Chapter 138: Volume 2, - 138: Hotel Rules

Chapter 138: Volume 2, Chapter 138: Hotel Rules

The coach hissed to a halt in front of a modern glass-and-brick facade situated on the quiet edge of Liverpool’s waterfront district.

Outside, a light drizzle glinted under the entrance canopy. The hotel was upscale, quiet, and discreet, the kind of establishment built for high-end corporate retreats and visiting athletic delegations. There were no supporters waiting at the kerb, only two hotel security guards standing under black umbrellas, holding open the heavy glass doors as the squad filed off the bus.

Rayan pulled his backpack onto his shoulder and followed Eduardo Quaresmo down the aisle. Stepping out into the damp air, he carried his own bag through the revolving doors into the lobby.

The lobby was vast and carpeted in deep charcoal, dominated by low marble tables and tall floor-to-ceiling windows. Local hotel staff stood quietly behind the long oak counter, while Vasco Fernandes and the club safeguarding officer were already stationed near the main desk with a tray of electronic room keys.

"Listen up, gentlemen," Vasco called out, his voice cutting cleanly across the quiet lobby. "Keys are mapped. Luggage is coming up on the service lifts. Late supper is served on the mezzanine in fifteen minutes. Once supper is finished, straight to your rooms. Keep the noise down and phones quiet. Morning wake-up call is nine-fifteen."

As the players queued to collect their key cards, the safeguarding officer motioned Rayan over to the far side of the desk.

"Rayan, you’re in room 312," she said, handing him a sleek black card. "It’s a single room, right next to mine in 310, and two doors down from Vasco in 308. Once you come back upstairs after supper, you stay on this floor. If you need anything overnight, call my room or Vasco’s."

Rayan nodded, slipping the card into his pocket. "Understood."

"Also," she added, holding up a small laminated sheet, "the hotel Wi-Fi pass is on the back, but the TV in your room has restricted pay-per-view access pre-set by the club. Don’t try to unlock it."

"I won’t," Rayan said.

He took the lift up to the third floor. The corridor was silent, the thick carpet muffling his footsteps as he located 312. He tapped the card against the scanner, listened for the soft chime, and pushed the door open.

The room was clean, spacious, and utilitarian. A king-sized bed with crisp white linen occupied the centre, flanked by dark wooden side tables with integrated UK plug sockets. Against the far wall stood a long desk, a flat-screen television, and a small armchair.

Rayan dropped his backpack onto the luggage rack and walked over to the window. He pulled back the heavy curtains to look out over the city. Below, streetlights glistened on wet tarmac, and across the dark channel of the river, the faint industrial outlines of the docks stood silently against the night sky.

He unzipped his bag, pulled out his phone, and took three quick photos: one of the king-sized bed, one of the modern bathroom, and one of the rain-streaked view outside.

He opened his group chats and sent the pictures.

Leonor:That carpet looks like an office building. Did they put you in a conference room?

Joca:BRO THAT BED IS MASSIVE. Video the bathroom! Is there a hot tub???

Teu:Check the TV. Does it have the main English sports channels or just news?

Bia:It looks very clean Rayan! Hope you can get a good night’s sleep!

He switched over to the family chat, adding a picture of the room key.

Dad:Now that is Premier League quality! Are Everton staying there too?

Rayan:No, Dad. It’s just our team here.

Dad:Good! More English breakfast for you!

Rayan shook his head with a faint smile, setting the phone down on the desk while he plugged his charger into a UK adapter.

Fifteen minutes later, Rayan went down to the mezzanine dining room for the late recovery meal. Long tables were set with large platters of grilled chicken breast, steamed white rice, wholemeal pasta, plain salmon fillets, and bowls of green salad.

Rayan filled a plate with pasta and chicken, poured a glass of water, and looked for a seat. Viktor Gyoker and Pedro Gonsalves sat at a table near the coaching staff, while Ricardo Esgaia and Mateus Reiz occupied a four-seater near the window.

Afonso Morel motioned from a table near the centre. "Over here, kid."

Rayan sat down opposite Morel and Geni Catano. Across the table, Eduardo Quaresmo was carefully picking the skin off a piece of salmon.

"How’s the room?" Morel asked, chewing on a forkful of rice.

"Quiet," Rayan said. "Good view of the docks."

"They put him on the third floor with the staff," Catano said, smirking as he poured olive oil over his salad. "They do that with the younger players."

Morel grimaced as a tinny pop song came through the dining-room speakers. "If this is English radio, put me back on the plane."

Catano pointed his fork at him. "You paid nearly three hundred euros for custom boots. You don’t get to judge anybody’s taste."

"Two-forty," Morel grunted.

Quaresmo looked up from his salmon without smiling. "Still robbery."

Morel glanced across at Rayan. "What did yours cost, kid?"

"Academy issue," Rayan said. "Nothing."

"Smartest player at the table," Morel laughed, leaning back.

"The rain out there is no joke," Quaresmo added, looking toward the dark window panes where heavy drops were beating against the glass. "It’s August and it feels like November."

"It’s northern England," Catano replied. "My agent told me it rains three hundred days a year here. You’ll want different studs for the field session."

"Vasco said we’re doing indoor mobility first anyway," Morel said. "Light field work after lunch if the pitch isn’t waterlogged."

By 01:30, the meal was over. Vasco entered the dining room to confirm the morning schedule: 09:15 wake-up call, 09:45 breakfast, 10:45 mobility session in the hotel gym, and afternoon field work.

Rayan walked back up to the third floor. The corridor was quiet, save for Vasco standing near the lift doors, checking his watch as players returned to their rooms.

"Goodnight, Rayan," Vasco said as Rayan tapped his key card against 312. "Breakfast at nine-forty-five."

"Goodnight, Vasco."

Inside 312, his tagged black Sporting duffel had been delivered while he was downstairs and now sat beside the luggage rack. Rayan unzipped it, pulled out his Sporting training shorts and a plain cotton shirt, and changed before brushing his teeth. He turned off the main lights, leaving only the dim lamp beside the bed switched on.

He sat on the edge of the large bed. His legs felt heavy from the hours of travel, a dull, familiar fatigue settling into his thighs and lower back. He pulled out his phone, checked that his alarm was set for 09:00, and then set a backup alarm for 09:05 on the bedside digital clock even though he knew the staff check would wake the floor if necessary.

He pulled the duvet over his shoulders and lay back against the oversized pillows.

Outside the window, the faint hum of late-night Liverpool traffic drifted through the glass, washed out by the steady pattern of rain against the pane. The city was out there, dark and unfamiliar, waiting for the morning.

Rayan closed his eyes, let his head sink into the pillow, and went to sleep.