Chapter 136: Volume 2, - 136: The Window Seat

Chapter 136: Volume 2, Chapter 136: The Window Seat

The glass wall of the private boarding lounge separated Sporting from the main departure area, but it did not stop the stares.

Beyond the low barrier, ordinary holidaymakers with oversized wheelies and beach bags drifted past, double-taking as they spotted the dark Sporting travel suits. A teenage girl in a denim jacket pulled out her phone to sneak a photo of Viktor Gyoker, who was leaning against a pillar with his arms crossed, heavy headphones covering his ears.

"Tell me he isn’t playing that techno again," Geni Catano muttered, walking past with a paper cup of espresso. "It sounds like a broken washing machine."

Pedro Gonsalves, lounging on a leather sofa with his legs stretched over an ottoman, didn’t look up from his tablet. "It’s house music, Geni. Educate yourself."

"It’s noise," Viktor said, unexpectedly pulling one ear cup off. "And it’s fast. Keeps the heart rate up."

Rayan sat on a low bench near the charging station, his phone plugged into a fast-charger. Beside him, Afonso Morel had somehow fallen asleep again, his head tilted back against the wall at an uncomfortable angle. Across the room, Ricardo Esgaia jabbed a finger toward Mateus Reiz’s screen.

"That goal was lag," Esgaia said.

Reiz laughed. "You pushed too high. That’s your problem."

Rayan looked over at the small airport kiosk near the gate. The glass displays were filled with rows of pastries and ham rolls. The toast and ham Sofia had forced him to eat before leaving Olivais felt like hours ago. He stood up, keeping his backpack slung over one shoulder, and walked over to the counter. He hesitated, eyeing a tub of mixed fruit instead.

Before he could decide, Pedro Gonsalves appeared beside him, casually reaching past Rayan to grab a bag of salt-and-vinegar crisps and a chocolate bar.

"Don’t look so guilty, kid," Pedro said, tossing the items onto the counter alongside a black coffee. "Vasco isn’t looking."

"Are we allowed to eat those?" Rayan asked, glancing back toward the staff table.

"Technically? No," Pedro said, paying the cashier. "Practically? I’ve played enough professional matches to know one bag of crisps isn’t going to destroy my performance. Take a fruit pot if you’re worried about the nutritionists, but don’t starve yourself."

Rayan grabbed a tub of sliced mango and a bottle of still water. "Do away trips always feel like this?" he asked. "Just... waiting around?"

"Ninety percent of professional football is waiting around," Pedro said, crunching on a crisp. "Waiting for the bus, waiting for the plane, waiting for kick-off. You learn to bring a long book, a good series, or friends who know how to play cards."

The public address system above them crackled to life, followed by Vasco’s voice.

"Alright, gentlemen. Flight to Manchester is ready for boarding. Group A first—coaches, medical staff, and rows one to twelve."

Five minutes later, Vasco called the remaining rows. Morel snapped awake with a start, blinking rapidly. Rayan checked his printed boarding pass: Seat 14A.

They queued along the carpeted jetway. Stepping onto the aircraft, the cool, recycled air hit him immediately. The charter plane was a standard narrow-body Airbus with economy-plus leather seating. No private suites or flatbeds.

Rayan shuffled down the aisle and found row fourteen, right over the leading edge of the wing. He slid into the window seat, pushing his small bag under the seat in front of him.

As he settled in, Morel passed down the central aisle toward row eighteen, carrying a travel blanket under his arm. Morel paused, looking down at Rayan in 14A with a dry smirk. "Window seat? You got lucky, kid. Vasco gave me the middle seat back there between Reiz and Esgaia. They’re going to talk about FIFA for two hours."

"Swap with me if you want," Rayan offered instinctively.

"No chance," Morel laughed, moving along. "If I take your window, Teresa will have my head for breaking the seating plan. Enjoy the view."

A moment later, Eduardo Quaresmo dropped into 14B next to him, stowing a heavy leather duffel in the overhead locker before sinking into the seat. He stretched his long legs out as far as the row allowed, leaning over to glance at Rayan.

"First time on the main charter, yeah?" Quaresmo asked, pulling a black silk sleeping mask down around his neck.

"With the first team, yeah," Rayan said.

Quaresmo nodded, adjusting his headrest. "Nothing to it. Same planes as the U19 European trips, just quieter because half these guys are too tired to speak. Hope you don’t snore, kid. I’m out the second we hit cruising altitude."

Across the aisle in 14D, Geni Catano was already wrestling with his seat belt while trying to prop his phone against the tray table. "Hey, Eduardo," Catano called over. "You got an extra adapter plug? Mine is loose."

"Check my bag later," Quaresmo grunted without opening his eyes. "I’m sleeping."

A flight attendant in a blue uniform walked slowly down the aisle, double-checking overhead bins. She stopped beside row fourteen, glancing down at Rayan’s bag beneath the seat. "Slide that all the way under the bar, please," she said gently. Rayan quickly pushed it forward with his heels until it was flush against the metal frame. She gave him a brief, professional smile, clicked her counter, and moved to the next row.

Outside the window, the Lisbon tarmac glowed beneath the last orange light of evening, floodlights already burning along the apron. Ground crew in yellow vests were clearing the luggage carts away.

Rayan pulled out his phone and angled the camera toward the window, framing the winglet against the twilight sky. He opened his public story. His thumb hovered over the upload button.

He stopped, closed the app, and opened his family and friends chats instead.

Leonor:Nice wing.

Bia:Have a safe flight Rayan! Good luck in England!! 🎉

He switched to the family chat.

Dad:Get one from higher up when you’re above the clouds! Ask the pilot if he can see the coast!

Sofia:Did you eat something? Put your seatbelt on properly.

Rayan:Ate some mango. Seatbelt is on. Talk when we land.

The intercom overhead chimed twice, and a clear voice spoke in Portuguese before repeating in English. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Silva from the flight deck. Welcome aboard this Sporting CP charter service to Manchester. Our flight time tonight will be approximately two hours and fifty minutes. Weather en route is clear, with a light breeze awaiting us in Manchester. Cabin crew, prepare for departure."

"Electronic devices to flight mode, please," a flight attendant announced as the heavy forward door thumped shut with a solid mechanical clunk.

Rayan toggled Airplane Mode and slipped the phone away. The engines roared to life beneath the floorboards, a deep vibration running through his shoes. He pulled his seatbelt tight, sitting there in his tailored Sporting club suit. He had been on a plane before, but never like this, never with the senior squad around him. He tried to keep his face completely neutral, breathing steadily through his nose.

The plane turned slowly onto the main taxiway and stopped at the runway threshold. The engines spun up with a rising, metallic whine.

The aircraft surged forward.

Rayan’s back pressed firmly into the leather cushion as speed gathered. The runway lights blurred past the window in a continuous streak.

Then, the nose pitched upward.

Rayan’s stomach dropped slightly with the sudden shift in gravity. Beside him, Quaresmo didn’t even open his eyes. Outside, the glowing city lights of Lisbon shrank into neat, glittering grids. The Tejo Estuary flashed dark under the dusk sky.

The plane banked smoothly to the north-west, climbing into the darkening sky. Within minutes, the green coast blurred, fading beneath a thick layer of twilight cloud.

Rayan leaned his head back against the seat, closed his eyes, and listened to the steady hum of the engines carrying them north.