Chapter 135: Volume 2, - 135: Passport in Hand

Chapter 135: Volume 2, Chapter 135: Passport in Hand

The highway west toward Lisbon was a steady hum of asphalt and low conversation.

Inside the bus, the air-conditioning hissed softly against the dark windows. Over the seats, blue cabin lights threw long, dim shadows across the aisle. Most of the senior players had already established their routines for short transit legs: hood pulled down, eye mask on, phone screen dimmed.

Rayan sat in row twenty-four, next to the window. His seatmate was Afonso Morel, who had collapsed into the aisle seat two minutes after leaving the academy gates and immediately slid a pair of bulky, matte-black noise-cancelling headphones over his ears. Ahead of them, Ricardo Esgaia was leaning over the back of his headrest, speaking in low, rapid Portuguese to Geni Catano.

"The octopus is good, but you have to go on a Thursday," Esgaia was saying. "If you go on a Saturday, you wait forty minutes just for a table."

"I’m not waiting forty minutes for octopus," Catano muttered without looking up from his phone. "I’d rather eat at the service station."

Further up, Pedro Gonsalves was arguing softly with Mateus Reiz over a playlist.

"It’s too slow for seven in the evening," Reiz said across the aisle. "Put something with a beat on."

"It’s acoustic," Gonsalves replied smoothly, adjusting his hoodie. "It relaxes the mind."

Rayan listened, hands resting in his lap. When Morel shifted his feet into the aisle, Rayan pulled his backpack closer beneath his knees.

Beside him, Morel stirred, pulling one ear cup down. "You alright?"

"Yeah," Rayan said. "Just watching the traffic."

Morel let out a short exhale. "Wait until we get to the terminal. Security takes forever."

The coach slowed as it approached Humberto Delgado Airport, turning away from the main commercial halls toward the private charter facility.

When the bus engine finally idle-cut near the side entrance, Vasco Fernandes stood up from row one, holding his digital clipboard.

"Hand luggage only in your hands," Vasco called out. "Duffels stay with the kit crew. Passports in hand before you step off the bus."

Rayan pulled his black backpack onto his lap, unzipping the padded front pouch. He pulled out the clear plastic sleeve containing his Portuguese passport, Sofia’s notarised authorisation, and Karim’s signed declaration. He held the document tight against his chest as he filed down the central aisle.

The night air outside hit them like a warm blanket.

Standing near the terminal glass, just beyond the barrier where non-travellers had to stop, was Karim. He was still in his dark work trousers, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets.

"Rayan!" Karim called out, taking a quick step forward as the squad stepped off the bus.

Rayan walked over to the barrier. "Dad? You made it."

"Of course I made it," Karim said, reaching over to give Rayan a hard, tight hug that smelled faintly of motor oil and hand soap. He stepped back, holding Rayan by both shoulders. "Look at you. Looking handsome."

"Dad, the team is going inside," Rayan said softly, though a small smile tugged at his mouth.

"Listen to me," Karim said, his eyes shining. "Keep your head up. Work hard. You belong on that pitch just like the rest of them." He gave Rayan’s shoulder a firm squeeze. "Go on."

"Thanks, Dad. See you in a few days," Rayan said. He turned and caught up with the team, slipping through the automatic glass doors into the lobby.

Inside, two club logistics officers were logging the heavy duffels from the bus. A small cluster of airport workers watched the group pass.

"Look—Gonsalves!" one handler whispered, nudging his colleague.

"Coatez is there too," the second man said as the captain walked past.

A couple near the rental desk turned around. "Is that the Sporting team?" the man asked in English, watching Viktor Gyoker walk past in his tailored suit. Neither looked twice at Rayan, who walked three paces behind Esgaia, keeping his eyes on the floor and his passport visible in his right hand.

They moved straight into the private terminal’s security lane. Teresa, the club safeguarding officer, stepped beside Rayan.

"Documents ready?" she asked.

"Right here," Rayan said.

Rayan placed his watch and backpack in a plastic bin, passing through the metal detector. On the other side, Pedro Gonsalves was waiting for his laptop bag, chatting with a guard who was asking for an autograph.

"Always bring two pairs of soft-ground studs," Gonsalves said, looking over at Rayan as he gathered his things from the belt. "Your old man isn’t wrong about Liverpool."

Rayan blinked, slightly surprised the senior winger had overheard Karim earlier. "Yeah," Rayan said, adjusting his strap. "He told me."

Once through security, they processed through the border control desk for the non-Schengen flight. Teresa handed the file to the officer behind the counter.

"Minor travelling under club guardianship," Teresa explained concisely. "Parental authorisation logged."

The officer looked over his glasses at Rayan, checked the passport photo against his face, glanced at Sofia’s notarised form and Karim’s declaration, then slid both documents back across the counter. No extra stamps, no fuss.

As they walked toward the gate, Rayan’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

A message from Sofia:

Through security yet?

Rayan typed back:

Just passed border control.

A second later, Karim messaged:

Did you see the big Boeing on the runway yet? Ask the kit man if they put the extra boots in the metal cases or the soft bags!

Rayan smiled, pocketing the phone as the squad reached the private boarding lounge. The space was quiet, illuminated by floor-to-ceiling glass looking directly out onto the tarmac. Out on the concrete apron, illuminated by floodlights, sat the white-and-green chartered Airbus.

Rayan slowed half a step short of the glass. His fingers tightened around the strap of his backpack.

"Hey, kid," Mateus Reiz said from behind, placing a hand on Rayan’s shoulder and nudging him gently forward. "Don’t block the runway. Move your feet."

"Right. Sorry," Rayan said, stepping into the lounge as the rest of the team scattered toward the seating bays.

A silver espresso machine near the catering bar hissed as a staff member pulled shots for the coaching staff. Across the room, half a dozen senior players commandeered a cluster of low leather armchairs, stretching their legs out and instantly plugging multi-port chargers into the floor sockets. Ricardo Esgaia was already leaning back with his eyes closed, his travel pillow adjusted behind his neck, while Geni Catano tapped rhythmically on his phone screen.

Rayan found a quiet seat near the window, setting his backpack down between his feet. He unzipped the padded front pouch one more time, checking the clear plastic sleeve to ensure his passport and forms were still lying flat and secure. Satisfied, he zipped it shut and leaned back against the headrest.

A minute later, Afonso Morel dropped into the empty chair beside him, holding two paper cups of mineral water. He handed one to Rayan without a word.

"Thanks," Rayan said, taking a sip.

Outside the glass, two ground handlers in neon vests were wheeling a motorised conveyor ramp up to the open belly of the Airbus. Through the halogen glare, Rayan watched them lift the heavy silver kit trunks, packed with training equipment, spare boots and match balls and guide them onto the belt one by one. His own black duffel disappeared onto the conveyor a few bags later.

Vasco Fernandes walked down the central aisle of the lounge, holding a printed flight manifest and checking his watch. "Ten minutes to boarding," Vasco announced, his voice carrying clearly over the soft clatter of coffee cups. "Final call for the bathrooms. Keep your hand luggage with you when you line up."

Morel unclipped his headphones and let them rest around his neck, stretching his arms over his head. "Here we go," he muttered softly.

Rayan looked out at the aircraft one last time as the ground crew closed the cargo hatch. He reached down, gripped the strap of his backpack, and felt the hard rectangle of his passport pressed firm against the canvas.