Chapter 114: Volume 2, - 114: Famous to Twelve Accounts

Chapter 114: Volume 2, Chapter 114: Famous to Twelve Accounts

The plastic fan in the corner of Joca’s bedroom buzzed on its highest setting, pushing hot, stale air across the clutter on the desk.

Joca was hunched over his monitor in a sleeveless basketball jersey, his fingers tapping rhythmically against his mouse as he scrubbed through a CapCut timeline. Teu was sprawled sideways across the bed with his feet dangling over the frame, scrolling through a sneaker resale app, while Idris sat cross-legged on the rug, balancing a bowl of cold pasta salad on his knees.

"Move your shoulder, Rayan," Joca muttered, dragging a video file into the project bin. "You’re blocking the light."

Rayan shifted off the desk frame. "Is that the clip from the U15 match against Sacavenense?"

"Yep," Joca grinned, pulling up a low-resolution phone video recorded two years ago. On the monitor, a thirteen-year-old Rayan. A head shorter, with messy hair and an oversized green kit attempted a stepover near the sideline, tripped over his own left heel, and went face-first into the dry grass while the opposing full-back trotted away with the ball.

Teu let out a loud laugh from the bed, nearly dropping his phone. "Bro, look at his arms! He looked like a falling windmill!"

"Delete that, Joca," Rayan grunted, reaching over to grab the mouse. "Seriously. It’s embarrassing."

"It’s essential context, Rayan," Joca said, dodging his hand and locking the video layer. "First six seconds: you falling over your own feet and missing an open net at Belenenses. Then the bass drops, the audio switches to that underground Brazilian phonk track Teu sent me, and it cuts straight to your stepover in Faro."

"That transition is cold," Teu admitted, sitting up to inspect the screen. "From face-planting in the dirt to dropping your shoulder against Portimonense goes hard."

"Why aren’t you putting the actual goal in?" Rayan protested, crossing his arms.

"Because showing you as a garbage player first makes the real clip thirty percent funnier and fifty percent more impressive," Joca said dismissively. "It’s basic narrative."

Rayan pulled his phone from his pocket, opening Instagram before he even realized he was doing it. He swiped down to refresh his notifications tab.

@pedro_scp_08 started following you.

@mariana.silva_22 liked your tagged photo.

@villarreal_fan_es commented: "Quien es este chico?" (who is this boy?)

His profile showed 412 followers, up from 380 yesterday morning. He locked the screen, set the phone on his thigh, waited four seconds, and unlocked it again to refresh the page.

"Look at him," Teu snorted, nudging Idris with his foot. "Bro, it’s been two minutes since you checked."

"I’m checking messages from my mum," Rayan lied, locking the glass.

"Liar," Joca laughed. "You’ve looked at your follower count six times since we bought iced teas."

"He thinks he’s famous because twelve fan accounts tagged him in a collage with Gyoker," Idris added. "Did you finish the history summary yet? Because if you get benched because you failed ninth-grade history, I’m laughing at you."

"I finished it last night," Rayan said. "And I’m not looking at fan accounts."

Teu held up his phone, showing a clip on his screen. "Did you guys see the new Gojo arc episode that aired last night? The animation during the roadside fight was absurd."

"The hidden inventory past arc?" Idris asked, leaning forward. "That whole fight was clean. Toji could have won that if he knew about Hallow Purple"

"Inês told me yesterday that Rafael tried to ask her to the beach on Saturday," Joca mentioned casually, cutting a transition frame on his editor. "She told him she had to study, but she was at the bakery with us ten minutes later."

"Rafael has no game," Teu snorted. "He sent her a TikTok of a cat playing the piano and asked if she liked animals."

"That’s terrible," Rayan laughed, sitting back against the wardrobe. "Even Idris has better lines than that."

"Hey," Idris protested, raising his bowl. "I don’t need lines. I have charm."

Rayan left Joca’s apartment around five o’clock, walking down the quiet street. The late afternoon heat was softening, leaving a warm breeze sweeping off the river.

He pulled out his phone and dialed Bia Mendes. She answered on the fourth ring, the faint sound of turning paper playing in the background.

"Rayan?" her voice came through the speaker, light and calm. "Are you done with training?"

"Finished two hours ago," Rayan said, stepping onto the pavement. "I was at Joca’s house. He’s making some terrible video edit of me."

"Is it the one where you fell over during the school tournament in May?" Bia asked, a small laugh in her voice.

"How do you even remember that?" Rayan groaned, leaning against the glass wall of the shelter.

"Because it was hilarious," Bia said simply. "You tried to do a rainbow flick and hit yourself in the back of the head."

Rayan smiled, feeling the tension in his shoulders melt away. "It was windy that day."

"It wasn’t windy, Rayan," Bia replied smoothly. He could hear her setting a mug down. "I’m reading that fantasy book my cousin gave me for my birthday. The one about the city made of glass."

"Is it good?" Rayan asked, pulling his legs back as an older woman stepped into the shelter.

"It’s okay," Bia said. "The main character spends three Chapters complaining about her shoes, but the world-building is actually really detailed. Oh, and did you hear about Marta?"

"No. What happened?"

"She tried to dye her hair light brown yesterday, but she left the bleach on too long, so now it’s slightly orange," Bia explained, her tone filled with quiet amusement. "She’s wearing a blue hoodie to school on Monday even if it’s thirty degrees outside."

Rayan listened, a comfortable grin spreading across his face as he watched traffic pass. He didn’t interrupt, enjoying the steady rhythm of her voice and the simple, effortless space between them.

"So," Bia said softly after a brief pause. "I saw the fan pages on Instagram this afternoon."

Rayan held the phone a little closer to his ear. "Yeah?"

"They’re speculating you might be involved on Sunday against Villarreal," she said. "My dad saw a supporter blog mentioning your name and asked if you were the Rayan from the bakery."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him you’re the Rayan who falls over his own feet," she teased gently. "I’m really happy for you, Rayan. Seriously."

"Are you coming to the stadium?" Rayan asked before he could stop himself.

"On Sunday?" Bia paused slightly. "No, my family is going to my aunt’s house in Cascais for dinner. My cousins are visiting from Porto. But I’m going to watch the match on TV with my dad."

"Okay," Rayan said, feeling a slight prick of disappointment, but smoothing it over immediately. "Tell your dad to turn the volume up if I get on."

"I will," she smiled. "Good luck with practice tomorrow, Rayan."

"Thanks, Bia. Talk to you later."

He boarded the bus three minutes later, sitting in the back corner by the window. As the bus pulled away from the curb, his phone vibrated in his palm.

It was a notification from Joca: an MP4 video file tagged Rayan_Masterclass_v1.mp4.

Rayan opened the file and attached his earbuds.

The video started with the low-quality clip from two years ago: Rayan tripping over his own boots in the grass with a massive clown emoji animated over his head. Then, precisely at the six-second mark, the audio cut into a heavy, distorted phonk beat.

The screen flashed rapidly, transitioning into high-definition broadcast footage from Faro—Rayan chopping past the Portimonense left-back, his sharp low cross, and a screenshot of the official Sporting training photo. The edit ended with a zoomed-in freeze-frame of Rayan’s face from the post, captioned in yellow text: #82 IS COMING FOR ALVALADE.

Rayan sat back against the bus seat, covering his mouth with his hand to stifle a loud, involuntary laugh as the video looped. He opened his DMs, tapped Joca’s chat, and typed his response:

Rayan: This is the worst thing you’ve ever made.

Rayan: Send me the HD file so I can save it.

He locked his screen, looking out the bus window as the sun began to sink below the Lisbon skyline.