Chapter 117: Volume 2, - 117: Match Eve

Chapter 117: Volume 2, Chapter 117: Match Eve

The summer heat was already rising off the grass of Pitch Two by the time Rayan finished tying his boots.

The MD-1 session at Alcochete was strictly structured, built for sharpness rather than exhaustion. The high-intensity pressing drills and heavy fitness blocks from earlier in the week were gone, replaced by precise, low-impact preparation designed to leave the players fresh for Sunday night at Estádio José Alvalade.

After twenty minutes of light activation work and mobility drills under the eye of the conditioning coaches, the squad split into two groups. Rui gathered the probable starters. Inásio, Coatez, Pedro Gonsalves, and Gyoker on the main pitch to walk through positional shape and defensive rest-structures.

Rayan, Duarte, and the other rotation players remained on the secondary grid, working through short attacking combinations, one-touch passing lanes, and static set-piece routines.

"Rayan, open your body faster on the turn!" the assistant coach shouted, clapping his hands twice. "Two touches maximum! Feed the wing, then hold your line!"

Rayan adjusted his posture, taking a rolled pass from the edge of the box, cushioning it with the inside of his right foot, and driving a clean, weighted lay-off into the path of the overlapping fullback. He didn’t push to sprint at full speed; the coaching staff was monitoring GPS loads closely, pulling back anyone who crossed their target distance threshold.

When the whistle blew for controlled finishing practice, Rayan gathered three loose balls near the penalty arc, lining up behind Duarte to take alternate shots against the third-choice goalkeeper.

Duarte stepped up first, curling a smooth shot into the top right corner. As he walked back to the queue, he caught Rayan staring across the complex toward the distant tree line bordering the highway north to Lisbon.

"You’re going to break your neck if you keep looking toward Campo Grande, Rayan," Duarte said, dropping a ball onto the grass. "The stadium isn’t moving."

"I’m looking at the wind," Rayan said, keeping his voice deadpan as he set his ball down. "It’s blowing east."

"Right, the wind," Duarte snorted. "You’ve been walking around like you’ve already scored a hat-trick against Villarreal. You haven’t even seen the bench list yet."

"Neither have you," Rayan countered, stepping up and clipping a sharp, low drive off the inside of the post into the net. "And at least my shots hit the woodwork inside, not the net behind the goal like yours did during the rondo."

"That ball was bobbling because the pass was slow," Duarte said immediately, crossing his arms. "Besides, if we get five minutes at the end tomorrow, it’s because Pedro gets tired, not because Rui thinks we’re saving the club."

"Five minutes is enough," Rayan muttered, collecting his ball from the back of the net.

Duarte looked at him for a long beat, his expression unreadable before adjusting his shin guards. "Just don’t trip on the tunnel carpet when we walk out. My father said the cameras zoom straight in on the academy kids during the club anthem."

"I know how to walk up stairs," Rayan said.

"Debatable," Duarte replied dryly, walking off as the coaches called an end to the session.

The squad gathered in the media briefing room on the ground floor twenty minutes later. Dressed in identical travel gear, the players sat in rows while Rui stood beside a digital screen displaying the operational breakdown for Matchday One.

Rui didn’t offer a motivational speech. His tone was brisk and professional.

"Breakfast at home," Rui announced, tapping the screen. "Report to Alcochete at fifteen-hundred sharp tomorrow. Pre-match meal is scheduled for fifteen-thirty. Team bus leaves for Alvalade at seventeen-fifteen. No personal phones at the dining tables."

He paused, looking across the room toward Rayan and Duarte.

"For those of you in the event group for the first time," Rui continued, "you will wear the navy and grey official travel tracksuit for the bus ride and arrival. Warm-up routine starts at nineteen-fifteen. Kickoff is at twenty-hundred."

He leaned against the podium. "Being in this room today does not guarantee a single minute of football tomorrow. Tactical situations change. Injuries happen. Card trouble happens. If you are called to warm up in the second half, you be ready on the first call. No slow steps, no searching for your shin guards. Am I clear?"

"Yes, Boss," the room answered in unison.

After the briefing, the team manager handed out printed sheets detailing individual logistics and family accreditation pick-up times. At twelve-thirty, the players moved up to Dining Hall A for mandatory squad lunch. Rayan sat near the end of the long table, quietly eating grilled chicken, brown rice, and steamed zucchini while Duarte argued across from him about the volume of the dining room speakers. Rayan finished his water, cleared his tray, and carefully tucked his logistics sheet into his duffel bag before catching the afternoon shuttle back across the river.

By three o’clock in the afternoon, Rayan was back in the Olivais apartment.

The heat of the day was set, and the smell of Rosa’s green bean soup simmered gently on the stove. Joaquim was sitting in the armchair watching an old cycling race on television with the sound down low, while Rosa chopped parsley in the kitchen.

Sofia came out of the hallway the moment she heard the front door lock click.

"How was training?" she asked, stepping into the kitchen entry. "Did Rui say anything else about the group?"

"It was just light shape work and set pieces," Rayan said, unzipping his bag and pulling out the printed schedule sheet. "And he gave us the official timing sheet."

Sofia took the paper, holding it up to the light near the window. "Fifteen-hundred arrival at Alcochete... pre-match meal at fifteen-thirty... what time did he say you arrive at Alvalade?"

"The bus leaves at seventeen-fifteen, Mum," Rayan said, sitting down at the kitchen table to pull off his trainers. "It’s written right there under the second bullet."

"I’m checking the paper, Rayan," Sofia said, scanning the lines carefully. "And what about the family passes? Does it say where we pick up the tribune wristbands?"

"Gate One accreditation window, between sixteen-hundred and eighteen-thirty," Rayan recited from memory. "I highlighted it in yellow at the bottom."

Leonor, sitting on the sofa bed painting her fingernails with pale pink polish, let out a loud sigh.

"You two have been talking about schedules since Thursday," Leonor groaned. "Mum asks the exact same question every two hours, and Rayan acts like he’s the director of the bus company."

"Leonor, mind your nails," Rosa scolded lightly from the counter. "And don’t get polish on your mother’s sofa cushions."

"I’m not getting it on the cushion," Leonor muttered. "I’m just saying, if Rayan spends another ten minutes looking at that yellow paper, the ink is going to fade off."

Rayan ignored her, taking the schedule back from Sofia and carrying it into his small bedroom.

He laid his official travel gear out on the desk. The grey polo shirt, the navy and grey zipped jacket, matching tracksuit trousers, and clean white athletic socks. His gear was still stamped with a temporary club tag, folded neatly into his personal bag like every other academy player waiting for a chance.

He checked the studs on his boots, scraping away a tiny fleck of dried mud with his thumbnail, then set them side by side on the floor next to his bag.

Plugging his phone charger into the wall socket beside his nightstand, he set his morning alarm for eight o’clock, planning to be in bed early enough to catch nine full hours of sleep before the afternoon reporting time.