Chapter 108: Volume 2, - 108: The Road Back to Lisbon

Chapter 108: Volume 2, Chapter 108: The Road Back to Lisbon

The digital scale in the medical room made two clicks before stabilising at 61.2 kilograms.

Rayan lowered himself onto the vinyl floor, and the vinyl felt cool under his bare feet. Next to the scale, a physical performance assistant recorded the figure on a digital tablet. "The hydration status is green at 1.012 and the wellness self-report is a six—sleep duration is normal but there is elevated lower-body soreness."

"Sit on the plinth," the physio instructed, pointing to the high bench. "Right knee extension first, then hamstring and calf length."

Rayan pulled himself to a standing position. There was a tightness in the backs of his thighs, a deep and dull pain in the hamstrings which had developed during the second half against Portimonense and continued into his sleep. When he woke up it seemed as if his legs were composed of heavy timber, the toll of two senior friendly matches having taken a toll on his fifteen-year-old body.

The physio took hold of Rayan’s heel, placed a hand on his kneecap to check the hamstrings’ range of movement and then flexed the ankle upwards. "The right soleus is stiff and the hamstrings are tight; there is three degrees less dorsiflexion than at your baseline. Muscle fatigue is high. You should roll out, go into the cold contrast pool and then do twenty easy minutes on the wattbike before you load the bus."

Rayan nodded and swung his legs down from the bench, while across the room Duarte stood on one leg with his eyes shut and a sensor attached to his chest monitoring the tiny movements as part of his own screening.

They had not taken part in the 3–0 victory over Real Sociedad on Tuesday evening. Since they had already endured a tough match against Portimonense that morning, head coach Rui Amorim had left both of the academy players in the stands in order to help them recover. Rayan’s unofficial total from the pre-season camp was still unchanged: two appearances in friendly matches, three goals and three assists. His official professional record continued to show a row of zeros and his System OVR stayed at 53.

Outside the corridor, the logistics staff were removing the equipment from the bays.

Rayan put his dirty socks into the laundry bin labelled ACADEMY. Next to him, the senior kit staff packed heavy trunks filled with personal travel bags that had embroidered crests and the official squad numbers. Rayan’s shirt—which had the simple, large number 82 with no name printed on the shoulders—was placed into a standard mesh bag and he did not have a fixed hook in the senior kit room or a special equipment space on the team vehicle.

"Don’t leave your boots on the hotel rack, Rayan," the kit manager called out. "If it’s not in the academy hamper, it stays in the Algarve."

"I’ve got them right here," said Rayan, as he held up his boot bag.

Rayan took his phone out of his pocket and saw at the top a message from his mother, Sofia:

What time does the bus leave the Algarve? What did the physio say about your legs after yesterday? Do you need food left out?

Rayan typed back: Physio said hamstrings are fine, just stiff. Eating lunch on the bus. Arriving at Alvalade around 2:00 PM.

Below that was a string of links from Karim, who had sent a screenshot from a tiny Sporting academy supporter account with barely three hundred followers. The page had reposted a grainy clip of Rayan’s assist against Portimonense, captioning it: Who is this #82? Impressive movement from the youth team. The post had forty-two likes and seven comments.

Rayan stared at the screen, a small flicker of excitement rising in his chest. Forty-two likes.

He slid past Karim’s messages to a note from Leonor:

Some random fan page tagged my design portfolio account asking if I’m related to the number 82. I blocked them instantly. Don’t let your football mess up my client feed.

He sent back a brief thumbs-up emoji. A short message from Bia arrived next:

I can’t talk today since I have to hand in the final rendered boards for the studio project at 4:00 PM and I hope your leg feels all right after yesterday.

In the hotel lobby at 10.30 AM the squad came together and Sebastian Coatez, holding a recovery drink, nodded down at Rayan. "Don’t stay sitting on your tight hamstrings for two hours running, go and stretch at the service stop."

"I will," Rayan said.

The coach left the hotel car park, the dark tint of its windows reflecting the bright sunlight of the Algarve as it joined the A2 highway heading north.

The trip was quiet; the players were sleeping, scrolling on their phones or eating cold meals that had been portioned out and served in plastic containers. A person sitting in the back made a gentle complaint regarding the temperature of the bus, and another player objected to the snoring coming from the middle rows. Rayan put the back of his head against the window and watched the dry, shrub-covered hills fade into the flatter, olive-strewn plains of Alentejo.

At the halfway service station the bus stayed there for fifteen minutes and Rayan got up to walk up and down the narrow aisle, as Coatez had told him, in order to loosen his stiff calves and hamstrings.

Once two hours had passed, the landscape changed once more. The rural fields levelled out and were taken over by industrial warehouses, suburban exits, and the huge stretch of the Tagus River.

The coach moved rapidly over the expansion joints of the 25 de Abril Bridge; below it the river shone in the afternoon sun with white sails spread out over the water as Lisbon appeared on the other bank.

The bus left the highway and moved through the traffic on the Segunda Circular. Rayan tilted himself nearer to the window.

As the coach rounded the bend outside Campo Grande, the green-tiled exterior of Estádio José Alvalade came into sight, its tall steel arches standing above the square.

Rayan straightened up against the window and directed his eyes along the line of the roof until it vanished beyond the glass. He then looked down at the simple, unmarked mesh bag which was situated between his feet before turning back to look at the stadium as the bus descended the underground ramp into the shadow of Alvalade.