Chapter 122: Volume 2, - 122: The Five Violins

Chapter 122: Volume 2, Chapter 122: The Five Violins

The subterranean tunnel leading to the pitch level smelled of fresh-cut grass, wet rubber, ozone from high-voltage floodlight cabling, and the faint metallic tang of lawn treatment.

Rayan stood three steps back from the concrete mouth of the exit, his dark green training jacket zipped over his chest. Players were returning from the final warm-up sequence, their faces slick with sweat. Kit staffers moved down the line collecting discarded bibs, handing out water bottles, and making quick equipment checks. A staffer paused in front of Rayan, double-checking the fit of his shin guards beneath his socks before tapping the heat-pressed crest on his chest and moving on into the tunnel traffic of match officials and camera operators.

Beside Rayan, the permanent senior squad lined up in two loose rows. They were relaxed, comfortable in the routine of an annual presentation match.

Sebastian Coatez leaned against the painted brickwork, adjusting his captain’s armband while murmuring something in Spanish to Antonio Adal, who bounced lightly on his heels in his yellow goalkeeper kit. Nearby, Gonçalo Inásio and Eduardo Quaresmo were quietly debating the studs they had selected for the slick surface, while Ricardo Esgaia wiped his forehead with a towel before tossing it into an equipment trunk.

Rayan stayed close to the wall, his navy travel duffel set down near the dugout trunks. He looked down at the jersey beneath his open jacket. The printed number 82 sat flat against his back.

Before stepping toward the dugout, Rayan swallowed against a sudden dryness in his throat and looked up into the steep, rising tiers of Section Three. He knew from Sofia’s instructions earlier that the hospitality balcony sat somewhere four levels above the tunnel mouth. He squinted into the glare of the floodlights, searching the endless sea of green shirts, moving hands, and flashing phone cameras. He tried to pinpoint a single familiar face, but the sheer scale of fifty thousand supporters blurred everything together.

"Step back, lad, make way for the officials," a tunnel steward murmured, nudging his shoulder gently. Rayan nodded, stepping back into line as he let out a slow breath.

Out on the pitch, the stadium announcer’s voice boomed through the high-output speakers, vibrating off the cantilevered roof beams.

"Ladies and gentlemen... supporters of the Great Green and White... welcome to the Troféu Cinco Violinos!"

The stadium erupted into a sustained wave of applause, thousands of green and white scarves rising in unison across the stands.

A spotlight cut through the summer dusk, focusing on the center circle where five classical musicians in formal black coats stood positioned with their instruments. As the announcer called for quiet, the lead violinist raised his bow.

The high, solitary opening note of O Mundo Sabe Que drifted across the turf.

Within seconds, thousands of voices rose over the five violins, singing the club’s iconic anthem so loud that the strings almost vanished beneath the rhythmic swell. The collective roar rose from the terraces, rolling down the concrete stands and washing into the tunnel mouth like a physical force.

Rayan felt the vibration travel through the soles of his boots, up his calves, and into his chest. He looked at the senior players around him. Hidemasa Morino stood motionless, his eyes fixed straight ahead, while Pedro Gonsalves casually adjusted his shinguards, entirely unfazed. Mateus Reiz and Markus Edwins exchanged quick fist-bumps, while Viktor Gyoker stood broad-shouldered and stoic, waiting for the cues.

Out on the pitch, the spotlight swept across the grass as the announcer began calling the permanent first-team roster one by one for their official public presentation.

"Number one... Antonio Adal!"

The goalkeeper jogged out onto the turf to a warm ovation from the crowd, clapping his gloves above his head before taking his place along the central carpet.

"Number three... Sebastian Coatez!"

"Number twenty-five... Gonçalo Inásio!"

Each name drawn from the loudspeakers brought a fresh surge of cheering. Francisco Trincano walked out with a relaxed stride, offering a quick wave to Section Three, while Gyoker received a thunderous cheer as he stepped out, nodding once toward the South Stand.

Rayan watched from the shadowed tunnel exit. No one called number eighty-two. When the presentation ended and the permanent squad gathered at the center circle for the pre-match photograph, Rayan remained on the sideline beside the backroom staff, holding his training bib in his hand.

Up in Section Three of the hospitality balcony, four floors above the pitch, the sound of the anthem was deafening.

Sofia stood near the glass railing, her arms folded across her light jacket, watching the sea of scarves swirling below. Her eyes were fixed not on the spotlight at the center circle, but on the shadowed tunnel exit where Rayan stood quietly near the substitute bench.

Beside her, Joaquim was singing the anthem at the top of his lungs, his deep, gravelly voice joining the thousands surrounding them. Tears glistened in the corners of his eyes, his gaze locked onto the green turf he had once watched on black-and-white television screens fifty years earlier.

Karim stood on his chair, holding his phone high above his head, filming the five violinists and the crowd, his face split by a wide, uncontainable smile. "Sofia, look at the lights!" he shouted over the noise. "Look at the whole stadium!"

Leonor stood beside her grandmother, leaning against the cold metal railing with her arms crossed, pretending to inspect her fingernails whenever Karim turned the camera toward her, though her eyes kept darting back to the boy standing near the dugout in number eighty-two.

Rosa adjusted her headscarf, looking out over the roaring stadium with a calm, steady expression, her hand resting over Sofia’s wrist.

Down on the pitch level, the presentation ceremony wrapped up quickly. The musicians packed their cases and were escorted off the turf by match stewards, while the ground crew rushed to remove the carpet and clear the center circle for kickoff.

The referee and his assistants walked out toward the center spot, testing their electronic headsets and checking the match ball.

"Bench players, take your seats," an assistant coach called out, waving his hand toward the dugouts.

Rayan unzipped his training jacket, folded it neatly, and placed it on the lower shelf beneath the dugout roof. He stepped over the low barrier and took his seat on the heated leather bench alongside the other substitutes and extended match-group players.

Beside him sat two senior reserves, talking quietly about the referee’s strict reputation in domestic fixtures. Neither paid any particular attention to Rayan’s presence; to them, sitting on the Alvalade bench was simply another evening at work.

Rayan leaned back against the high headrest, pulling his knees together and resting his hands flat on his thighs. He looked out across the pristine grass, illuminated bright under the massive halogen floodlights. The evening air carried the scent of damp soil and the roaring chant of the Supporters’ Curve echoing from the stand directly behind the goal.

The main referee checked his watch, raised his whistle to his lips, and looked toward the two captains standing in the center circle.

The stadium lights reflected off the polished studs of the starters as Viktor Gyoker stood over the ball. The whistle blew, the crowd roared, and the match began. Rayan sat on the bench, his eyes fixed on the moving ball, keeping his hands steady in his lap.