Chapter 137: Volume 2, - 137: First Look at England

Chapter 137: Volume 2, Chapter 137: First Look at England

Above the clouds, the cabin settled into the steady, low vibration of cruise.

The overhead lights were dimmed to a soft blue glow. Throughout the aircraft, the senior squad had dissolved into the unhurried rhythm of men who spent half their lives in transit. Eduardo Quaresmo, asleep beside Rayan in 14B, had not moved an inch since take-off, his black silk mask pulled low and his hands loosely folded across his lap.

Further forward, Viktor Gyoker sat with his seat back upright, watching a recorded match analysis on an iPad with small, rhythmic adjustments of his jaw. Two rows ahead, Pedro Gonsalves and Geni Catano were sharing a pair of splitter cables, quietly reviewing video clips of Everton’s pre-season defensive shape without raising their voices above the engine hum.

Rayan watched Vasco Fernandes move down the narrow aisle, holding a stack of laminated printouts. He didn’t call an assembly or deliver a speech. He simply dropped a sheet onto each tray table: the schedule for arrival at Manchester Airport, the forty-minute coach transfer to the hotel in Liverpool, and the late-night recovery meal times.

When Vasco reached row fourteen, he set a page down on Rayan’s open tray.

"Eat the fruit, drink the water, get some rest," Vasco said softly, checking a box on his digital clipboard before moving on.

Rayan picked up the sheet. The breakdown was precise to five-minute intervals: 23:35 Touchdown; 23:55 Passport Control; 00:10 Coach Departure; 00:55 Hotel Check-In. On youth trips, coaches usually spent twenty minutes explaining where to stand, reminding everyone not to lose their passports, and checking bags twice. Here, nobody asked questions. Players slipped the schedule into their bags or left it on the tray without a second glance.

Across the aisle, Mateus Reiz turned in his seat, resting his arm over the headrest as he looked at Rayan’s tray.

"You got school work on that tablet, kid?" Reiz asked, nodding toward the small device tucked into Rayan’s seat pouch.

"A summer history assignment," Rayan said. "Mum told me to finish both essays before the league starts."

Reiz burst into a short, wheezing laugh, clapping a hand against his knee. "School! I completely forgot you still have teachers." He called across the aisle to Ricardo Esgaia. "Ricardo! The kid’s got homework!"

Esgaia glanced over his travel pillow, a faint grin tugging at his lips. "What’s the topic?"

"Nineteenth-century industrialisation," Rayan replied, leaning back with a quiet shrug. "It’s fine. I’m almost done with the first one."

"Don’t let him fool you, Mateus," Pedro Gonsalves added from ahead, not turning around from his screen. "He’s probably getting higher marks than you ever did."

"I got passing grades," Reiz muttered, though his smile stayed as he stretched his legs back out.

Rayan smiled, leaning his forehead against the cool double-pane window. Outside, the solid floor of darkness began to break as the aircraft dipped beneath the clouds.

Below, England appeared as a vast, dark expanse pierced by sprawling webs of orange and white light. Motorway ribbons sliced through pitch-black fields, connecting dense, glowing clusters of towns and industrial estates. Scattered housing lights flickered under the heavy night sky.

The intercom chimed twice. The pilot announced their descent into Manchester, and the cabin stirred as seats were returned to their upright positions.

The descent was firm, the Airbus cutting through the thick cloud layer with a steady series of jolts. When the tyres struck the wet runway at Manchester Airport, water sprayed high against the underside of the wings, white foam whipping past Rayan’s window.

The Airbus rolled onto the remote stand and stopped. The engines wound down. A moment later, the seatbelt sign clicked off, followed immediately by a chorus of digital chimes and buzzing vibrations as thirty phones reconnected to local networks.

Rayan unclipped his belt and pulled out his phone.

He sent a quick message to the family chat:

Just landed in Manchester. Its raining.

Almost instantly, his phone buzzed with two notifications.

Dad:ENGLAND! Look at the stadium lights if you drive past any! Take it all in, Rayan! You’re there!

Sofia:Did you stretch your legs? Keep your bag close to you and don’t leave your jacket on the plane.

Rayan let out a quiet breath, a small smile touching his lips as he read the two messages side by side before slipping the phone into his jacket pocket.

They filed down the stairs onto the wet tarmac, the damp North West air hitting Rayan with a sharp, cool bite that smelled faintly of aviation fuel and wet earth. They moved in a compact group into the terminal, guided directly toward the dedicated border control lane set up for the charter flight.

The club safeguarding officer walked at the front of the line with the team documents, while Vasco hovered at the rear, counting heads with a single sweep of his thumb. The border officer glanced at Rayan’s Portuguese passport, checked Sofia’s notarised authorisation and Karim’s signed declaration in the safeguarding file, and handed everything back within seconds.

In the baggage hall, two silver kit trunks and the rows of black team duffels were already being rolled out on a dedicated belt by local handlers.

As the squad gathered near the exit doors, a small crowd of airport staff, late-night shift workers, and a few travellers in coats began to notice the group.

"Is that Sporting?" a young man in a high-vis vest whispered, pulling out his phone. "Look—that’s Gyoker!"

A middle-aged man in a dark coat stepped forward, holding out a programme. "Viktor! Viktor, please, just one photo?"

Gyoker stopped briefly, offering a tight, professional nod and posing for two quick snaps without breaking stride. A second fan nudged his friend, pointing at Pedro Gonsalves. "Gonsalves as well! Mate, over here!"

Rayan stood two paces behind Pedro, his backpack slung over both shoulders, his hands tucked into the pockets of his dark club suit. He kept his posture straight, standing squarely within the cluster of senior players.

The second fan glanced across at Rayan, his eyes lingering on Rayan’s face for a fraction of a second. The man frowned slightly, as if trying to place a brief clip seen on a pre-season highlight reel, before his gaze slid right past him to catch Eduardo Quaresmo coming through the doors.

Rayan didn’t move. He kept his face entirely neutral, looking straight ahead as if he hadn’t noticed the man’s eyes at all, though he tightened his grip inside his pockets.

"Bus is right outside," Vasco called out, motioning toward the automatic glass doors. "Let’s move, double time."

They stepped out into the dark, rain-slicked pavement where a sleek black charter coach waited with its engine idling. The driver, a tall Englishman in a high-collared coat, loaded the black team duffels into the luggage hold while the players carried their backpacks up the narrow steps into the warm interior.

Rayan took a window seat near the middle. Outside, the coach pulled away from Manchester Airport, merging onto the M56 motorway toward Liverpool.

Through the rain-streaked glass, England moved past in shades of dark grey and yellow streetlight. Rayan watched the large blue motorway signs roll past—M56 Liverpool, Warrington, Chester—reading every word silently as they appeared in the headlights. The traffic was heavy with late-night freight lorries, their huge tyres throwing spray across the windscreen.

The architecture along the route shifted from modern logistics parks to rows of red-brick terraced houses, their windows glowing orange behind lace curtains. Streetlights reflected off wet pavement, and ordinary local buses splashed through puddles at quiet intersections.

As the coach slowed near the outer edges of Liverpool, the urban sprawl tightened, brick walls and older industrial facades rising on either side of the road.

Rayan pulled his phone from his pocket. He angled the camera toward the window to catch the dark silhouette of the city against the wet night sky.

He looked at the screen, but the dark glass showed only the bright reflection of his own face, sitting in the quiet cabin of the team bus. He lowered the phone, set it back in his lap, and turned his eyes toward the road ahead.