Chapter 125: Volume 2, - 125: Alvalade Hears Number 82

Chapter 125: Volume 2, Chapter 125: Alvalade Hears Number 82

The rubberized edge of the touchline felt cold through the soles of Rayan’s boots. Two inches in front of him, the manicured green grass of the José Alvalade pitch stretched toward the center circle, slick under the glaring array of stadium floodlights.

Francisco Trincano ran off with light, rapid strides, unbuttoning his wrist tape as he approached. As Trincano crossed the white boundary, he extended his right palm. Rayan slapped it. A quick, dry crack—and stepped over the touchline into the open field.

Thump.

The noise hit him without the dugout glass in the way. More than thirty thousand voices pressed against his ears and trembled through the studs beneath his feet.

"And here comes number eighty-two. Fifteen-year-old academy winger Rayan Duarte El Mansouri, getting his first senior-team minutes here at Alvalade."

"Rayan! Down!" Gonçalo Inásio yelled from thirty meters back, waving his hand toward the left touchline. "Get wide!"

Rayan shifted his hips, taking four fast, lateral steps to hug the chalk on the left flank. His boots sank slightly into the wet turf. In front of him, Adrià Altimiro retreated three yards, knees bent, maintaining a low center of gravity while keeping his eyes locked on Rayan’s chest. Behind Altimiro, Aïssa Mando turned his head, checking the gap between the right-back and the central channel.

Hidemasa Morino gathered a loose ball in the central third, took a single touch to cushion it, and immediately glanced left. Rayan raised his right hand.

The pass came quickly. A zip across the slick blades. Rayan’s first touch was simple and clean, cushioning the wet ball with his inside left boot to lay it off smoothly back to Morino.

"Simple first touch from Rayan. No need for anything spectacular yet."

"Good! Recycle!" Rui Amorim’s voice echoed from the technical area. "Keep the shape!"

Before Morino could set his feet to switch the play, the head referee blew his whistle twice, signaling a stoppage as the fourth official raised the electronic board at the halfway line.

Across the pitch, six Villarreal players stood along the touchline in blue warm-up vests, waiting for the signal to enter.

"Six changes at once for Villarreal. Fresh legs everywhere—and Rayan’s first assignment has changed almost as soon as he arrived."

"Six," Morino muttered, trotting past Rayan to adjust the central midfield line. "They’re swapping the whole block."

Filip Jorgen departed the Villarreal goal, jogging off to let Pepe Rein take his place between the posts. Adrià Altimiro walked off as Álex Baeno entered, while Alberto Moren stepped off for Danis Tasend. Ramón Terraz jogged off as Víctor Moren entered, and Dani Pareja made way for Manu Triguero. Finally, Aïssa Mando trotted off the pitch, making way for Abraham Rando in the center of defence.

As Villarreal reorganized, Matteo Gabbio slid toward the right side of the back line and Abraham Rando settled inside him.

"Show him outside!" Rando shouted in Spanish, pointing with an open hand toward Rayan. "Don’t jump! Cover!"

Rein set the ball down for the restart, kicking it long into the Sporting half. Inásio rose above Brereton Díez, powering a header down toward Morino’s feet.

Morino took the ball on his thigh and whipped a crisp pass out to the left. Rayan cushioned it, turning his hips to face forward.

Gabbio didn’t dive in. He closed the gap rapidly, arriving as Rayan tried to step beyond him and driving his shoulder firmly into Rayan’s upper arm and shoulder.

At sixty-one kilograms, Rayan’s frame bounced off the adult defender’s momentum. His feet skipped sideways off the grass, his center of gravity completely dismantled.

"Ah—!" Rayan gasped as the wind compressed out of his lungs.

He stumbled two paces, his hands catching the wet turf to keep from going down completely. Gabbio calmly stepped over the ball, hooked it away with his right boot, and turned it back toward Triguero. The referee waved his arms for play to continue.

"Gabbio gives the youngster the senior welcome there—strong, legal contact, and Rayan has to learn quickly."

Rayan pushed himself up instantly, wiping mud off his palm onto his shorts. He turned, took six quick strides back into the defensive shape, and tucked inside the channel.

"Good bounce," Gyoker growled, dropping back five yards to assist the press. "Stay on your feet, kid."

In the seventy-second minute, Pepe Rein misplayed a short goal-kick clearance toward the edge of the area, and Pedro Gonsalves pounced. Pedro drove straight at the retreating line, shifted beyond Capou’s attempted recovery challenge, then cut inside Rando at the edge of the box before curling a low drive toward the far post.

"Gonsalves turns—past one, past two—GONSALVES! Two-nil Sporting!"

"That is outstanding from Pedro Gonsalves. He never needed the wide option—he saw the opening, attacked it himself, and Villarreal simply couldn’t stop him."

Plastic stadium seats slammed upward across the stadium as thousands leaped to their feet. Gonsalves sprinted toward the corner flag, sliding onto his knees before being engulfed by Gyoker and Morino. Rayan stayed wide on his touchline, holding his position until the restart was signaled.

Three minutes later, Triguero tried to punch a pass into Brereton Díez’s feet. Inásio stepped in front of him and stabbed the ball away.

"Hidemasa!"

Morino collected it and returned the ball to Inásio. Inásio looked left and slid a crisp ground pass toward Rayan.

Gabbio closed down hard to deliver another physical check, but Rayan didn’t wait to absorb the weight. He used a quick, flicked first touch with his left instep, chopping the ball inside Gabbio’s advancing leg into the half-space.

Rando stepped out from the central backline to cover the gap. Rayan released the ball immediately. A sharp, square pass inside to Morino.

Morino took the ball in stride, mapped the space opened by Rando’s movement, and whipped a fifty-yard cross-field ball over the shifting defense to the far right flank.

Geni Catano controlled the falling ball on his chest near the right edge of the box, cut inside Danis Tasend with a swift step-over, and whipped a wicked, curling low cross across the six-yard box. Paulino Vieira sprinted between the two central defenders, lunged forward, and turned the final delivery into the top of the net.

"Rayan moves it early... Morino across to Catano—Catano into the six! PAULINO! Three!"

"And look at the beginning of it—young Rayan doesn’t force the second defender. One touch inside, Morino changes the point of attack, and Catano supplies the assist. That’s mature football from the fifteen-year-old."

Up in Section Three of the hospitality balcony, Karim slammed his hands onto the glass railing.

"Did you see that?!" Karim yelled, turning to Sofia and Joaquim. "Rayan created that whole goal! That chop drew the defender out! He basically assisted it!"

Leonor leaned over her chair, shaking her head. "Dad, that’s a pre-assist at best. Morino switched it and Geni put it on a plate for Paulino. Rayan just released the ball early."

"No assist for number eighty-two, of course, but that early release was part of the move."

"It doesn’t matter," Karim insisted, pointing down at the pitch. "The space opened because of him!"

Down on the field, Rayan trotted back toward his half.

In the eighty-second minute, he got another chance on the ball near the sideline. Morino picked him out again with a short pass. Rayan mapped the line and attempted an explosive exit down the outside edge to beat Gabbio on pure acceleration.

His first touch was too heavy, skittering off the wet grass three yards further than intended. Gabbio read the direction, stepped across the line, and shielded the ball out of play for a throw-in, using his body frame to lock Rayan out.

"Rayan wants the outside lane—Gabbio reads it this time. Good defending from the Villarreal man."

Rayan adjusted his shinguards, backed off five steps, and set his eyes on Gabbio’s hips for the throw.

"Rayan! Inside!" Morino shouted two minutes later as Villarreal prepared a quick restart.

Rayan dropped three meters without thinking.

"Runner!"

He turned his head, found the yellow shirt moving behind him, and followed. The stands were still roaring somewhere beyond the touchline. He didn’t look at them.