Chapter 124: Volume 2, - 124: Take Off the Bib

Chapter 124: Volume 2, Chapter 124: Take Off the Bib

The air inside the subterranean dressing room was heavy with steam, heat rub, and the sharp scent of damp turf.

Rayan sat on the wooden bench against the far wall, his hands resting on his thighs. Antonio Adal sat three lockers down with his chest heaving, gulping water from a black plastic bottle while a physio wrapped a compression band around his left forearm. Nearby, Pedro Gonsalves sat slumped on his stool, a white towel draped over his head, breathing heavily through his nose while wiping sweat from his eyebrows.

Rui Amorim stood in the center of the tiled floor, holding a small magnetic tactical board.

"Their pivot is sitting deeper now," Rui said, tapping two blue magnets representing Villarreal’s central midfielders. "Pareja isn’t tracking Pedro into the half-spaces because he’s worried about Viktor pulling off his shoulder. Hidemasa, when you win the second ball, don’t look for the short wall pass immediately. Turn and find Markus wide. The space is behind their left-back."

Morino nodded once, wiping his face with a small hand towel before taking a slow sip from an electrolyte pouch.

"Sebastián, Gonçalo," Rui continued, pointing toward the backline magnets. "Watch the diagonal over the top. Gerard Moren is looking for the blind side of Gonçalo every time Pareja gets time on the ball. Drop two steps earlier."

Coatez nodded, his broad shoulders rising and falling rhythmically as he tied the laces of his boots tighter. "Understood, boss."

"Right," Rui said, clapping his hands twice. "Five minutes. Let’s finish this."

The starters stood up, studs clicking against the rubberized floor tiles as they filed back out into the tunnel. Rayan unzipped his training jacket, pulled it over his shirt, and followed the rest of the substitutes back out toward the bench.

Matteo Gabbio emerged beside Aïssa Mando, taking over Jorge Cuenco’s spot in the backline, while Étienne Capou jogged into midfield alongside Dani Pareja. Denis Suare took up position near the right touchline, and Ben Brereton Díez stepped over the center line in place of Alexander Sorlot.

"UP!" Capou shouted as soon as the whistle blew, waving both arms forward.

Brereton Díez immediately sprinted at Adal.

"Left!" Inásio called out.

Adal took one heavy touch on the slick surface as Brereton Díez closed the distance. "Away!" Adal drove a low, fifty-meter clearance toward Gyoker, but Gabbio stepped ahead of the striker, winning the header and dropping the ball straight into Pareja’s path.

In the fifty-fifth minute, the assistant coach turned toward the dugout.

"Warm up," he called out, gesturing down the bench. "Rayan, Geni, Paulino, Ousmane. Go."

Rayan pulled a yellow mesh bib over his chest, stepped over the low barrier, and jogged toward the touchline behind the corner flag alongside Geni Catano, Paulino Vieira, and Ousmane Diamande.

The fitness coach stepped in front of them with two training balls. "Open the hips," he instructed. "Ten meters. Stop. Turn."

Rayan stepped over the small marker, feeling the stretch in his groin. "Again," the coach said. "Seventy percent. Don’t sprint it."

"Twenty-one! Twenty!" the assistant coach shouted down the sideline two minutes later.

Geni Catano ripped the yellow bib over his head in one rapid motion, tossing it onto the turf. Paulino Vieira unzipped his top and threw it onto the bench.

The fourth official lifted the electronic substitution board at the halfway line: red 47, green 21. Ricardo Esgaia trotted off, wiping sweat from his forehead as Geni bounced twice on his toes before stepping onto the pitch to take over the wide right corridor.

A second board followed immediately: red 10, green 20. Markus Edwins walked off with short, steady strides, slapping Paulino’s open palm as the striker trotted on to lead the central attack.

The fitness coach checked his watch. "Back in. Water."

Rayan jogged back to the dugout, took three fast swallows from a black squeeze bottle, and remained standing beside his seat. Thirty seconds later, the coach pointed toward the corner flag again. "You two. Out."

Rayan pulled the bib straight and followed Ousmane back down the touchline. The coach rolled a ball straight into his path. "Left foot."

Rayan trapped the ball, laid it off with a short, clean pass, and backed up five paces.

Around the sixty-fifth minute, the assistant coach called out again: "Franco! Ousmane!"

Franco Ismael pulled off his warm-up jacket, tightened his gloves around his wrists, and jogged toward the technical area as Antonio Adal approached the touchline. Beside him, Ousmane Diamande tore off his bib and unlaced his track pants, stepping onto the pitch to replace Sebastian Coatez at center-back. Coatez flexed his left knee once before crossing the line, then slapped Diamande’s palm.

Rayan kept moving, passing back and forth with the coach, watching the stadium clock tick to 66:10.

Then Rui Amorim turned toward the touchline and made a single, sharp gesture with his index finger.

"Rayan!" the assistant coach called out. "Come here!"

Rayan stopped his lateral shuffle instantly. A sudden surge of cold adrenaline hit his throat. He jogged back toward the technical area, his studs catching the damp turf along the touchline.

Rui Amorim was waiting beside the fourth official, holding a tablet.

"Take the bib off," Rui said cleanly.

Rayan pulled the yellow mesh bib over his head, tossing it to a ball boy. The dark green jersey with the white number 82 across his back was exposed beneath the floodlights. His fingers felt stiff as he pulled down his socks and smoothed out his shinguards for the second time.

Rui stepped closer, placing a heavy hand on Rayan’s shoulder.

"Listen to me," Rui said. "You are replacing Trincano on the left. Stay connected to Hidemasa. When we lose the ball, drop five meters into the central block—do not leave the channel open behind you."

Rayan swallowed against a dry throat, nodding sharply. "Got it."

"Offensively," Rui continued, pointing toward Villarreal’s right side. "Attack the isolation when you get it one-on-one. If Mando steps across to cover, do not force the touch—release it and recycle. Keep it clean. Understand?"

"Understood, boss," Rayan rasped.

Beside him, Viktor Gyoker trotted past during a stoppage for a throw-in. The forward slapped Rayan hard across the back of his shoulder blade, nearly knocking him forward.

"Play simple, kid," Gyoker growled, wiping sweat from his eye. "No mistakes."

At the halfway line, the fourth official stepped to the white line, raising the electronic substitution board. He clicked the red 17 for Francisco Trincano, and the glowing green 82 for Rayan.

Up in Section Three of the hospitality balcony, four floors above the pitch, Karim had been leaning against the glass railing when his eyes caught the tall figure standing beside Rui Amorim.

"Sofia," Karim gasped, grabbing her jacket sleeve. "Sofia! Look! Look at the board!"

Sofia stood up instantly, her heart hammering against her ribs. She gripped the cold metal railing, staring down at the bright green 82 illuminated down at pitch level.

Beside her, Rosa reached out, her hand gripping Sofia’s arm with a firm, silent pressure.

Joaquim leaned forward in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clamped over his mouth as his eyes fixed on the sideline.

Leonor dropped her phone onto her lap, leaning in beside Sofia to look down through the floodlight glare.

Down on the pitch level, the head referee blew his whistle, signaling the substitution as Francisco Trincano began his trot toward the touchline.

Rayan stood two inches behind the white line, his hands flat against his thighs, waiting for Trincano to reach him.