Chapter 111: Volume 2, - 111: A Call Across Lisbon

Chapter 111: Volume 2, Chapter 111: A Call Across Lisbon

The plastic table outside the bakery near the square wobbled every time Joca set his elbow down.

Rayan pulled his legs back under his chair as Idris slid a cardboard tray of warm pão de Deus onto the laminate surface. Across the table, Joca was adjusting the focal ring on his secondhand Sony camera, taking test shots of the traffic crawling toward the Segunda Circular.

"If you take one more picture of my hair while I’m eating, I’m throwing that lens into the bus lane," Teu grunted, leaning over his phone screen to tap a beat into a music production app. "Listen to this synth transition. It’s better than the garbage you were playing yesterday."

"Your synth sounds like a broken microwave, Teu," Joca said without looking up from his viewfinder. "Rayan, tilt your head left. The light hitting the apartment wall behind you is actually decent."

"Leave him alone, Joca," Idris said, pulling off a piece of coconut pastry. "He’s been running forty-yard recovery sprints since eight in the morning while you were sleeping." Idris looked at Rayan, his expression turning serious. "Did you finish the history summary for Senhor Silva? He said if it’s late on Monday, we get detention on the first week back."

"I did half of it on the bus to Faro," Rayan said, reaching for a pastry. "I’ll finish the rest tonight."

"Liar," Teu snorted, tapping his screen again. "You were playing FIFA with Duarte."

Rayan’s phone vibrated against the plastic table. He picked it up, unlocking the screen to reveal an official notification from Sporting’s main Instagram account: Preparing for Villarreal. Pre-season work continues at Alcochete.

He slid through the ten-slide gallery. Slide six showed Viktor Gyoker shielding a ball from Ousmane Diamande. In the far left corner, half-cut out of the frame and blurred by the motion of the drill, Rayan’s oversized number 82 shirt was clearly visible as he turned away from the play.

"Look," Rayan said, holding the screen out toward Teu and Joca. "Main club page."

Joca took the phone, squinting at the screen before zooming in until the pixels broke into blurry blocks. "Rayan, you’re literally half an ear and a shoulder in the background of a Gyoker photo."

"That’s eighty-two," Rayan insisted, pointing at the shoulder. "And look at what the archive page did with it."

He took the phone back, opening Instagram to tap @SportingYouthArchive’s latest post. The fan page had cropped the background of the official club photograph, zoomed in on Rayan’s blurred frame, and posted it.

Rayan held the screen in the middle of the table so Joca and Teu could read the display:

@SportingYouthArchive: Rayan Duarte (#82) continuing with the first team ahead of Sunday. 24 likes.

@lion_fan99: Is he on the bench against Villarreal?

@scp_fanatic_07: kid has pace, hope he gets minutes

"Twenty-four likes," Teu read aloud from the screen, letting out a sharp laugh. "Bro, my dog’s account gets more likes when he wears his winter coat."

"It’s a supporter page, Teu," Rayan said, sitting up a little straighter and locking his phone. "People in the comments are asking if I’m playing against Villarreal."

"One guy asked," Joca corrected, pointing a finger at the table. "And his name is lion_fan99. He probably asks if the pitch mower is starting on Sunday."

"You’re just jealous because nobody’s making archive edits of your camera work," Rayan joked, leaning back.

Joca turned his phone screen around, tapping open his DMs. "Yeah? Look at this." He showed the messages on the glass:

@marta_s05: is rayan coming to the square later?

@beatriz.v_08: tell rayan my sister saw his clip from the algarve

"I told them you only talk to verified accounts now," Joca said, pulling his phone back. "And Inês said you were lying about your hamstrings so you didn’t have to help carry the bakery trays."

"Tell them I’m resting for Sunday," Rayan grinned, snatching a piece of Idris’s pastry before Idris could swat his hand away.

"You’re fifteen, Rayan, not Cristiano," Idris laughed, shaking his head. "Pass the juice."

Rayan leaned back against his chair, the late afternoon sun warming his neck. He unlocked his phone one more time under the lip of the table, watching the like counter on @SportingYouthArchive tick up to twenty-seven.

---

The dining room in the Faria home in Campo de Ourique smelled of roast cod, garlic, and hot olive oil.

Ana Faria set a platter of rice on the table, then smoothed her apron as she sat opposite her husband. Miguel Faria had a pile of printed architectural floor plans pushed to the far corner of the table, next to a pitcher of cold lemonade.

"Pass the salad, Duarte," Miguel said, dishing baked potatoes onto his plate. "Did your mother tell you we’re driving up to Sintra next Tuesday after my morning site visit to look at the stone masonry for the house project?"

"I told him," Ana said, serving Duarte a piece of fish. "He said he has recovery stretching until noon that day anyway."

"We go at two, then," Miguel said, taking a bite. "Duarte, how are the legs after morning training? Rui’s loading plan seemed heavy today."

"Fine, Dad," Duarte said, cutting his fish. "Physio said my muscle fatigue markers are totally normal."

"Good," Miguel noted, reaching for the water pitcher. "Keep up the hydration tonight."

Ana set her fork down, exchanging a quick look with Miguel before turning to Duarte. "Miguel, mention the phone call."

Duarte paused, his fork hovering above his plate. "What phone call?"

Miguel wiped his napkin across his mouth and leaned back. "A talent scout from Benfica’s Seixal academy called my office landline this afternoon."

Duarte’s posture stiffened slightly. "Benfica?"

"A man named Rui Silva," Ana said softly. "He asked whether we would be willing to sit down for an informal coffee after Sporting’s pre-season finishes next month."

"How did they get your office number?" Duarte asked, setting his fork down. "My youth registration is with Sporting."

"Scouts find family contacts easily if they want to," Ana said, passing the salad bowl. "I called him back while your father was in his meeting. I asked him directly why he was calling our home life, and who gave him permission."

"What did he say?" Duarte asked.

"He said their academy scouts have liked your passing disguise and positioning since the Under-14s," Miguel answered. "He called it a clean midfield profile."

Duarte sat back, his jaw tightening as he stared at his water glass. ’It has nothing to do with Rayan getting first-team clips or scoring in the Algarve. That’s just coincidence.’

Ana looked at her son gently. "Does the timing bother you, Duarte?"

"No," Duarte said quickly, taking a sharp drink from his glass. "It’s just stupid. Benfica always calls families when someone gets five minutes near the first team."

"We evaluate these things calmly as a family," Miguel said firmly, taking a sip of lemonade. "We don’t get excited or rush into anything. I told Senhor Silva we will only think about player pathways after August."

Duarte looked down at his plate. His mind flashed briefly to the morning training session on Pitch 2—Rayan’s sharp shoulder feint, the way Mateus Reiz had been caught off balance, and Gyoker clapping for the cross.

Duarte cleared his throat, setting his glass down. "Sporting is giving us first-team reps right now. Benfica can wait."

"That’s a sensible attitude," Miguel said, reaching for the floor plans to clear space on the table. "Eat your dinner, then help your mother clear the dishes before your stretches."

Ana smiled at Duarte, patting his hand before picking up her fork. Duarte kept his eyes on his plate, chewing methodically.