Chapter 119: Volume 2, - 119: Matchday Morning

Chapter 119: Volume 2, Chapter 119: Matchday Morning

The sun was barely above the rooftops of Olivais when Rayan woke up, well before his eight o’clock alarm.

He lay motionless under the thin sheet, staring at the grey light filtering through the blinds. Down the corridor, the pipes hissed as a tap was turned on, followed by the clatter of porcelain from the kitchen.

He swung his legs out of bed, reached for his water bottle on the nightstand, and drank until it was empty.

When he pushed his bedroom door open, the hallway smelled of fresh coffee and boiled milk. The living room was a scramble of bedding: Joaquim was sitting on the edge of the unfolded sofa bed in his undershirt, grunting as he pulled on a leather shoe, while Rosa folded blankets into neat squares.

In the kitchen, Sofia was weighing out a bowl of rolled oats on the small digital scale beside three soft-boiled eggs, sliced bananas, and two pieces of dry whole-wheat toast.

"Eat the oats first, then the eggs," Sofia said without looking up. "No butter on the toast today."

"Sofia, the boy needs protein if he’s going to run tonight," Rosa said, entering with a stack of sheets and pointing to a tin of quince paste. "Just a slice of cheese and jelly on the bread."

"The club nutritionist sent the morning meal on Friday, Mum," Sofia replied calmly. "No cheese, no jelly."

"The nutritionist wasn’t raised in Alentejo," Rosa muttered, though she set the tin down and cupped Rayan’s cheek. "How did you sleep, my boy?"

"I slept eight hours, Nanna," Rayan said, pulling the oats toward him.

"When I played for the district selection in ’68, we had lard and wine before the bus left for Santarém," Joaquim said, leaning against the doorframe. "And we ran for ninety minutes."

"And you lost four-zero to Santarém, Dad," Sofia remarked, placing a glass of juice beside Rayan’s plate.

"Robbery by the referee!" Joaquim insisted. "My point is, a boy needs strength, not mathematics."

"Everyone calm down," Leonor said, stepping in while brushing her wet hair. "Rayan hasn’t even put his shoes on."

Rayan chewed his toast slowly, taking small sips of water. "I’m calm," he said, offering a relaxed shrug.

"He’s pretending," Leonor whispered to Rosa. "Look at his foot."

Rayan stopped his bouncing heel instantly, settling his foot flat against the linoleum. "Stretching my calf."

Sofia checked her watch. "You need to be in the official travel kit by one-thirty. The shuttle picks you up from Gare do Oriente at two sharp."

By twelve-thirty, Joaquim was ironing his trousers in the hallway while Sofia checked their Gate One confirmation sheet and IDs.

The buzzer near the front door rang. Three short, sharp bursts.

Rayan walked out into the hallway as Sofia went to the intercom.

"Who is it?" Sofia asked.

"It’s Karim! Open the door!" a voice crackled back.

A moment later, Karim stepped inside, breathing heavily, dressed in a crisp white polo shirt and dark trousers. He had finished his early shift, dropped the van at the Amadora depot, and taken the train across town.

Rayan stood near the kitchen doorway, watching his father step inside.

A tight knot of tension uncoiled in Rayan’s chest. He walked over, stepped into his father’s space, and wrapped both arms around him in a firm, tight hug.

Karim laughed, clapping a heavy hand against Rayan’s back. "Look at this! The boy is giving squeezed ribs before he even reaches the bus!"

Rayan pulled back, looking him in the eyes. "You made it, Dad."

"Of course I made it!" Karim declared, smoothing down the collar of Rayan’s official Sporting CP grey travel polo shirt. "I told the dispatcher at four this morning: The bread is in Sintra by nine, or you can fire me, but I leave at eleven!"

He stepped back, turning Rayan by the shoulders to inspect him. "Look at him, Sofia. Tailored! Tomorrow morning, every sports paper in Lisbon will have this face on the front page."

"Karim, don’t fill his head with newspapers," Sofia said, handing Rayan his navy travel jacket.

Rayan slipped his arms through the sleeves, zipping it up to his chest. He grabbed his navy travel duffel bag, confirming his club ID badge was inside.

"Listen to the staff," Sofia said, touching his cheek lightly. "Keep your phone on loud until you enter the dressing room."

"I will, Mum," Rayan said.

"We’ll be at Gate One by five to pick up the wristbands," Joaquim said, shaking Rayan’s hand. "Do your job."

"Good luck, my boy," Rosa whispered, kissing his cheeks.

"Don’t trip on the stairs!" Leonor called out.

Karim clapped him on the shoulder. "We’ll be right behind you at the stadium, son. Go."

Rayan pulled the apartment door open and walked down the three flights of stairs into the afternoon sun of Olivais.

As he walked down the sidewalk toward Gare do Oriente, the matchday atmosphere was already hummed across the neighbourhood. Green and white banners hung from apartment balconies, and cars drove past with Sporting flags wedged into their doors.

Groups of supporters strolled along the pavement. Fathers in vintage home shirts, teenagers draped in green scarves, and older men listening to sports radio on portable speakers. Rayan walked right past two supporters arguing about the starting midfield, but neither gave him a second look. To them, he was just another athletic teenager walking toward the station in a navy tracksuit with a sports bag slung over his shoulder.

His phone buzzed in his jacket pocket.

Leonor: [Image attached: Rayan at six years old, wearing oversized socks and asleep on the sofa with mouth wide open]

Leonor: Don’t do this on the team bus.

Joca: Matchday! We’re meeting at the fan zone by five. Keep a shirt for me if you get on the pitch.

Bia: Good luck today, Rayan. We’re all watching.

Rayan smiled, pocketing the phone as he reached Gare do Oriente.

The white Sporting CP academy shuttle was parked near the lower bay. The driver checked his ID badge, loaded his duffel bag into the luggage compartment, and Rayan boarded, taking an aisle seat beside two quiet Under-23 players.

The shuttle crossed the Vasco da Gama Bridge over the wide expanse of the Tagus, arriving at the Alcochete academy gates precisely at 15:00.

Inside the main building, the senior staff directed the group to the dining room for the 15:30 pre-match meal. Rayan sat near the end of a long table, quietly eating sliced grilled chicken, plain pasta, and drinking water while Rui Amorim and the tactical coaches moved through the room, murmuring low instructions to individual first-team veterans.

By 17:15, the squad boarded the main first-team motorcoach.

Rayan sat near the middle of the bus, looking out the tinted window as police escorts led the coach out of the academy gates and onto the highway back toward Lisbon.

As the coach crossed the river and swung onto the Segunda Circular, the city swelled with green and white.

Crowds of supporters lined the overpasses, waving banners and scarves. Horns blared from surrounding traffic, and flares billowed green smoke into the late-afternoon sky near the Campo Grande exit. Groups of fans cheered as the luxury coach cut through the congestion, though none of them could see through the dark glass to where Rayan sat.

The bus slowed, turning off the main avenue into the restricted access lane of Estádio José Alvalade.

Up ahead, past the surging crowds gathered by the fan zones, the massive concrete shadow of the stadium loomed against the sky, and the heavy iron gates of the player entrance began to slide open. Rayan adjusted his jacket, took a long breath, and gripped his travel bag.