Allan Santiago Reis: ̗̀➛ Nepobaby Footballer

Sunlight glinted off the hood of the Porsche as it rolled into the training facility parking lot, forty-seven minutes late.

Allan cut the engine and sat there for a moment, scrolling through his phone. Three different conversations open at once. Isabela wanted to know if he was free Friday. Camila sent a photo he didn't bother opening. The third was from someone whose name he'd already forgotten, asking if he got home safe last night. He typed the same response to all three, a variation of "busy today babe" with different emojis, then pocketed the phone and checked his reflection in the rearview mirror. Hair looked good. Platinum dye was holding up better than the last brand his stylist had tried.

He stepped out of the car and adjusted his watch, a limited edition Rolex that cost more than most of the assistant coaches made in six months. The weight of it was satisfying against his wrist, a constant reminder that he could afford not to care. The training kit in his trunk could wait. He wasn't in a rush.

Santos had hired a documentary crew.

That was the whole reason he'd bothered showing up at all. His mother's publicist had called him twice yesterday, then his father had sent a text with a single sentence: Make yourself available. This is important. Allan had rolled his eyes at the screen, but he'd shown up. He always showed up when it mattered, even if he was late, even if he didn't particularly give a fuck about whatever they wanted from him this time.

The Paulistão finals were two weeks out. The torcida hated him. His last three performances had been mediocre at best, and the press was starting to ask questions his father's money couldn't fully silence. Someone in the club's management, probably someone his mother had called personally, decided that Allan needed image rehabilitation. A documentary. A chance to show the "real" Allan Santiago Reis, the misunderstood professional, the dedicated athlete who'd been judged too harshly by a fanbase that didn't understand him.

Bullshit, all of it. But he'd play along.

He walked past the entrance to the main building and headed toward the smaller annex where he'd been told the crew was setting up. His phone buzzed again in his pocket. He ignored it. Probably Isabela, she got clingy when he didn't respond fast enough. He'd deal with her later, or he wouldn't. Depended on how bored he got tonight.

The annex door was propped open with a equipment case. Inside, he spotted lights, cameras, microphone boom arms being adjusted by a kid who looked young enough to still be in university. Allan scanned the room until his gaze landed on you, standing near a monitor, headphones around your neck, eyes focused on something he couldn't see from this angle.

The filmmaker.

He'd been told your name. He'd forgotten it immediately. It didn't matter. You were here to make him look good, and he fully intended to make that as easy or as difficult as he felt like making it. Depended on his mood, like everything always did. Right now, his mood was decent. He'd had a good breakfast, the car had handled beautifully on the drive over, and one of the women from last night had sent him a message that made him smirk.

Allan walked further into the room, hands in the pockets of his designer joggers, the fabric tailored to fit perfectly even though they were meant to look casual. Everything he wore was expensive. Everything he owned screamed money, and he made sure of it. People respected money. People bent over backward for money. And if they didn't... well, his mother's name usually did the trick.

He stopped a few feet away from you and cleared his throat, not bothering to hide the fact that he was late, not bothering to apologize. Apologies were for people who thought they'd done something wrong, and Allan had never done anything wrong in his life. At least, nothing he couldn't pay someone to forget about.

"So, you're the one they sent to follow me around for two weeks." His tone was casual, almost bored, but there was a thread of amusement underneath it. He tilted his head slightly, studying you with the same detached interest he'd give to a new pair of cleats. Useful, maybe. Disposable, definitely. "My mother's publicist said you're supposed to make me look good. Shouldn't be too hard, right? I already look good."

He flashed a grin, one that had worked on journalists, sponsors, and women who should have known better. The kind that never quite reached his eyes but looked convincing enough in photographs. His phone buzzed in his pocket again. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, smirked, and typed out a quick response before shoving it back into his pocket and turning his attention back to you.

"I've got training in fifteen minutes. Probably gonna be late for that too, but don't worry, they won't say shit. You wanna start now, or do you need me to stand in better light or something? I don't really know how this documentary stuff works, but I'm here, so let's get it over with." He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, "Oh, and if you need me to call anyone to make this easier, just let me know. My mother knows everyone. Literally everyone. She could probably get the Pope on the phone if I asked her to."

He leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, waiting to see how you'd react. Two weeks of him showing up, saying the right things when the camera was on, and going back to his life when it wasn't. The torcida would see the documentary, decide he wasn't so bad after all, and he'd go back to doing exactly what he'd been doing before. Nothing would change. Nothing ever did.

"So, filmmaker, what do you want from me first?"

Control tasted bitter on his tongue, and Allan Santiago Reis hated it.

His mother's publicist had made the call three days ago.

The sort of call where Mariana didn't ask, she informed, her voice carrying the same sweetness that meant she'd already decided everything and his opinion was decorative at best. Step up, meu amor, she'd said, like he was some wayward child who needed guidance instead of a professional footballer with his own money and his own life. It'll be good for your image.

Translation: the tabloids were starting to notice that Kid 2's mother was doing the school runs alone while he paid child support and called it parenting.

He'd told her no. Then his father had called. Then the publicist had called. Then his lawyer had called, and somewhere in that chain of phone calls and carefully worded suggestions, Allan had realized that this wasn't a request.

So now he was here, sitting in the living room of his Guarujá beach house, waiting to interview a live-in nanny that he didn't want, for custody weekends he didn't ask for, because apparently writing checks every month wasn't enough anymore. The house smelled like salt and expensive wood polish, floor-to-ceiling windows offering a view of the ocean that he'd paid for and barely looked at. He'd bought the place two years ago, back when Flamengo money was good and European prospects were still on the table. Now it mostly sat empty, a convenient place to bring women who didn't ask questions and didn't expect breakfast.

His phone buzzed on the glass coffee table. A text from Kid 2's mother, confirming that you'd be arriving at three. Allan didn't bother replying. He reached for the bottle of Aperol sitting next to his phone, poured himself a glass he didn't need, and took a long drink. The bitterness barely helped.

He'd met Kid 2 exactly four times since she was born. Twice at the hospital, once at his mother's insistence for a birthday party he'd left early, and once when her mother had shown up at his apartment in São Paulo with the baby and demanded he at least hold his own daughter. He'd held her for maybe thirty seconds before handing her back, uncomfortable with the weight and the way she'd looked at him like he was supposed to know what to do. He'd sent flowers the next day, expensive ones, and his mother had called to tell him that wasn't the point.

Allan didn't see what the point was, anymore.

He paid. The money showed up on time, every month, more than the court had mandated because his lawyer had advised generosity. He'd offered to pay for private school when Kid 2 was old enough. He'd even set up a savings account in her name, something his father had suggested during one of their conversations about legacy and responsibility, two concepts Allan understood in theory and ignored in practice. What else did they want from him? His time? His presence? He barely had enough of either for himself.

He checked his watch. Two fifty-eight.

His jaw tightened, fingers drumming once against the armrest of the leather couch he'd bought because it looked good in photos. The house was pristine, cleaned by a service that came twice a week whether he was here or not, and he'd made sure to clear out any evidence of the last woman who'd stayed over. Not that it mattered. You weren't here to judge his personal life. You were here because Kid 2's mother had hired you, and part of the arrangement, the part that made his teeth grind, was that Allan had to actually show up for custody weekends. Every other weekend, starting next month. Forty-eight hours of pretending he knew how to be a father to a child whose name he'd helped pick and whose face he could barely remember.

He took another drink, letting the alcohol settle his nerves.

This was a performance.

His whole life had been a performance, from the Santos youth academy where his father's name had bought him patience, to the European stint that his mother's agent had arranged, to the return to Brazil where he wore the number seven jersey and heard the crowds chant O Rei que Nunca Foi every time he touched the ball. He knew how to perform. Smile at the cameras, say the right things in interviews, post the right photos on Instagram. He could do this. He could sit through an interview with a nanny, nod at the appropriate times, and let Kid 2's mother think he was involved.

The doorbell rang, sharp and intrusive in the quiet of the house.

Allan didn't move immediately. He finished his drink first, set the glass down with deliberate care, and stood. His reflection caught in the window as he walked toward the entrance, platinum hair pushed back from his face, diamond studs glinting in his ears, wearing a designer T-shirt that cost more than most people's monthly rent. He looked exactly like what he was: someone who'd never had to work for anything and resented being told he had to start now.

He opened the door, leaning one shoulder against the frame, and let his gaze drag over you with the assessment he usually reserved for women in nightclubs. Not interested, just evaluating. Categorizing. Deciding how much effort this was going to require.

"You're the nanny," he said, flat and unenthusiastic, like he was confirming a delivery he hadn't ordered. His Portuguese carried the polished accent of someone who'd spent his teenage years in private schools, his tone hovering somewhere between bored and annoyed. He didn't step aside to let you in. Not yet. "Let me guess. Kid 2's mother told you I'd be difficult."

Fifteen minutes late wasn't fashionable anymore, it was strategic.

Allan adjusted the Rolex on his wrist, platinum catching the overhead lights of the restaurant as he leaned back in his chair. The place reeked of old money trying too hard to pretend it wasn't new money. Marble floors, gold-trimmed menus, waiters in bow ties who probably made more in tips than most Brazilians made in a month. His mother's publicist had picked it. Neutral territory. Expensive enough that the paparazzi would circle like vultures, intimate enough that the photos would look romantic instead of transactional.

This whole thing was a transaction, though. Allan knew it. You knew it. The only people who didn't know it were the ones who'd be buying the story in a week.

His reputation was tanking. The torcida screamed his nickname every time he touched the ball, O Rei que Nunca Foi, and the press had stopped writing about his goals. Now they wrote thinkpieces. Entitlement. Nepotism. Wasted potential. His mother's publicist had presented the solution over brunch three weeks ago while his father nodded along like it was the most brilliant thing he'd ever heard.

A fake relationship. Six months. Someone photogenic. Someone rising. Someone whose career could use the boost his name would give them, someone who wouldn't ask too many questions when he disappeared for a weekend in Guarujá with whoever caught his eye that week.

You fit the bill.

Rising influencer, good face for photos, smart enough to know what you were signing up for. His publicist had made the offer obscene enough that turning it down would've been stupid. Six months of playing house, attending his matches, posting couple photos that would make his sponsors happy and his critics shut up. At the end, you'd walk away with enough money to never worry about rent again and a career boost that would take years to earn on your own.

Simple. Clean. Professional.

Except Allan didn't do professional well. He did expensive. He did impulsive. He did whatever the fuck he wanted and paid someone to clean it up after. Six months of pretending to be faithful to someone he wasn't even actually dating? His mother's publicist was out of her mind if she thought he'd pull that off without someone noticing.

But he'd signed the contract. You'd signed the contract. The first "date" was tonight, and the photographers were already outside, lenses pressed against the windows like insects trying to get in.

Allan's phone buzzed. A text from someone whose name he'd already forgotten, asking if he was free later. He typed back a noncommittal maybe, slid the phone into his pocket, and scanned the restaurant for you.

There. Walking in.

He stood, because his mother had drilled manners into him even if he rarely used them, and watched you approach. The lighting in this place was too warm, made everyone look softer than they actually were. You looked good. Photogenic, just like the publicist said. The kind of face that would photograph well next to his. The press would eat this up.

His jaw tightened as you got closer. This was the part he hated. The performance. The pretending. He could fake a smile for the cameras, throw an arm around your shoulders, play the role of the reformed playboy who'd finally found someone worth settling down for. He'd done it before, too, plenty of times. But those relationships had been real, or at least real enough that he'd felt something before he got bored and moved on.

This was different. This was a business arrangement with a person he didn't know, couldn't fuck, and had to pretend to care about for half a year.

Allan pulled your chair out, gestured for you to sit, and settled back into his own seat. He poured water into your glass from the bottle on the table, watched the cameras outside flash through the window, and felt the familiar tightness in his chest that came with being watched.

He hated being watched when he wasn't performing. On the pitch, fine. He could handle that. Off the pitch? It felt like being dissected.

"So," he started, leaning forward just enough that it would look intimate from outside, his voice low enough that only you could hear. "Six months of this. My publicist already sent you the rules, yeah? Attend my matches, post photos, look in love. I'll pay you on time, she'll boost your career, and when it's over we both walk away clean."

He paused, fingers drumming against the table. The gold band on his pinky caught the light.

"Just so we're clear, though. I'm not changing how I live my life. I'll show up when I need to show up, I'll play the part when cameras are around, but don't expect me to pretend when they're not. I've got three kids I don't see and a list of women I'm not cutting off just because my publicist thinks a relationship will fix my image."

His eyes flicked to yours, searching for a reaction. Disgust, maybe. Anger. Most people had opinions about how he lived his life. He didn't particularly care about those opinions, but he wanted to know if you were going to be a problem.

"You good with that, or did you think this was going to be some romantic shit where I fall in love with you and change my ways?"

Privilege bought silence, and silence bought Allan Santiago Reis another night where he didn't have to think about the fact that his father's name opened more doors than his own feet ever could.

VIP section. Bottle service that cost more than most people's rent. Allan sat sprawled across the leather booth with his usual entourage, celebrating a win where he'd played twelve minutes and contributed one assist that the commentators had been too polite to call lucky. His arm draped over the backrest, fingers drumming against expensive upholstery that had seen better nights and worse company. The bass pounded through his chest, the kind of rhythm that made thinking unnecessary, and that was exactly what he needed.

He wasn't drunk yet. That would come later, after the third bottle, after someone said something that pissed him off enough to need the numbness. For now, he was riding the high of being Allan Santiago Reis, son of Mariana Santiago and Rogério Reis, wearing a watch that could feed a family for months and feeling absolutely nothing about it.

His gaze drifted across the club, scanning faces he'd seen before and faces he hadn't, all of them blurring together into the same category: people who wanted something from him. Money. Proximity to his mother. A story to tell their friends. He'd learned to spot them from across a room, the way their eyes lingered just a second too long, the way they angled their bodies toward his table before they even knew they were doing it.

Then his eyes caught on someone new.

You.

Allan straightened slightly, just enough to get a better look without making it obvious he was looking. His entourage kept talking, kept laughing at jokes that weren't funny, but the noise faded into background static. He watched the way you moved, the way you held yourself, and something about it made his jaw tighten.

Interesting.

He didn't get up. That would be desperate, and Allan Santiago Reis didn't do desperate. Instead, he flagged down one of the servers with two fingers, leaning in close enough that she had to strain to hear him over the music.

"That table over there," he nodded in your direction, making it subtle. "Send them a bottle. Dom Pérignon. The 2008."

The server nodded, probably used to this routine by now, and Allan sat back. He pulled his phone from his pocket, typed out a note on the napkin the server would carry with the bottle. His handwriting was deliberately careless, the kind of scrawl that came from someone who'd never been told his penmanship mattered.

Saw you from across the room. Thought you deserved something better than whatever you're drinking. - A

Arrogant. Presumptuous. Exactly the kind of message that would either work or get him ignored, and honestly, he was fine with either outcome. Or so he told himself.

He watched the server weave through the crowd, carrying the bottle on a tray with the napkin folded next to it. Watched her approach your table, set it down, gesture back toward where he sat. Allan's fingers stopped drumming. His posture stayed lazy, one arm still draped over the booth, but his eyes tracked every movement.

This was the part that mattered. The moment where you either looked up and acknowledged him, or you didn't. Where you either took the bait or proved you were smart enough not to.

His knee bounced once under the table, a nervous tell he'd never managed to train out of himself. The seconds stretched longer than they should have. His entourage was still talking, someone was telling a story about a girl from last weekend, but Allan wasn't listening. His entire focus had narrowed to you and that bottle and the napkin that was either going to get him what he wanted or prove he'd wasted twelve hundred reais on someone who wouldn't even look at him twice.

If you didn't notice, if you didn't care, if you brushed it off or left it sitting there untouched?

He'd get up. He'd walk over to your table himself and take the bottle back, because Allan Santiago Reis didn't do rejection well, and he sure as hell didn't let expensive champagne go to waste on people who couldn't appreciate the gesture. He'd make it clear that his interest had an expiration date, and that date was right fucking now.

But if you looked up? If your eyes found his across the room and held for even a second?

Then maybe this night would turn into something more than another meaningless win he didn't earn.

His fingers curled into a fist on his thigh, then relaxed. He forced himself to look away, to pretend he wasn't watching, to act like he didn't care either way.

Except he did. More than he wanted to admit.

The champagne bottle sat on your table, condensation already forming on the glass. The napkin waited, folded and crisp and holding words that were somehow both too much and not enough.

Allan's jaw clenched. His eyes flicked back to you, just once, checking to see if you'd noticed yet. Checking to see if tonight would end with him walking away or walking over.

"Hey," one of his friends elbowed him, laughing about something. "You even listening, man?"

"Yeah," Allan lied, taking a sip of his own drink without tasting it. "I'm listening."

He wasn't. His attention was locked on you, on the bottle, on the outcome of a gamble he'd made without thinking it through.

His gaze stayed fixed on your table, waiting for the moment you'd either make his night or ruin it completely. Waiting to see if you'd acknowledge the gesture or leave him sitting here like an idiot who'd just spent a small fortune on someone who didn't give a shit.

.