Chapter 110: Volume 2, - 110: The New Card

Chapter 110: Volume 2, Chapter 110: The New Card

The morning breeze off the Tagus swept across the main pitches at Alcochete.

Rayan jogged onto Pitch 2 alongside Duarte, his boots crunching against the gravel border before hitting the turf. His hamstrings still held a faint trace of yesterday’s tightness, but his legs felt light. The senior group was already spread across the grid. Sebastian Coatez stretching his long legs near the centre circle while Gonçalo Inásio and Ousmane Diamande traded crisp, low passes across forty yards.

"Small-sided shadow play first, then six-versus-six transitional grids," Rui announced, stepping into the middle of the pitch with a stopwatch around his neck. "Two touches maximum in the build-up phase. If you take a third, you turn over possession. Move!"

The intensity was immediate.

"Man on!" Inásio shouted as the ball was zipped into Rayan’s feet.

Rayan didn’t look back; he opened his hips to receive with his right foot, letting the ball roll across his body toward the half-space. Before Eduardo Quaresmo could step out and tight-mark him, Rayan flicked a quick pass inside to Daniel Braga and spun into the pocket behind the defensive line. Release before contact. It was the only way his fifteen-year-old frame could survive against senior defenders who weighed twenty kilos more than him.

Five minutes into the play, the ball bounced awkwardly off a worn patch of turf. Rayan went to cushion it with his instep, but his first touch bounced two feet high, stalling his momentum.

"Leave!" Mateus Reiz barked, stepping in instantly to shoulder Rayan off the line.

The contact was light for Reiz, but it felt like hitting a brick wall to Rayan. Stumbling off balance, Rayan watched Reiz clean up the loose ball and ping a twenty-yard pass to Pedro Gonsalves.

"Rayan, body orientation!" Rui shouted from the sideline. "You were blind to Reiz because you turned your back before the ball arrived! Scan earlier!"

"Got it!" Rayan called back, gritting his teeth.

During the next defensive phase, Rayan drifted too far inside toward Paulino Vieira, trying to help compress the central channel. Inásio instantly exploited the gap, clipping a pass over Rayan’s head into the wide space for Ricardo Esgaia to run onto.

"Rayan, stop tucked in so deep!" Rui barked immediately, gesturing sharply toward the touchline. "You’re leaving the wing wide open! Stay in your lane and trust your backline!"

"My bad!" Rayan called out, adjusting his position on the retreat.

On the next transition, Duarte dropped deep to receive from Hidemasa Morino. Duarte was seamless. A fluid, effortless rhythm of disguised touches that left Ricardo Esgaia chasing shadows. He cushioned the ball with his left, feinted toward Nuno Santis, and slipped a reverse pass into the channel without looking.

"Line!" Duarte called, checking his run after the pass.

Rayan picked up the ball on the right flank, isolated against Mateus Reiz. The picture was right. Rayan checked his stride, dropped his right shoulder into a sharp feint, and planted his left foot to ignite his Explosive Exit.

The surge of acceleration was instantaneous. He blew past Reiz’s inside shoulder, cutting into the penalty box before Diamande could cover the angle, and snapped a low cross into Viktor Gyoker, who turned it into the bottom corner. As Gyoker finished, Reiz lunged late to recover and clipped Rayan’s trailing ankle, sending him tumbling across the grass.

"Watch the feet, Mateus!" Rayan snapped, pushing himself up and rubbing his sore ankle with a frown.

"Get up, kid, you went down soft," Reiz grunted back, though he held out a hand to pull Rayan up. "Keep moving."

"Good!" Gyoker grunted, clapping his hands together once as he jogged back. "Again!"

"That was pure luck, you took a heavy touch," Duarte said, jogging past Rayan with a sly grin. "If Reiz didn’t slip on the turf, he eats you alive."

"He didn’t slip," Rayan countered, wiping his chin. "He bought the shoulder. You would’ve passed it backward to Inásio."

"I would’ve kept the ball," Duarte said smoothly. "Watch."

On the next repetition, Duarte received under pressure from Eduardo Quaresmo. Instead of accelerating into space, Duarte used a subtle, effortless touch, dragging the ball behind his standing leg to completely alter the passing lane before sliding Markus Edwins into the box.

"See?" Duarte called back, throwing a thumb over his shoulder. "Rhythm."

"Directness wins games," Rayan muttered, lining up for the next phase.

Two minutes later, Rayan tried the exact same Explosive Exit route against Sebastian Coatez. But the veteran defender didn’t bite on the shoulder feint. Coatez simply delayed, stepping back two paces, using his long reach to lock down the space. When Rayan tried to burst past, Coatez dropped a heavy arm across Rayan’s chest and swept the ball away clean.

Rayan hit the grass hard, sliding two yards across the damp turf before pushing himself up, breathless.

"Cover!" Coatez yelled to Diamande, completely ignoring Rayan as the play transitioned downfield.

Rayan dusted off his knees, coughing slightly. Timing, not strength. If the defender delayed, he couldn’t force the burst; he had to lay it off.

They moved immediately into the second transitional play, where Antonio Adal set the shape from deep. Rayan made a sharp diagonal run to offer an outlet, but Nuno Santis stepped in front to cut the angle, forcing Rayan to check his run and sprint forty yards back to cover the space left behind. His lungs burned as Geni Catano clipped a cross over his head, reminding him how much ground senior football covered in a single second.

Rui blew three long blasts on his whistle. "That’s full intensity for today! Cool down, hit the ice baths, and get off the pitch!"

Rayan unlaced his boots near the bench, letting out a long breath as his teammates began heading toward the tunnel. As he walked toward the drink coolers on the sideline to grab a towel, a cold, sharp sensation settled behind his forehead. The familiar static flared across his vision, settling into the revised, sleek interface of the upgraded System.

[PLAYER CARD RECALIBRATION COMPLETE]

[OVERALL RATING: 53]

[PAC: 74]

[SHO: 48]

[PAS: 51]

[DRI: 57]

[DEF: 31]

[PHY: 43]

[SKILL MOVES: 3★]

[WEAK FOOT: 2★]

[PLAYSTYLES]

Quick Step [DEVELOPING - LOCKED]

[HISTORICAL LOGS & LEGACY TECHNIQUES]

Explosive Exit [LEGACY TECHNIQUE - GRANDFATHERED]

Body Feint [HISTORICAL LOG]

First-Touch Escape [HISTORICAL LOG]

Rayan stood by the cooler, staring straight through the yellow plastic bottles. He focused on the primary numbers, and the panel expanded downward in clean, dark blue layers.

[PAC: 74]

Acceleration: 76

Sprint Speed: 72

[DRI: 57]

Agility: 68

Balance: 61

Ball Control: 58

Dribbling: 56

[PHY: 43]

Strength: 38

Stamina: 48

Aggression: 41

The blue interface glowed against the green backdrop of the pitch. His eyes lingered on the numbers.

Strength: 38.

Balance: 61.

He looked over at Reiz and Coatez walking toward the tunnel, then back at the floating blue display. PHY: 43. When Reiz hit him, balance alone wasn’t keeping him upright. When Coatez held his ground, acceleration without leverage meant running straight into a brick wall.

His eyes shifted lower.

WEAK FOOT: 2★

Rayan glanced down at his left boot. In play, every time Coatez or Santis angled their body to shut down his right foot, he had been forced to recycle backward or risk a mishit pass with his left. Two stars meant his left foot was barely usable under senior pressure.

Then he looked back at Duarte, who was casually bouncing a ball on his thigh near the touchline, switching from left foot to right foot without breaking rhythm.

Rayan stared at 3★ SKILL MOVES. He didn’t have Duarte’s effortless manipulation yet, and he didn’t have the strength to fight senior defenders head-on. But if he could master sharper lane changes, stepovers, and cuts and make his left foot dangerous. Coatez wouldn’t be able to just step back and wait for him.

He fixated on the faded grey text of Quick Step [DEVELOPING - LOCKED], calculating how many more reps against Coatez it would take to force the interface to change.

"Rayan!"

A sharp call shattered the visual interface. The floating text dissolved instantly into the green expanse of Pitch 2.

Francisco Trincano was standing ten yards away by the equipment cart, hands on his hips, tossing a bag of balls over his shoulder.

"You’re daydreaming, kid," Trincano said, snapping his fingers. "Grab the cone hurdles and get inside for recovery. Let’s go."

"Sorry," Rayan said quickly, shaking his head to clear the lingering static. He adjusted his shinguards, took a deep breath of the damp morning air, and jogged over to grab the gear.