Chapter 121: Volume 2, - 121: The Family Section

Chapter 121: Volume 2, Chapter 121: The Family Section

The escalator rose steadily past concrete support pillars into the flood of late-afternoon light pouring through the glass walls of Sector Three.

Sofia stepped onto the carpeted hallway of the family hospitality concourse, keeping a firm grip on Leonor’s shoulder. Glass double doors opened into a broad, air-conditioned lounge overlooking the outer plazas. Staff members in grey Sporting blazers guided the stream of guests through the entry arches, checking purple wristbands with swift, practiced taps of digital scanners.

"This way for family guest seating, ma’am," a host said, gesturing toward the central lounge area where small groups gathered around high-top tables.

The space hummed with low matchday noise. Catering staff moved between tables with trays of espresso, bottled waters, fruit platters, and small pastéis de nata. Heavy green curtains still partially obscured the pitch through the broad glass windows.

Around them, other football families moved through quiet routines. A midfielder’s wife adjusted her child’s cardigan; two older men in dark suits sat in leather armchairs, debating line-ups over short black coffees; and younger siblings in Sporting shirts ran between soft-drink dispensers. To the staff and guests, Sofia’s family were simply another player’s relatives completing pre-match check-in.

"Look at this carpet, Sofia," Joaquim said, stopping near the glass wall. His voice was unusually quiet as he touched the edge of a mahogany table, looking out toward the rising concrete bowl beyond. "In ’68, when we came to Lisbon for cup matches, we sat on wooden benches behind the goal with dust coming off the upper deck. They didn’t even have warm water."

"Dad, keep moving," Sofia said softly. "Our tables are reserved near the balcony doors."

Karim was already ahead, taking rapid photos of the catering bar, framed jerseys, and the gold club emblem.

"Karim, stop," Sofia said, catching his sleeve as he angled for a photo of an espresso machine. "Put the phone down. People are trying to walk past." ℯℯ𝑙.

"Sofia, it’s the official guest lounge!" Karim protested, though he lowered the phone slightly. "Tomorrow at the bakery, no one in Sintra will believe I was standing here."

"They’ll believe you without twenty photos of coffee cups," Leonor muttered. "Mum, can I get a soda?"

"Just water or juice," Sofia replied, guiding them toward an open table near the glass doors.

Rosa sat down carefully on a high-backed chair, inspecting a plate of miniature sandwiches. She picked up a small triangle of crustless white bread, sniffed it critically, and set it back down.

"Smoked salmon and mayonnaise," Rosa said, shaking her head. "No flavor. A proper kitchen would have baked fresh rolls with salted ham. They spend all this money on carpets and give people cold bread."

"It’s hospitality food, Mum," Sofia said, sitting beside her and waving over a waiter to ask for black coffees and sparkling waters.

Leonor leaned over the balcony railing inside the lounge. "That girl over there has the new Sporting third kit," she whispered, pointing toward a family near the window. "The one with gold sleeves. Can I get one for school?"

"We’ll see after the match," Sofia said.

As the waiter set down the coffee cups, Sofia looked across at Karim, who was reviewing blurred photos on his phone. Her father was still standing near the glass, staring out at the stadium’s structural expanse with a quiet expression, his thumb tracing his wristband.

Sofia pulled out her compact mirror to check her hair, then closed it with a small snap.

"Karim," Sofia said, her voice dropping into a tone that made him look up instantly. "Take the phone."

"I thought you said no more photos?" Karim asked, bewildered.

"Take a photo of us," Sofia said, standing beside her parents’ chairs, placing one hand on Rosa’s shoulder and gesturing for Leonor to step into the frame. "Get my father in it. And make sure the stadium crest behind us is clear."

Karim carefully backed away to frame the picture. He clicked the shutter three times as Sofia stood straight, a small smile holding her face composed while her eyes remained fixed on the framed club crest above them.

At six-forty-five, a heavy chime sounded through the lounge speakers, and the green curtains along the main windows retracted, revealing the vast, sunlit expanse of Estádio José Alvalade.

Thousands of supporters in green and white shirts surged into the stands below, their voices blending into a continuous roar through the heavy glass.

"Guest ticket holders may take their seats in Section Three," an announcement echoed.

Sofia led her family through the glass doors onto the outdoor balcony. Their reserved seats in Section Three were located in the upper Tier 1 section, offering a clear view of the emerald pitch stretching beneath the floodlights.

Joaquim sat down slowly, leaning forward with both hands flat on his knees. He stared at the manicured grass and pristine white lines. "Look at that pitch, Sofia," he murmured, laughing softly under his breath. "Not a single patch of dirt. Like carpet."

At nineteen-fifteen, the stadium PA system flared with music, and the crowd in the lower stands erupted into applause. From the tunnel beneath the main stand, a line of players in dark green training tops jogged out onto the grass for the pre-match warm-up.

Karim immediately stood up, leaning over the metal barrier. "Where is he? Is he in the back?"

"They all have the same tops on, Dad," Leonor said, standing on her toes and squinting at the group spreading out across the half-pitch. "They look identical."

Sofia remained seated, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, scanning the cluster of athletes doing short shuttle sprints near the halfway line. She saw Gyoker’s broad shoulders, Pedro Gonsalves jogging easily near the center circle, and Coatez leading the backline stretching routine.

"I don’t see eighty-two," Karim said, turning his head as he held his phone up. "Did he stay in the dressing room?"

"There!" Leonor shouted, pointing toward the far touchline near the substitute benches. "Beside the coach! Number eighty-two!"

"Mum, look, he’s standing right next to—" Sofia began, turning back to Rosa with her hand raised.

The words died in her throat. Her sentence snapped off into complete silence.

A fifteen-year-old boy in a dark green training shirt and white-wrapped ankles was jogging backward off the line, receiving a short pass from a senior midfielder and controlling it with a clean, single touch of his right boot. His thick dark curls were caught in the stadium lights as he turned, laying the ball off to Inásio before accelerating into a ten-meter sprint.

Sofia sat perfectly still, her lips slightly parted, watching the small number 82 on the back of the dark green shirt move smoothly across the pristine grass of Estádio José Alvalade alongside men who had played in European cups.

Beside her, Karim leaned completely over the metal railing, waving both arms frantically above his head. "Rayan! Over here! Rayan!" he yelled at the top of his lungs, completely oblivious that stadium noise swallowed his voice instantly.

Joaquim looked up at Karim, letting out a loud, deep laugh that shook his shoulders. "Sit down, Karim! The boy is working! You think he’s looking up here at your shirt?"

"He might look!" Karim insisted, though he lowered his arms, a massive grin stretching across his face as he snapped five photos in rapid succession.

Down on the pitch, Rayan moved through the warm-up drills without looking toward the stands. He tracked a lofted ball coming off a coach’s boot, cushioned it smoothly against his chest, and laid a simple five-meter side-foot pass directly into the path of an oncoming winger.

On the balcony of Section Three, Sofia watched her son complete the pass, adjust his shinguards, and turn back into line. She closed her eyes for a brief second, took a deep, steady breath of the evening air, and reopened them as the floodlights lit up the green turf below.