Chapter 120: Volume 2, - 120: Through the Players’ Entrance

Chapter 120: Volume 2, Chapter 120: Through the Players’ Entrance

Authors Note: Sorry for the lack of uploads everyone. But for the past week I have been like extremely sick. Even now, but i realized I have to drop Chapters so I forced myself to write this one.

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The hydraulic hiss of the team motorcoach’s air brakes echoed off the smooth concrete walls of the underground entry bay.

The moment the heavy automatic doors folded open, the humid Lisbon heat gave way to the sharp, climate-controlled chill of Estádio José Alvalade’s subterranean operations sector. Rayan stepped down onto the dark asphalt, his navy travel duffel slung over his shoulder, and followed the steady line of dark tracksuits heading toward the double glass doors.

Security was quiet, fast, and mechanical. Two uniformed guards standing beside magnetometers scanned each player’s digital club accreditation badge as they walked past. There were no signatures, no greetings, no requests for photos. Rayan pressed his blue plastic tag against the glass reader until it beeped green, then stepped through into the main tiled corridor.

This was the stadium’s arterial spine. A broad, brightly lit hallway humming with event preparations. Flight cases stamped with green and white crests were stacked three high against the wall, filled with spare boots, GPS vests, and video analysis monitors. Broadcast technicians in black polo shirts pushed heavy camera rigs past on rubber-wheeled carts, while a catering assistant steered a metal rack loaded with sliced melons, espresso cups, energy gels, and recovery shakes toward the medical room.

"Rayan," a kit assistant called out, pointing down the hallway. "Temporary lockers are on the left wall past the second table."

Rayan nodded, following the corridor around a bend.

Inside the main dressing room, the air smelled of camphor rub, synthetic fabric, and fresh leather. The space was wide and oval, lined with dark wooden stalls, each equipped with soft overhead lighting, a padded seat, and a low drawer for personal shoes.

For the established senior players, the room was simply their daily office. Gyoker sat in his stall with noise-canceling headphones, staring blankly at his phone while tapping his foot. Near the central massage table, Pedro Gonsalves drank an espresso, laughing with Inásio about a youth coach’s parking. Coatez sat on a folding bench near the back, untying his trainers while speaking rapidly into his phone in quiet Spanish.

Rayan found his spot near the end of the wooden bench. A temporary stall tucking him between two unused lockers.

Laid out flat against the dark wood was his matchday kit: the green and white striped shirt with the number 82 printed across the back, dark shorts, green socks, and a small roll of white tape. Pinned beneath the collar was a blank tag without a permanent player nameplate. Rayan stood before the stall, his fingers resting lightly on the cool polyester sleeve.

He sat down, unzipping his bag to pull out his shinguards, uncertain whether to change into his dark green training gear immediately or wait.

Pedro Gonsalves walked past, tossing an empty paper espresso cup into the recycling bin. He caught Rayan sitting still and paused.

"Tape your ankles first," Pedro said casually, pointing toward the wooden stool near the entrance. "Tiago wraps them now before the boss comes in for the shape meeting. If you wait until six-fifteen, you’ll be standing in line behind the center-backs."

"Right. Thanks, Pedro," Rayan said.

"And don’t leave your phone on the top bench," Pedro added, moving toward his own locker. "Coatez knocks them off with his towel when he comes back from the shower."

Near the doorway, a white magnetic board displayed the timeline: 18:15 Tactical Briefing | 18:30 Pre-Warm-Up Carbohydrate/Snack Window | 19:15 Pitch Warm-Up.

Rayan walked over to the medical corner. He sat on the edge of the vinyl bench while the trainer, Tiago, unrolled a fresh spool of athletic tape, binding both joints tightly with rigid white tape before slapping his calf to signal he was done.

"Keep them stiff until the warm-up," Tiago instructed. "If you need a re-wrap before kickoff, tell me before nineteen-thirty."

Four floors up, the crowd surged through the concourses behind Gate One.

Sofia led her family through the plaza with sharp, efficient steps, holding a plastic folder with their accreditation sheets and ID cards. Behind her, Karim held his smartphone high, taking rapid wide-angle photos of the stadium façade and the giant club banner.

"Karim, put the phone in your pocket," Sofia said. "You’re going to step on someone’s heels."

"I’m documenting the entry, Sofia!" Karim declared, stepping onto a ledge to photograph the crowd. "Look at the turnstiles! Rayan is under here right now!"

"He’s four floors below us, Dad," Leonor groaned, dragging her feet beside her grandmother.

At the metal security barrier, a guard held out a hand, gesturing toward Rosa’s tote bag. "Open the bag please, ma’am."

Rosa unzipped the top, revealing two silver foil parcels.

"No outside food allowed into the hospitality sector," the guard said, pointing to a disposal bin.

"It’s four pastries!" Rosa insisted, holding the bag close. "My grandson is playing tonight. He might need proper food after the match."

Sofia squeezed past, pulling her ID folder out. "Is there a storage tag for restricted items at post-match collection?"

The guard checked Sofia’s official hospitality paperwork and let out a tired sigh. He pulled out a green adhesive baggage claim tag, slapped it onto the handles, and set the tote onto a shelf behind his station. "Collect it here after the final whistle."

Joaquim attempted to push past the barrier toward an open concourse arch to glimpse the pitch below, but a steward immediately stepped into his path. "Ticket check first, sir. Pitch view is restricted to sector three up the main escalators."

"I just wanted to inspect the grass," Joaquim grumbled, turning back.

At the Gate One counter, a staff member scanned Sofia’s paperwork and pushed five purple plastic wristbands across the glass. Karim snapped his on immediately, taking another photo. To the surrounding crowd, they were simply five more guests entering the private seating areas.

Down in the subterranean dressing room, Rui Amorim concluded the eighteen-fifteen tactical briefing, stepping away from the magnetic board.

As the clock struck eighteen-thirty, the squad moved toward the central nutrition table for the pre-warm-up window. Rayan grabbed a small cup of sliced bananas and a carbohydrate gel packet, swallowing them quickly according to the nutritionist’s schedule.

Nearby, Coatez adjusted his shinguards while Inásio reached for an electrolyte drink, checking his watch against the wall clock.

Around him, the seniors finished their preparations. Gyoker took off his headphones, pulling his dark green training top over his head in one smooth motion. Pedro Gonsalves laced his boots with double knots, while Rui Amorim stood near the exit door holding his clipboard.

Rayan leaned back against the dark wood of his stall in his dark green training kit, his wrapped ankles resting flat on the rubber flooring. His temporary number 82 jersey sat waiting in the low drawer behind him for kickoff.

Four floors above him, behind rows of reinforced concrete and steel, his family scanned their purple wristbands at the turnstiles, stepping onto the escalators leading up to the hospitality concourse. Down here, deep in the silent interior of the stadium, Rayan sat in his stall, listening to the faint rumble of thousands of boots echoing through the concrete ceiling overhead.