Chapter 127: Volume 2, - 127: Waiting Beyond the Tunnel

Chapter 127: Volume 2, Chapter 127: Waiting Beyond the Tunnel

The heavy double doors of the senior dressing room swung open, releasing a wave of humid heat, wet steam, and the sharp scent of wintergreen ointment.

Inside, tile-floored corridors hummed with post-match machinery. Large plastic hampers sat near the entrance, half-filled with discarded socks, grass-stained shorts, and rolls of gray kinesiology tape. A Bluetooth speaker perched on an equipment trunk thumped a low-frequency beat, half-drowned by the hiss of water running in the shower bays.

Rayan climbed onto one of the stationary bikes beside the treatment area.

"Five easy minutes," the performance coach said, handing him a bottle.

Rayan turned the pedals slowly while taking three long gulps of electrolyte solution, feeling the cool liquid hit his warm throat as his breathing settled.

"Seventy minutes fighting two center-backs and I don’t get one clean goal," Viktor Gyoker grunted two stalls down, pulling a heavy ice bag over his left knee. He scowled at the tiled floor. "Zero."

"Far post, bottom corner," Pedro Gonsalves called out from across the room, unbuttoning his polo shirt. He grinned, tapping his own temple. "That’s how you finish it."

"You got a gifted goal from a poor clearance," Gyoker grunted, though there was no real venom in it.

"And who opened the box for the third?" Geni Catano interjected, stepping out of the shower bay with a towel wrapped around his waist. "That cross was millimeter-perfect. Paulino didn’t even have to jump."

"I had to slide," Paulino Vieira corrected, sliding onto a massage table where a club physiotherapist was applying firm pressure to his calf. "If I don’t stretch, Rando clears it."

"The whole move worked because the kid didn’t panic," Hidemasa Morino said quietly, carefully peeling white tape off his ankles. He looked across at Rayan. "Gabbio stepped out. You gave it to me early instead of trying to dribble into his chest. That gave us the overload."

Rayan stepped off the stationary bike, wiping sweat from his forehead. "I saw Rando stepping."

"Good vision," Morino nodded once, tossing his rolled tape into the bin. "Keep doing that."

A physio tapped Rayan’s shoulder. "Rayan. Five minutes on the table. Standard post-match screen."

Rayan lay flat on the padded table as the physio checked his ankle range of motion, pressed firmly along his hamstrings, and tested his hip resistance. ℯℯ𝑙.

"Any sharp pain? Left shoulder where Gabbio hit you?"

"Just sore," Rayan said, wincing slightly as pressure hit his upper arm.

"Impact bruise. Get cold water on it in the shower," the physio instructed, making a brief mark on his tablet.

Rayan returned to his stall, sitting down to unlace his boots and unwrap his ankles. As he pulled off his green-and-white match jersey, a kit manager carrying an oversized laundry bag stepped past. He reached down, grabbed shirt number eighty-two, dropped it into the sack, checked something on his clipboard, and moved to the next stall.

Rayan watched the shirt disappear beneath the others.

He walked into the shower bay, turning the dial to let cold water run over his left shoulder and chest to ease the dull ache. Ten minutes later, he dried off, pulled on a compression layer, and slipped a clean black hoodie over his damp hair.

Hoisting his kit bag, he walked toward the exit corridor. A security guard pointed toward glass doors marked Familiares e Convidados. "Family section is straight down, turn left at the hospitality lounge."

Rayan pulled out his phone as his boots squeaked against the tile concourse.

Joca: BRO! THAT CHOP WAS DISGUSTING!

Joca: ARE YOU IN THE DRESSING ROOM?! DID YOU GET A SHIRT?!

Bia: Great job today, Rayan. Proud of you :)

He opened Twitter and tapped a notification.

@AcademiaLeonina

15-year-old Rayan involved in Sporting’s third goal 👀

486 views · 34 likes

He rounded the corner near the exit and stopped. Standing near the glass railings of the staircase were five people.

"There he is!" Karim shouted.

Before Rayan could react, his father closed the distance and threw both arms around Rayan’s shoulders, pulling him into a rib-crushing hug.

"Dad—can’t... breathe," Rayan mumbled into Karim’s jacket.

"Look at you!" Karim beamed, pulling back but keeping his hands on Rayan’s shoulders. "Look at my boy! Playing against Villarreal! Thirty thousand people!"

"Proper senior match, Rayan. Proper football," Joaquim said, stepping up to pull Rayan into a brief side-hug.

"Sore?" Rosa asked immediately, stepping in to press her palm against Rayan’s cheek. "Did they hurt you? And have you eaten anything since the match?"

"I’m fine, Avó," Rayan smiled gently. "It was just a legal shoulder, and I’ll eat soon."

"Legal or not, he was twice your size!" Karim insisted, pulling out his phone. "Look! Someone already posted the video of the third goal! Look at this chop!"

Karim thrust the screen inches from Rayan’s face. "That line-break created the whole goal! You basically assisted it!"

Rayan laughed, shaking his head. "Dad, it doesn’t count as an assist. Morino switched it and Geni crossed it."

"It doesn’t matter!" Karim said, waving his arm. "You opened the entire field!"

"Dad, stop," Leonor said, crossing her arms as she walked up beside them. "It’s literally a pre-assist at best. Morino made the hard pass, and Geni put it right on Paulino’s foot. Stop trying to give Rayan stats he didn’t get."

"Who asked you?!" Karim fired back, though his eyes crinkled with amusement.

"Though, Rayan," Joaquim chimed in, leaning over Karim’s shoulder. "That one when you went outside Gabbio—your first step got you there. Second touch was half a meter too long."

"Joaquim, leave the boy alone," Rosa scolded, hitting Joaquim’s arm with her purse. "He just played his first big match!"

"I’m just analyzing!" Joaquim defended himself, laughing.

Rayan looked past his father’s shoulder. Sofia was standing a few paces back in a light jacket, hands tucked into her pockets.

Rayan stepped away from Karim’s phone screen and walked over to her. Sofia kept her eyes on his.

"You did good," Sofia said softly. Her voice was steady, holding no theatrical excitement. "I’m proud of you."

Rayan shifted his feet, feeling an unexpected lump rise in his throat. He looked down at his sneakers, then offered a small, awkward nod before wrapping his arms around her waist, burying his face into her shoulder for three quiet seconds.

"Thanks, Mum," he muttered into her coat.

She patted his back twice, her hand lingering on his head. "Alright. Enough standing in the cold corridor."

"Wait, wait! Family picture!" Karim announced, backing up three steps and holding his phone in landscape mode. "Everyone get in! Rayan in the middle!"

"Dad, we’re in the middle of a hallway," Leonor complained, but she moved into the frame anyway, standing beside Rosa.

"Quickly, before security tells us to move," Joaquim said.

"Rayan, look at the camera! Smile!" Karim instructed.

Rayan groaned, adjusting his hoodie. "Dad, you’ve taken twenty pictures already."

"Shut up and smile! This is Alvalade!"

The camera shutter clicked four times. Rayan squinted against the flash, complaining under his breath, but as Karim showed him the preview. The family clustered together under the stadium lights. Rayan secretly hoped his father would send it to the group chat immediately.

"Alright, I’m starving," Joaquim declared, turning toward the glass exit doors that led out into the parking plaza. "Where are we eating?"

"There’s a late-night seafood spot near the docks," Karim offered, stepping ahead to push open the heavy door. "We need to celebrate!"

"That place closes in twenty minutes, Karim," Rosa noted, slipping her arm through Sofia’s. "And it’s too expensive."

"I’ll pay!" Karim insisted, looking back over his shoulder as they walked out into the cool night air.

"You’re paying with what?" Leonor teased, trailing behind with Rayan. "And anyway, it wasn’t an assist. You can’t buy expensive dinner for a pre-assist."

Rayan walked behind them, his kit bag swinging gently against his hip, listening to their voices echo across the empty pavement as the floodlights above Estádio José Alvalade began, one by one, to power down for the night.