Chapter 133: Volume 2, - 133: Pack for England

Chapter 133: Volume 2, Chapter 133: Pack for England

The official Sporting CP packing directive, forwarded to the squad group chat at five-fifteen, was six bullet points long. It specified the tailored club suit for transit, two pairs of black dress socks, official polo shirts for hotel meals, and clean shin guards packed in hand luggage. It said nothing about how many pairs of everyday socks a fifteen-year-old needed for four days in Liverpool.

Rayan stood in his bedroom, his black team-issue duffel bag open on the bed. Beside it sat a stack of folded underwear, three plain t-shirts, his phone charger, and a half-empty bottle of shower gel with a leaking cap.

"You can’t bring that shirt," Leonor said, leaning against his doorframe holding a stylus and her tablet. "It looks like something Grandpa wore to the butcher shop."

"It’s a plain black shirt," Rayan said without looking up.

"It’s faded grey, Rayan. You’re going to England with the first team. People take photos at airports."

"Nobody is taking photos of me," Rayan said, shoving it into the corner. "I’m a development reserve. I’ll be sitting behind the coaching staff holding a water bottle."

"Then don’t look like a beggar holding a water bottle," she replied smoothly, zooming in on her tablet to cross-hatch a digital denim jacket. "Buy me those ribbed socks from Primark or I’m telling Mum you left your dirty boots under the desk."

"I’m buying you nothing," Rayan said, tossing rolled-up socks at her feet. "I have forty euros."

"Forty euros?" Leonor snorted, stepping over them as she turned back toward her room. "Don’t flex so hard, big player."

"Go do your homework!" Rayan called out.

"Finished at four!" she yelled back. "Daniela is live-streaming a film review and I have to moderate the chat before she starts crying over the main character!"

Rayan unzipped the small interior pocket of his duffel. Following Sofia’s strict instruction, he slid the plastic sleeve containing his Portuguese passport, citizen card, and certified legal authorisation forms inside, zipping it shut twice.

His phone on the nightstand buzzed with a three-way call from Joca and Idris. He tapped answer and set it against his lamp.

"El Mansouri!" Joca’s voice blasted out, mixed with controller clicks. "Are you in the suit yet? Send a picture!"

"I don’t put the suit on until we leave for Alcochete, Joca," Rayan said, untangling his headphones.

"Don’t film anything stupid inside the private terminal," Idris chimed in. "Fernandes will probably leave you in Lisbon."

"Bring me an English bucket hat," Joca said. "Rayan, do they really eat beans on toast for breakfast over there?"

"That’s what people say," Rayan said, tossing his washbag in.

"If they serve you beans, demand grilled sardines," Joca declared.

"Yeah, I’m sure Rui Amorim will love that," Idris said dryly. "Rayan, are you going to understand a word anyone says in Liverpool? The accent is impossible."

"Of course I’ll understand," Rayan said. "English is easy."

"You got a three in English last year, Rayan," Idris reminded him instantly. "Don’t lie to us."

"That was grammar testing," Rayan muttered, grabbing his charger.

Rayan spent another two minutes answering their quick questions before hanging up to check his list. As he reached for his second jacket, his screen lit up with a video call from Bia.

He picked up immediately, stepping away from his desk. Bia was sitting in her bedroom with a thick history textbook open beside her laptop.

"Hey," she smiled. "Are you ready?"

"Almost," Rayan said, leaning the phone against his knee. "Just sorting clothes. What are you doing?"

"Reviewing history notes," she said, rolling her eyes playfully. "Mari and Daniela were arguing on the group chat about what to wear to a party, so I had to mute them to get any reading done."

"Sounds intense," Rayan said.

"More intense than packing for England?" she teased. "You’re trying to sound like this is normal."

Rayan grinned faintly. "I’ve never been on a plane with a football team before," he admitted softly. "It’s... different. Everyone acts like it’s just business, but the itinerary has the club emblem at the top."

"It is business," Bia said gently. "You earned the spot, Rayan. Just make sure you check if any local fans are waiting outside the hotel for your autograph."

Rayan laughed softly. "Right. English supporters are definitely waiting to see number eighty-two get off the bus."

"You never know," Bia smiled. "Number eighty-two just played twenty-seven minutes against Villarreal."

They spoke for a few more minutes about her notes and the Lisbon heat before she said she’d let him go so he wasn’t late for Alcochete.

The bedroom door pushed open without a knock. Sofia stepped inside, holding a white dress shirt fresh from the iron.

"Stand up," she said, surveying the open bag.

"Mum, I packed everything," Rayan said. "Underwear, socks, shirts, toiletries, headphones."

Sofia didn’t answer. She unzipped the front pocket, reached straight inside, and pulled out the leaking shower gel bottle that was already seeping onto a shirt.

"Everything?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Rayan winced. "I thought the cap was tight."

"Put it in a double ziplock bag," Sofia said, setting it on the desk. She laid the ironed dress shirt neatly on top of his travel suit on the chair, then reached into her apron pocket. "And where is your power adapter?"

Rayan blinked. "Power adapter?"

"England uses three-pin sockets, Rayan," Sofia said, placing a heavy white plastic plug converter onto his desk. "Your charger won’t fit into the hotel wall without this."

"I didn’t think about the plugs," Rayan said.

"Clearly," Sofia said, smoothing the lapel of his suit jacket on the hanger. "Your father left something for you on WhatsApp. Listen to it when you get the time."

She checked the zip on his document pouch one last time, patted his shoulder, and walked out.

Rayan picked up his phone and pressed play on a voice note from Karim.

"Rayan, my boy," Karim’s voice came through against the echo of his workshop. "When you get on that plane tonight, keep your head up. Look out the window. Remember how hard you fought just to keep your place at Sporting, and look at where you are now. You are wearing the Sporting lion on your chest in England. Work hard, listen to the coaches, and don’t worry about anything else. I am so proud of you, Rayan. Call me when you reach the hotel."

Rayan listened to the full message, then typed a quick reply:

Thanks, Dad. I’ll call when we reach the hotel.

He dropped the UK adapter into the front pocket beside his phone charger and unbuttoned his tracksuit top.

"Rayan! Ten minutes!" Sofia’s voice echoed up the stairs, sharp and clear over the hum of the television in the lounge. "If we hit traffic on the bridge, you’ll be running through the gates!"

Rayan pulled on his crisp white dress shirt, fastened the top button, and slid into his tailored club suit trousers. He pulled his green-and-white Sporting tie into a neat, narrow knot, adjusting the collar in his desk mirror.

Leonor passed his open door, pausing just long enough to squint at his reflection. "The suit doesn’t look terrible," she admitted, crossing her arms. "The knot is slightly crooked on the left, though."

"It’s straight, Leonor," Rayan said, straightening his lapels.

Rayan grabbed his suit jacket off the hanger, checked the interior pocket once more to feel the thick plastic outline of his passport pouch, and zipped the duffel bag completely shut. Outside, the warm August evening light was beginning to soften over Lisbon.

He hoisted the heavy black Sporting bag onto his shoulder, took one final look around his room, and stepped into the hallway to meet six-thirty.