Chapter 1: San Siro's Secret Weapon (2017)
The air in Milan was thick with tension.
The kind of tension that only football could summon. The buzz of scooters outside the San Siro, fans wearing red and black stripes crowding the gates, chanting songs passed down through generations. Inside the historic stadium, however, something far quieter was unfolding. Something far more dangerous.
A storm was about to be born.
Sixteen-year-old Milan Martinez Villa stood by the touchline, lacing up his boots with shaking hands. His heart pounded in his chest like a war drum.
"This is it," he muttered under his breath.
"Oi, kid!" a gruff voice barked from behind.
It was Coach Graziani, AC Milan's U-19 head coach. Thick moustache, whistle always dangling from his neck like a judge's gavel. "Stop daydreaming. You've got ten minutes to show me why I shouldn't send you back to Rio... or Kingston... or wherever the hell you're from."
Milan grinned. "I'm from both, Coach. Dual citizenship, remember?"
"Great. That means two countries regretting your existence if you mess up."
Classic Graziani.
Milan jogged onto the training pitch. The ball found his feet like it had a memory. One touch. Two touches. Flip-flap. He sent the first defender spinning like a confused Beyblade.
"JESUS," someone from the sidelines muttered.
It was Ricardo, the U-19 keeper. "This boy's got samba in his veins."
"Samba and jerk chicken," Milan laughed, flicking the ball over another defender with a cheeky nutmeg.
The session was just the start. That week, he got the call. Coach Montella from the first team had noticed him. And just like that, Milan Martinez Villa went from being a curious prospect to the most exciting name in the AC Milan academy.
---
Back in his dorm later that night, Milan FaceTimed his mother.
"Mi proud a yuh, baby!" her thick Jamaican accent filled the screen. Her braids were wrapped in a headscarf, eyes wide with joy. "You mash up dem trials?"
"Mom, I didn't just mash it up… I roasted them," Milan said, flashing his perfect white teeth.
In the background, his Brazilian father popped into view. Shirtless, holding a glass of guava juice. "Eh, don't forget the ginga, meu filho. You dribbled like Ronaldinho, right?"
"I dribbled like I was possessed by both Ronaldinho and Bob Marley."
His mom cackled. "Don't forget to pray before you sleep. And tell dem you playing for Jamaica, yuh hear?"
That last line hit him. Deep.
Milan was a mix of two cultures, two worlds, and two histories. But his heart beat reggae rhythms. He knew who he'd represent, even if it wasn't the popular choice.
---
Later that week, after another brilliant showing with the U-19s, Milan walked into the senior locker room for the first time. Shirtless veterans stared him down like he was the new cub in a lion's den.
"You the kid they calling the 'San Siro Starboy'?" Bonucci asked, arms folded.
"That's me," Milan replied with a cool nod.
Bonucci smiled. "Let's see if you're Milan's future... or just a TikTok baller."
---
And so it began.
The rise of Milan Martinez Villa. The boy who dribbled like the wind and danced with the ball like it was a lover. A 16-year-old wonderkid, born of rhythm and fire. Half-Brazilian, half-Jamaican. All heart.
And far, far away in Los Angeles, a certain green-haired pop star scrolled through TikTok, paused on a video of Milan's outrageous assist in a youth match, and smirked.
"Who's this kid?"
She hit 'follow.'
She didn't know it yet…
But destiny had just whispered.