Chapter 134: Volume 2, - 134: Before the Bus Leaves

Chapter 134: Volume 2, Chapter 134: Before the Bus Leaves

Rayan checked his watch for the third time in ten minutes: five-forty-five.

The early-evening sun was still warm over Olivais, throwing long shadows across the kitchen floor. On the hanger hooked over the pantry door, his navy Sporting suit jacket waited. Beside the kitchen table sat his black team-issue duffel, zipped tight and heavy.

"Eat half of it," Sofia said, setting down a small plate with toasted whole-wheat bread and sliced ham alongside a glass of cold water. Her hair was pulled into her usual tight clip, her dark coat already draped over the back of her chair. "You won’t see proper food again until the squad meal at the hotel tonight."

"It’s five-forty-five, Mum," Rayan said, sitting down and adjusting his tie collar. "My stomach is tied in knots."

"Eat anyway," Sofia said evenly. "Vasco Fernandes does not need a fifteen-year-old getting light-headed because he refused to eat before we even cross the bridge."

A bedroom door rattled down the hall. Leonor poked her head out, her hair tied back loosely as she held her digital tablet in one hand.

"Are you still in the house?" she asked, leaning against the doorframe. "You’ve been stomping around since five o’clock."

"I was packing," Rayan said, taking a small bite of toast.

"You look like an accountant," she observed, her eyes darting over his dark trousers and white shirt. "A fifteen-year-old accountant going to audit a tax office in Liverpool."

"Go back to your room," Rayan muttered.

Sofia sat opposite Rayan, pulling her reading glasses from her pocket to view the squad logistics PDF on her phone.

"Document pouch?" she asked.

"Front compartment of the duffel," Rayan answered. "You watched me zip it."

"Phone charger and adapter?"

"Inside."

"Reporting time?"

"Eighteen-thirty at the Alcochete gates," Rayan repeated, running a hand over his tie knot. "Mum, we went over every single point twenty minutes ago."

"I am checking again because once you walk past those security gates, I cannot hand you something you left on the counter," Sofia said. She reached across, unzipped the front compartment of the duffel, felt the thick plastic outline of his passport sleeve, zipped it back, and smoothed the fabric. "Good."

His phone vibrated on the table. The screen displayed Dad.

Rayan answered immediately. "Dad?"

"Rayan!" Karim’s voice boomed through the speaker, so loud that Sofia tilted her head back slightly. "Are you dressed?"

"Yeah, Dad. We’re leaving in five minutes."

"Listen to me, my boy," Karim said, his tone rich with excitement. In the background, the metallic clinking of hand tools rang out inside his workshop. "Paulo and I were just talking about it. I told him, I said, ’My son is on the plane to England tonight with the first team!’ He couldn’t believe it!"

"Dad," Rayan said softly, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "It’s a pre-season friendly. I might not even make the bench against Everton."

"It doesn’t matter if you play one minute or ninety!" Karim declared firmly. "You are on the plane! When you get out on that grass in Liverpool, if the manager puts you on, you don’t hesitate. You take the ball, you turn, and you run right at them! English defenders hate players who run directly at them!"

Rayan swallowed a laugh, glancing at Sofia, who calmly sipped her coffee and ignored Karim’s tactical breakdown. "Okay, Dad. I’ll remember."

"I can’t reach Alcochete by six-thirty," Karim added, his voice dropping into something quieter. "Paulo still needs me to finish the manifold on this delivery van. But I’ll meet you at the charter entrance around eight, like we said."

"I know, Dad," Rayan said. "We’ll see you at the terminal."

"Work hard, my boy," Karim said. Metal clinked somewhere behind him, then he went quiet for a second. "Keep your eyes open. Listen to the coaches."

"I will."

"My boy," Karim repeated softly. "See you at eight."

Rayan hung up and set the phone down. Sofia picked up her car keys from the hook. "Let’s go."

The drive out toward Alcochete took twenty-five minutes through heavy evening traffic.

Less than a day ago, Liverpool had been a line in a club text message. Now his passport was packed for it. Rayan sat in the passenger seat, watching the orange sunset bleed across the Tagus estuary as they crossed the bridge. Commuters were heading home toward the suburbs; delivery scooters wove between lanes; the air outside was warm and thick with August heat.

At six-fifteen, Sofia pulled the car into the turning circle outside the main security gates of the Academia Cristiano Ronaldo.

A large, high-spec coach with tinted black windows and the silver Sporting CP emblem stretched across its side was idling near the turnstiles, its engine rumbling softly.

Francisco Trincano stepped out of a saloon holding a paper coffee cup, his hood pulled low. Mateus Reiz tossed his leather travel bag to the kit man with a brief nod. Near the open luggage bay, Gonçalo Inásio stood in his tailored club suit, scrolling through his phone with noise-cancelling headphones resting around his neck.

Sofia turned off the ignition and stepped out. Rayan retrieved his duffel from the rear seat, slinging it over his shoulder alongside his small black backpack.

Vasco Fernandes stood beside the coach door with a digital tablet, marking off names as players arrived.

"El Mansouri," Vasco said, looking up as Rayan approached. He scanned the screen. "Suit looks sharp. Passport?"

"In his travel pouch, Vasco," Sofia answered before Rayan could. "I verified the legal authorisation forms and medical clearance with the club desk. Everything is logged."

Vasco nodded respectfully to Sofia. "Thank you, Senhora Duarte. We have the file." He looked at Rayan, pointing toward the open luggage compartment. "Duffel goes underneath with the kit staff. Keep your hand luggage with you on the bus. Seat twenty-four."

Rayan unzipped the front of his duffel, pulled out the clear plastic document pouch, and slid it into the padded laptop compartment of his backpack alongside his shin guards, charger, and headphones. He handed the heavy duffel to the kit manager, keeping only the small backpack.

He turned back to his mother.

"Okay," Rayan said, stepping closer for a quick hug.

Sofia wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly for two seconds before stepping back and straightening his tie with a swift, practised motion. Her expression remained steady.

"Message me the second the plane touches down in Manchester," she said.

"I will, Mum."

"Not when you reach the hotel," she emphasised, holding his gaze. "When the wheels touch the tarmac."

"Yes, Mum. I promise."

"Go," she said softly, giving his shoulder a firm pat.

Rayan turned and climbed the rubber steps into the air-conditioned interior of the coach. The scent of leather, faint cologne, and quiet air-conditioning filled the aisle. He walked down to row twenty-four, sat by the window, and stowed his backpack under the seat in front of him.

For the next forty-five minutes, players filtered aboard while heavy equipment cases and travel bags disappeared into the luggage bay. Rayan checked his phone twice, watching the empty seats fill around him. Outside, Sofia remained standing near the security barrier, her hands tucked into her coat pockets, watching the bus. At seven-ten, Vasco climbed aboard with his tablet tucked beneath his arm and gave a signal to the driver.

The pneumatic doors hissed shut, sealing the cabin in quiet stillness. The driver engaged the gear, and the heavy coach began to roll slowly through the academy gates, turning onto the highway toward the private terminal at Humberto Delgado Airport.