Chapter 123: Volume 2, - 123: Forty-Four Minutes

Chapter 123: Volume 2, Chapter 123: Forty-Four Minutes

The opening whistle disappeared beneath the first sharp shout from the pitch.

"Again!" Pareja called.

Aïssa Mando rolled the ball across Villarreal’s defensive line. The ball went from Mando to Dani Pareja, back toward Jorge Cuenco, then across again while Sporting shuffled into position.

"Hold! Hold the line!" Sebastian Coatez shouted from the center of Sporting’s defense, his deep voice carrying over the crowd. He shoved a hand out toward Gonçalo Inásio, adjusting their distance by two meters. "Step now! Go!"

When Villarreal tried to break through the central channel, Hidemasa Morino snapped into the passing lane, his body shape angled to force a backward pass. A split second later, he offered a short angle for Eduardo Quaresmo, receiving under pressure, turning smoothly, and laying off a crisp five-meter pass to Pedro Gonsalves.

Pedro Gonsalves floated into the half-space, drifting between Villarreal’s defensive line and double pivot. He picked up the ball on the half-turn, sliding a sharp, vertical pass into the feet of Viktor Gyoker.

Gyoker backed into Aïssa Mando with brutal physicality, pinning the Villarreal center-back with his shoulder.

"Man on! Man on!" Filip Jorgenson screamed from the Villarreal goal, rushing to his line.

Gyoker didn’t shoot; he shielded the ball, took a heavy touch to draw Jorge Cuenco across, and rolled a short pass into the path of Markus Edwins, who hit a first-time curling effort.

"OHHHHH!"

The collective roar rolled around Alvalade as Markus’s shot crashed against the far post.

Rayan leaned forward, both hands resting flat on his knees. Two seats down, performance analyst André Falcão held an iPad displaying live tactical camera angles, leaning toward an assistant coach.

"Watch their right-back," André said, pointing at the glowing screen. "He’s going when Parejo drops."

Rayan followed the next possession. Dani Pareja checked toward the center-backs, and Adrià Altimiro immediately pushed ten meters higher. Rayan’s eyebrows lifted. He hadn’t noticed the spatial trigger until André pointed it out on the screen.

In the twentieth minute, Pareja received thirty meters out with Pedro closing from behind.

"Man on!"

Pareja touched the ball around the corner before Pedro reached him. Albert Moreno was already sprinting outside Esgaia, whipping a sharp, curling cross toward the six-yard box.

"LEAVE!" Antonio Adal shouted, charging off his line.

Coatez ducked. Gerard Moren met the ball first time on the volley, six meters out. Adal threw his left hand up with a dull THUMP, deflecting the ball over the crossbar.

"Wake up!" Adal shouted, landing hard on his hip and slapping the grass. "He’s running right between you!"

Coatez pointed at Inásio. "You take the front. I’ll cover behind."

"He came off your shoulder!" Inásio snapped back.

"Then fucking tell me!" Coatez yelled back, slapping his hands together.

Four minutes later, Pareja looked left, dragged Morino half a step out of position, and stabbed a precise pass between Inásio and Esgaia.

"STEP!" Coatez barked.

Gerard Moren was already sprinting into the channel.

"He’s gone! Ref!" Esgaia threw his arm up, chasing back.

Moren reached the ball inside the box, ignored the shouts, and lifted a deft, chipped finish over Adal into the top corner of the net.

"SÍ!" A cluster of yellow shirts jumped together in the high visitor corner. One Villarreal supporter threw both fists into the air while another hammered his palms against the acrylic barrier as Moren ran toward the corner flag with his thumb raised.

Up in Section Three of the hospitality balcony, Karim stood up, gesticulating wildly toward the pitch. "Offside! He was two meters offside! Open your eyes, linesman!"

Joaquim reached up, grabbing Karim’s shirt sleeve and pulling him back down into his seat. "Sit down, Karim. Look at the assistant’s flag. It’s already up."

Sofia’s fingers tightened around both armrests. "Is it going to count, Dad?"

"No," Joaquim said firmly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "The shoulder was past Coatez when Parejo hit it."

Down on the field, the referee held a hand up to his earpiece while the giant stadium screen displayed the yellow VAR review graphic. After twenty seconds, the referee blew his whistle, signaling an indirect free kick for Sporting.

"YES!" someone bellowed directly behind the family. Hands cracked together throughout the section, and Karim pointed both palms triumphantly toward the pitch. Adal quickly restarted play.

In the thirty-first minute, Pedro received thirty meters from goal with his back to play. Santi Comesano arrived through his ankle before the ball had settled.

Pedro hit the turf on his side. "Ah—fuck!"

The referee’s whistle blew sharply. Coatez jogged ten meters forward, pointing a finger at Comesano. "That’s twice, ref. Twice!"

Comesano spread both hands. "Ball."

"You got his ankle," Inásio snapped, pushing past Comesano.

Pedro pushed himself upright, limped two steps, and slapped grass from his shorts. "I’m fine. Give me the ball."

Jorge Cuenco headed the restart clear toward the center circle.

"SECOND BALL!" Coatez screamed.

Morino jumped, cushioning the dropping ball into Pedro’s feet.

"Set!" Pedro called, bouncing it first time toward Inásio.

Inásio took one touch and drilled a low pass toward Gyoker. Aïssa Mando stepped across the striker, stabbed the ball away, and knocked it straight into Jorge Cuenco’s path. Gyoker immediately sprinted at Cuenco.

"LEFT! LEFT!" Filip Jorgenson shouted.

Cuenco hurried under pressure, hooking his clearance out of play for a Sporting throw. Esgaia grabbed a fresh ball from the ball boy before José Luis Moralez had even finished tracking back.

In the forty-fourth minute, Morino intercepted a loose pass from Ramón Terras thirty meters out, sliding it to Pedro in the central pocket. Pedro took one touch, feigned a shot to draw Aïssa Mando out, and slipped a weighted pass onto the right flank.

Markus Edwins hit the space at speed. He controlled the ball in stride, cut sharply inside the recovery tackle of Albert Moreno, and unleashed a low, powerful left-footed strike that skidded off the grass and tucked inside the far post.

"GOOOOOOL!"

The transparent dugout panels shuddered behind Rayan. The seat backs vibrated against his legs, and the wall of sound pressed against his chest hard enough that he felt the physical volume before his mind could process the words. Scarves whipped above heads in the stands, and a supporter three rows behind the family slammed both palms against the metal railing.

"MARKUS!" Karim screamed, leaping off his seat and nearly dropping his phone. "MARKUS! WHAT A GOAL!"

"Sit down before you fall!" Rosa grabbed the back of his shirt.

Joaquim was already on his feet, clapping his heavy hands together. "That’s it! Pedro pulled the defender out—did you see it?"

On Sporting’s bench, three substitutes shot upright, slapping the dugout roof. Rayan stood up with them, clapping his hands together hard enough for his palms to sting, watching Markus sprint toward the corner flag as Gyoker and Coatez swarmed him.

The referee allowed two minutes of stoppage time before raising the whistle to his lips and blowing three short blasts.

"Markus, keep the width until Pedro turns," Rui Amorim said as the starters approached the tunnel. "Don’t come inside before him."

Markus nodded, dragging his shirt across his forehead. "Their full-back’s following Pedro now."

"Good. Then keep him choosing."

Rayan unzipped his training jacket, pulled it over his shoulders, and walked behind the starting eleven down into the subterranean corridor.

HALF-TIME: SPORTING 1–0 VILLARREAL