Sofia was the one who was always there. Ethan was the one who was always traveling.
His mother saw his expression. "He'll say dada soon. Give him time."
But time was the problem. Time was what Ethan didn't have. Between training, matches, travel, media obligations—there were maybe three or four hours a day when he could be a father. And Lucas was growing up during the other twenty hours.
That night, after Lucas was asleep, Ethan updated his private journal:
December 1st, 2027
Six Ballon d'Ors. I'm tied with Ronaldo. Two behind Messi. At twenty-seven, I could potentially win eight, nine, maybe even ten.
But Lucas said his first word and I missed it. I was in Paris accepting another trophy while my son learned to talk.
Messi told me the trophies don't matter after you retire. The family does. He missed his kids' childhoods. He regrets it.
Am I making the same mistake?
Sofia asked what I want my legacy to be. I don't know anymore.
When I was eighteen, my legacy was simple: be the best. Win everything. Break every record.
But now I have a son. And being the best footballer means being an absent father.
I need to find balance. But I don't know how.
Three moves ahead:1. Finish this season - win the third consecutive treble2. Next season (2028-29) - maybe reduce workload slightly, rest more3. Keep evaluating - figure out when enough is enough
I have 284 more chapters in my career. But Lucas only has one childhood.
How do I not waste either?
He closed the laptop, the questions still unanswered.
December 5th - Training Ground Conversation
Lewandowski found Ethan after training, sitting alone on the bench, staring at nothing.
"You won the Ballon d'Or," the Polish striker said. "Why do you look miserable?"
"I missed Lucas's first word."
"Ah." Lewandowski sat beside him. "The guilt. I know it well."
"How did you handle it? You have kids. You traveled constantly. How did you balance it?"
"Honestly? I didn't. I prioritized football. And now my oldest is sixteen and we barely have a relationship. She doesn't really know me. I'm just the guy who was never home."
"That's depressing."
"It's honest. Look, Ethan—you're twenty-seven. I'm thirty-nine. I'm at the end of my career. You're in your prime. If I could go back and do it differently, I would. I'd rest more. Travel less. Miss some matches. Because the matches don't remember you. But your kids do."
"So what do I do?"
"You make choices. Not all or nothing. Not retire or go full intensity. But gradual adjustments. Rest for some matches. Skip some international friendlies. Create boundaries. Be present when it matters most."
"And if that means I don't win as many trophies?"
"Then you don't. But you also don't end up like me—rich, famous, and lonely, wondering why your kids don't call."
Harsh words. But necessary.
End of Chapter 76