Chapter 105: Volume 2, - 105: The Other Half of the Day

Chapter 105: Volume 2, Chapter 105: The Other Half of the Day

Thecoach hummed steadily as it navigated the coastal highway back toward the

team’s Algarve hotel. Inside, the atmosphere was quiet, bathed in the cool

air-conditioning and the soft glow of smartphones.

Rayan leaned his head back against the leather headrest, looking down at his phone

screen where the System interface had just minimized. Two goals and two assists

against Portimonense. His legs felt heavy, a deep, satisfying ache radiating

through his hamstrings and calves.

Before he could sink fully into the high of his performance, a member of the sport

science staff moved down the aisle with an iPad, tapping players on the

shoulder.

"Rayan. Rated score for muscular fatigue, 1 to 10," the analyst asked, poising his

stylus over the screen. "Any joint pain, direct blows, or groin

tightness?"

"Six on fatigue," Rayan answered, flexing his ankles. "No knocks. Left

calf feels tight, but no pain."

"Hydration check at the hotel lobby before lunch. Make sure you drink half a litre before

we arrive." The analyst logged the numbers and moved two rows back to

Duarte Faria, who was already reviewing a video clip on his tablet.

A few minutes later, the assistant manager stood up at the front of the bus,

holding a printed sheet. The low chatter in the cabin died down instantly.

"Listen up for the rest of today’s schedule," he announced, his voice carrying

clearly over the engine hum. "We have the second friendly against Real

Sociedad tonight at eight. Squad split is as follows. Evening playing group:

Adal, Inásio, Diamande, Reiz, Esgaia, Morino, Braga, Santos, Trincano, Markus

Edwins, Paulino Vieira. Pre-match meal at five, bus departs at six-fifteen. Recovery

group: Coatez, Gyoker, Pedro Gonsalves, Almeida, Rayan, Duarte, Tiago Leal. You

are strictly in recovery and observation protocol. Medical group: St. Juste and

Neto, remain with the physios. Unused reserves: Afonso and Chico, gym session

at five."

Rayan straightened up in his seat, a sudden spike of disappointment slicing through

his satisfaction. He had just delivered four goal contributions in seventy-four

minutes. In his mind, he was flying, assuming he might get another twenty

minutes on the pitch against top Spanish opposition.

Beside him across the aisle, Duarte leaned forward to call out to the tactical

analyst. "Can I get the Real Sociedad defensive pressing clips uploaded to

my tablet before six? I want to watch how their central pivot handles the low

block."

Rui Amorim turned his head slightly from the front row, catching Rayan’s tight jaw

in the rearview mirror.

"Rayan," Rui called out dryly. "Load management. Seventy-five minutes of

high-intensity senior pressing is your cap for today. You aren’t built for a

double header yet. Eat, do your protocols, and sit in the stands tonight with

your eyes open."

"Understood, boss," Rayan said, forcing his voice to remain level.

At the hotel, the recovery protocol began with rigid efficiency. The players filed

directly into the sports science suite near the gym. Rayan handed over a urine

sample for hydration testing, stepped onto the digital scale for post-match

weight loss tracking, and underwent a quick ultrasound check on his left calf

with the head physio before moving to the ice tubs and pneumatic compression

sleeves.

After finishing the physical treatments, Rayan, Gyoker, and Pedro Gonsalves took

their plates to a quiet table in the team dining hall.

"You reached it because I hit the pass into the grass ahead of you," Rayan

said, cutting a piece of chicken. "If I played it to your feet, the

defender would cover."

"You only had the angle because I pulled the outside centre-back two yards

wide," Pedro interjected, pointing his fork between them with a dry smirk.

"I opened the inside lane. Neither of you touches the ball if I don’t draw

that cover player."

"You took two extra touches before passing," Gyoker grunted, chewing steadily.

"The lane was already there."

"It was open because I waited for you to move," Pedro countered dryly.

"Don’t pretend you planned the space."

Rayan listened as the two senior attackers traded spatial arguments over their food,

occasionally jumping in to clarify his own release timing. Sitting at the

table, debating mechanics as a functional piece of the forward line, took some

of the edge off his earlier frustration.

After lunch, the squad split for their respective team meetings. In the main tactical

room, Rui Amorim briefed the evening squad on Real Sociedad’s compact

mid-block, emphasizing how Markus Edwins and Trincano needed to stretch the

first line of five to prevent central traps.

The morning starters gathered separately in the video room, where the performance

analyst handed out tactical tracking sheets.

"Recovery group has a strict reporting window," the analyst said, projecting a

graphic onto the screen. "You’ll check in at the stadium suite at

seven-forty-five sharp. Duarte, you’re tracking their double-pivot adjustments.

Rayan, your assignment is Real Sociedad’s left full-back. I want notes on how

high he pushes during their second phase of build-up and who covers the channel

when he vacates it."

By four in the afternoon, Rayan retreated to his room for mandatory downtime.

Laying on his bed, he pulled out his phone and dialed Bia.

She answered on the third ring, paper rustling in the background. "Hey! I saw

the score online. Two goals and two assists? Rayan, that’s massive!"

A small smile broke across Rayan’s face. "Yeah. Scrimmage was good, but

starting was better. I felt sharp today."

"I knew you’d start," she said. "Listen, I’m so proud, but I’m right in

the middle of gluing a scale model for my architecture portfolio submission. If

I drop this balsa wood column, I have to restart the whole facade."

Rayan leaned his head back on the pillow. "What kind of building?"

"A public library integration project. Lots of glass geometry and open light

wells. It’s due at five, so I can’t stay on for all the goal details right now.

Can you send me the match clips tonight?"

"Yeah, of course," Rayan said. "Good luck with the columns."

"Thanks. Talk to you later, star boy."

At six-fifteen, Rayan stood near the hotel entrance in his official Sporting

tracksuit. Outside the glass doors, two team buses were idling.

The main team bus loaded the evening squad, clad in their match kits, their faces

locked in pre-match focus as they prepared to head to the stadium to face Real

Sociedad. The smaller shuttle held the recovery group and staff heading to the

VIP observation box.

Duarte walked past Rayan, stepping onto the shuttle bus with his tablet tucked under

his arm. Rayan paused at the bottom step, watching the doors of the primary

match bus hiss shut before it pulled out onto the highway.