Chapter 129: Volume 2, - 129: Monday Morning Film

Chapter 129: Volume 2, Chapter 129: Monday Morning Film

Rayan’s eyes opened to the pale morning light filtering through his bedroom blinds.

When he swung his legs over the edge of the mattress and stood up, his calves tightened instantly. Yesterday’ senior minutes sat heavy in his quads and hips, and his left shoulder here Gabbio had bumped him, it throbbed with a dull, heavy ache. There was no injury, just the unforgiving weight of high-intensity adult contact.

He walked into the hallway, taking his first step down the short wooden staircase toward the kitchen. Descending the stairs felt noticeably worse than walking on flat ground, each step forcing his stiff quads to absorb his full weight.

"Slowly," Sofia said, looking up from the counter as she adjusted her clinic identification badge over her trousers and navy cardigan. Her eyes scanned his posture. "You’re favoring that left side."

"Just sore," Rayan said, reaching for a glass of water. "Gabbio’s shoulder."

"Did the physio look at it before you left last night?" Sofia asked.

"Yeah. Just an impact bruise."

Rosa stepped out of the guest room, wearing a cardigan over her traveling clothes. Her suitcase sat packed by the front door, waiting for Joaquim to pick her up later that morning.

"Look at him, he can barely bend his legs," Rosa declared, reaching for a pan on the stove. "He needs eggs. Three eggs. And whole milk. You didn’t eat enough after that match."

"Avó, Sporting’s medical team does the arrival intake," Rayan protested, leaning against the doorframe.

"Eat," Rosa countered, sliding a plate across the table.

"He has his review and recovery late morning, Mãe," Sofia reminded her gently, giving Rayan a brief pat on his uninjured right shoulder as she grabbed her keys. "Don’t load him up."

By eleven o’clock, Rayan was sitting in the medical suite at Alcochete. A performance staff member noted his body mass comparison against his baseline, checked a urine-specific-gravity strip for hydration, and had him step barefoot onto the force plates.

"Neuromuscular output is slightly down, hydration is fine," the technician said, recording the data on a tablet. "Twenty minutes low-load on the Wattbike. Easy circulation work, then Analysis Room B."

---

At noon, Rayan walked into Analysis Room B, carrying a foam roller under his arm.

André Falcão, the senior squad’s performance analyst, sat behind a wide desk equipped with three monitors and a digital scrubbing wheel. Rui Amorim stood near the back of the room, holding a paper cup of black coffee, his eyes fixed on the center display.

"Sit," Falcão said without looking up, his fingers clicking through video files. "Villarreal review."

The main screen flickered to life, showing the elevated tactical gantry view from Alvalade.

"67th minute," Falcão said, pressing play.

On screen, Rayan stepped over the touchline, slapping Francisco Trincano’s palm. Morino played a short ground pass to Rayan’s feet, and Rayan laid it straight back to Morino on his first touch.

"First touch," Falcão noted. "Simple, clean entry. No fuss."

Falcão hit the wheel, scrubbing forward to timestamp 69:10.

"Here," Falcão paused the frame. On screen, Rayan received near the touchline as Matteo Gabbio closed in. Gabbio drove through the shoulder-to-shoulder contact. Rayan stumbled, and Gabbio hooked the ball away before turning play back inside.

"Look at your base before Gabbio arrives," Falcão said, pointing a laser pen at Rayan’s feet on the monitor. "You’re too narrow here. Gabbio arrives before your base is set, so one shoulder takes you off the ball. Set earlier."

"Set the hip early," Rayan nodded, watching his own body tilt awkwardly on screen.

"Timestamp 75:10," Falcão continued, advancing the tape.

The screen played the sequence leading to Sporting’s third goal. Rayan received Inásio’s ground pass, executed a chop inside against Gabbio, and released Morino.

"Freeze it," Falcão said as Rayan made his decision. "Rando steps here to cover Gabbio. What’s behind him?"

"Space," Rayan answered.

"Right. And you release to Morino before Rando gets close enough to trap you. That gives Morino time to switch to Geni on the right. Good decision under pressure."

Rayan’s mouth twitched upward, but Falcão immediately scrubbed to timestamp 82:05.

"Next action," Falcão said.

On screen, Rayan drove down the left flank against Gabbio. His initial acceleration earned him half a yard, but his second touch pushed the ball half a meter too far down the line. Gabbio stepped across, stabbed a boot at the ball, and knocked it out for a Sporting throw.

"You got the half-step, then lost control because your second touch was too heavy," Falcão said bluntly. "You beat him with speed, but gave the advantage right back because your touch didn’t match your pace."

Rayan bit the inside of his cheek, staring at the screen. "I thought I had enough angle to cut inside."

"You didn’t," Falcão said.

Falcão moved to timestamp 84:15. On screen, Inásio pointed into the gap behind Rayan.

"Rayan! Back two! Cover the inside channel!"

Rayan immediately shuffled backwards, dropping two meters to close Manu Triguero’s passing lane and forcing Villarreal to play backward.

"Good response," Falcão noted. "Correction comes, you fix it immediately."

Pedro Gonsalves walked into the room carrying a plate of fruit, glanced at the screen, pointed at a mistimed run by a Villarreal midfielder on a secondary monitor, laughed with Falcão, and walked back out without looking at Rayan once.

Rui Amorim set his coffee cup down on the desk.

"Three things," Amorim said, his voice flat and direct. "Lower your base before contact. Keep your second touch tight when accelerating. And follow defensive organizational calls immediately."

Rayan nodded. "Understood, Boss."

Rayan gathered his foam roller and walked out into the corridor. Duarte was leaning against the wall near the hydrotherapy room, holding a shaker bottle.

"Saw the clip on Twitter," Duarte said, a slight smirk on his face. "A couple of Sporting accounts think you’re ready for the first team."

"I broke their line on the third goal," Rayan said defensively.

"You took an extra touch on that chop," Duarte replied flatly, straightening up. "If you play Morino direct on the first movement, you don’t even need to chop back against Gabbio. You added a touch to look clean."

"Gabbio was over-committing to the outside," Rayan argued, turning toward him. "If I play it direct, Capou steps into the lane. The chop held Capou."

"Capou was tracking Morino’s blind side," Duarte countered. "You chopped because you like the touch. Do that in a league match against Porto or Benfica and their holding mid takes your ankles before you complete the turn."

"It worked," Rayan insisted.

"It worked in a friendly when you were three-nil up," Duarte said, taking a sip from his bottle. "Try it when it’s locked at zero."

Duarte turned and pushed open the door to the changing room.

Rayan pulled out his phone as he walked down the hall, seeing several new notifications from his family:

Mum:At the clinic. What did medical say about the shoulder?

Dad:Back in Amadora. Got work till four. Tell me if those analysts finally admitted it was an assist 😂

Leonor:[Photo of a designer jacket]Mum said I’m not allowed to buy this. Tell her she’s wrong.

Avó:We’re leaving for Setúbal after lunch. Eat properly.

Rayan smiled faintly, sliding the phone into his pocket.

He stopped briefly outside Analysis Room B to grab his forgotten water bottle. The room was empty, but the central monitor was still powered on.