Chapter 115: Volume 2, - 115: The Night Before the Family Arrives

Chapter 115: Volume 2, Chapter 115: The Night Before the Family Arrives

The evening heat still clung to the concrete walls of the Olivais balcony when Sofia pulled her chair out and sat down with a glass of cold water.

Inside the apartment, the hum of the washing machine vibrated against the kitchen tile. Sofia tapped her mother’s contact on her phone, leaning her head back against the wall as the line connected.

It rang three times before Rosa answered. "Sofia? Is everything alright? You’re calling late."

"Everything is fine, Mum," Sofia said, letting out a long breath. "I’m sitting on the balcony. Is Dad there?"

"He’s in the front room," Rosa said, her voice carrying the background rustle of a dish towel. "Hold on, I’ll put you on speaker."

A second later, Joaquim’s deep, gravelly voice cut through the line from their house near Setúbal. "Sofia? Did Rayan finish practice? Did he get his schedule for next week?"

"He finished, Dad," Sofia said, smiling slightly at her father’s tone. "He made the event group for Sunday. The Troféu Cinco Violinos against Villarreal."

A sharp silence hung over the speaker for two full seconds before Joaquim let out a rough, barking laugh. "Alvalade? The main stadium?"

"Yes," Sofia said. "He travels with the squad on Sunday afternoon."

"I knew it!" Joaquim declared, his voice rising with instant conviction. "I told your brother last week! Alvalade! Sofia, do you remember when your uncle took us to see Manuel Fernandes against Benfica?"

"Dad, please don’t start the 1986 story," Sofia sighed, rubbing her forehead. "I’ve heard the seven-one story forty times."

"Four goals, Sofia! In the rain!" Joaquim insisted loudly. "We’re driving up tomorrow! We’ll stay at your apartment Saturday night and go to the stadium together on Sunday!"

"Joaquim, be quiet for one second," Rosa’s sharp, practical voice interrupted, cutting her husband off cleanly. "Sofia, listen to me. Is Rayan eating properly? His legs looked thin in that photo you sent from the training ground."

"He’s fine, Mum," Sofia said. "The club provides his lunches and recovery meals at the academy now."

"Academy food," Rosa scoffed softly. "No salt, no olive oil. Is he sleeping? He gets dark circles under his eyes when he stays up on his phone."

"He’s sleeping," Sofia reassured her. "The physical coaches monitor his load every morning."

"Monitoring," Rosa repeated, unimpressed. "They’re pushing a fifteen-year-old boy into senior matches against Spaniards. He needs proper soup. I’m bringing a pot of green bean soup and roasted pork in the car tomorrow."

"Mum, do not haul a pot of soup in the boot from Setúbal," Sofia warned firmly. "We have food here."

"I am bringing the soup, Sofia," Rosa stated with absolute grandmotherly authority. "We’ll be at your place by late morning tomorrow."

"Tell her I’m bringing my Sporting scarf from 1999!" Joaquim shouted in the background.

"I hear him, Dad," Sofia laughed quietly, feeling a wave of warmth in her chest. "We’ll have the room ready for you before lunch."

---

Rayan stood in the small laundry alcove off the kitchen, folding a fresh stack of white athletic socks and stuffing them into his sports duffel.

Every three minutes, his eyes drifted toward his phone resting on the edge of the washing machine. The screen stayed dark, but he unlocked it anyway, double-checking the PDF file of the MD-1 operational memo he had saved earlier.

SATURDAY (MD-1): 09:30 – Mandatory arrival at Alcochete.

He locked the phone, set it back down, and picked up another pair of socks.

"Rayan," Leonor’s voice called out as she wandered into the kitchen wearing oversized pajamas, holding a wooden spoon like a microphone. "Do you think I can wear my black boots on Sunday, or will Mum make me wear those stupid flat shoes?"

"Wear whatever you want, Leonor," Rayan said. "Just don’t take two hours to get ready."

"I don’t take two hours," she said, taking a bite from an apple. "And Sara said her older brother saw a post on Twitter saying you might sit on the bench. Is that true?"

"Maybe," Rayan muttered, keeping his focus on the laundry. "It depends on what Rui decides after training tomorrow."

"If you get on TV, do a wave," Leonor instructed, tapping the wooden spoon against his arm. "Not a normal wave. Do that thing where you tap your wrist like you have a watch."

"I’m not doing a wristwatch celebration from the bench, Leonor," Rayan said, pulling his arm back. "Go finish your summer reading."

"It’s boring," she complained, dragging her feet as she turned toward the hallway. "The book is about a dog that runs away in a forest."

Rayan zipped his duffel bag closed and carried it toward his bedroom.

The apartment was filled with the familiar sounds of a Friday night: the distant hum of traffic from the avenue, the news playing in the living room, and the smell of fried garlic lingering from dinner.

As he set his bag down, Sofia walked into his room, carrying clean pillowcases for the pull-out couch.

"Granddad and Nanna are driving up tomorrow," Sofia said, setting the linen on his chair. "Your grandfather is already looking for his old scarf."

Rayan smiled, leaning back against his bedpost. "He’s going to talk about Manuel Fernandes all night."

"At least," Sofia agreed softly.

She stood near the doorway, watching him for a moment. Her expression shifted, dropping her brisk tone as she stepped further into the room.

"Rayan," she said quietly. "Look at me."

Rayan looked up, dropping his hands into his pockets. "What?"

"Are you actually ready for this?" she asked, her voice low. "It’s forty thousand people at Alvalade. It isn’t a youth tournament in Faro."

Rayan straightened his shoulders, an instinctive smirk touching his lips. "I trained with Inásio and Gyoker all week, Mum. I can handle forty thousand people."

Sofia just looked at him, her dark eyes steady, waiting through his posture.

Rayan’s smirk slowly faded. He looked down at his trainers, tapping his toe against the rug.

"I don’t know," he admitted softly, his voice dropping into rare honesty. "When Pedro was talking about the tunnel stairs today... my stomach felt completely twisted. What if I get out there and the ball feels three times heavier?"

Sofia stepped closer, resting her palm against the side of his neck, her thumb brushing his cheek.

"It’s normal to feel like that," she said gently. "If you weren’t nervous, I’d think you were stupid."

She let out a small, quiet sigh, looking around his small bedroom. At the faded Sporting posters taped to the wall and the worn boots stacked neatly under the bed.

"For years," Sofia said softly, "every time we bought you new boots or paid for train tickets... I spent so many nights lying awake worrying that we were pouring money and time into a dream that would just end up hurting your schooling. And now... your name is printed on an official match paper for Estádio José Alvalade."

Rayan looked at her, the usual teenager posture completely gone. "I know, Mum."

"You still haven’t played a single minute," Sofia smiled faintly, tapping his chin. "And tonight, you clean your room before your grandmother gets here, or she’ll make you sweep the balcony."

"Okay," Rayan smiled.

Sofia turned toward the door, calling into the hallway. "Leonor! Put the sheets on the sofa bed! Your grandparents will be here before lunch tomorrow!"

Rayan sat down on the edge of his bed, looking at his official travel tracksuit hanging from the wardrobe handle. He unlocked his phone one last time, checked the 09:30 arrival time on his screen, and laid it flat on his nightstand as the quiet routines of the house carried on around him.