Chapter 139: Volume 2, - 139: Breakfast in Liverpool

Chapter 139: Volume 2, Chapter 139: Breakfast in Liverpool

The alarm on the bedside table buzzed softly, its digital display reading 09:00.

Rayan opened his eyes, staring up at a plain white plaster ceiling that was completely unfamiliar. For three confused seconds, his brain tried to place the dark heavy curtains, the faint smell of industrial laundry detergent, and the steady, muffled rushing sound beyond the glass. Then the memory of the late-night landing at Manchester and the dark coach ride down the M56 slotted back into place.

He reached for his phone on the nightstand. Outside, Liverpool was wrapped in a low, dull haze, cold rain beating against the double-pane window in thin diagonal streaks.

Rayan showered, brushed his teeth, and spent several minutes in his shorts loosening his stiff lower back and hip flexors. By the time he pulled on a fresh green-and-black Sporting training top and unlocked room 312, the clock on his phone read 09:38.

The third-floor corridor was quiet, but as the lift descended to the mezzanine, the clatter of cutlery and low hum of voices grew louder.

The hotel breakfast room was reserved entirely for Sporting. A long buffet line ran along the far wall, loaded with scrambled eggs, poached eggs, grilled chicken breast, wholemeal toast, oats, cut melons, berries, and stacks of small yoghurt pots. High-performance nutritionists stood near the end of the line holding tablets, but they didn’t measure every gram on a scale. They simply watched, making quiet notes as players loaded their plates according to individual recovery plans.

Rayan grabbed a wide white plate. Being fifteen and still growing, his appetite after late-night travel was sharp. He piled on four poached eggs, three slices of wholemeal toast, a bowl of porridge topped with honey and sliced banana, and a large glass of orange juice.

Further down the line, Pedro Gonsalves was filling a small bowl with sweetened cornflakes while speaking softly in rapid Portuguese on the phone about a home delivery that hadn’t arrived. Beside him, Viktor Gyoker sat at a corner table with two boiled eggs, a mound of plain chicken, and a double espresso, staring blankly at a tablet showing Swedish news.

"Over here, Rayan," Geni Catano called out from a round four-seater near the window.

Rayan walked over and set his heavy plate down. Eduardo Quaresmo was already halfway through a plate of scrambled eggs, while Afonso Morel was buttering a piece of toast with deliberate slowness.

"How’d you sleep, kid?" Morel asked, taking a sip of black coffee. "Quaresmo says the rain kept him up."

"I didn’t say the rain kept me up," Quaresmo grunted, not looking up from his phone. "I said the wind was rattling the window frame. Sounds like an old tractor."

"You sleep like a brick anyway," Catano said, digging into a bowl of Greek yoghurt. "You wouldn’t wake up if the fire alarm went off." He turned to Rayan, eyeing the mound of porridge and eggs on his plate. "Look at him. Eating like he’s got a double session today."

"I’m hungry," Rayan said simply, taking a large bite of toast.

"Enjoy it while your metabolism is fast," Morel sighed. "Give it five years and two slices of toast go straight to your waistline."

Across the dining room, Ricardo Esgaia was complaining loudly to Mateus Reiz about the hotel’s TV setup. "It’s all English channels. Not even basic cable. I had to watch a documentary about trains at two in the morning."

Reiz laughed. "Did you learn anything?"

"Yeah. Trains are boring," Esgaia muttered, reaching for a bread roll.

After breakfast, the squad gathered on the second floor in a repurposed hotel conference room that had been cleared of tables. The floor was laid with thick rubber mats, and foam rollers, resistance bands, and hydration monitors were laid out along the walls.

The first-team fitness staff directed the session, focusing entirely on travel recovery and mobility.

"Take it slow, gentlemen," the lead physio announced, pacing between the mats. "Thirty minutes of hips, ankles, and lower back. Nothing intense. Get the stiffness out before the afternoon pitch work."

Rayan dropped onto a mat, hooking a green resistance band around his right foot to stretch his hamstring. Across the room, Gyoker was methodically rolling out his calves with a heavy black foam roller, his face expressionless.

Rayan finished his left leg and immediately flipped over into a plank, tightening his core and lifting his hips to start a set of explosive mountain climbers.

"Whoa, whoa, steady on, Rayan," Pedro Gonsalves said from the adjacent mat, leaning back on his elbows with a faint grin. "Save the energy for the pitch. Nobody gets a starting spot for winning the morning stretch."

The physio stepped over, tapping Rayan lightly on the shoulder. "Rayan, keep it to the mobility work. We’re getting some movement and circulation back, not building fatigue. How’s the shoulder feeling from Sunday?"

"Fine," Rayan said, dropping back down to his knees. "Doesn’t hurt at all."

The physio reached down, pressing firmly into the muscle above Rayan’s left collarbone. Rayan didn’t flinch. "Good. The bruise has settled nicely. Just stick to the routine. No extra reps today."

Rayan nodded, lowering his head and returning to a standard hip-opener stretch. He wanted to push, to show the staff he was ready for whatever load they threw at him, but he knew the physios monitored heart rates and movement patterns continuously. Showing hunger meant following the plan, not breaking it.

Once the thirty-minute session wrapped, Vasco Fernandes stepped into the centre of the room with a laminated clipboard.

"Listen up," Vasco said. "Everton is still three days away. Today is pure recovery and light shape work. Lunch is at twelve-thirty. At two o’clock, the bus takes us to the local training facility. Sixty minutes of light shape work. No heavy contact today. Questions?"

Silence filled the room. The senior players simply nodded, reaching for their water bottles and towels. Rayan stood among them, listening carefully. He knew he was in the travelling squad as a development option. There were no promises of starting or even coming off the bench at Goodison Park. His job was simply to be present, sharp, and available.

With more than an hour before lunch, Rayan returned to room 312.

He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled out his phone. On Instagram and Twitter, a few small Sporting accounts were still circulating the short clip of his second-half burst against Villarreal from the weekend.

@LeoninoBase:Rayan El Mansouri, 15. Still like the acceleration once he gets the defender square.

@SportingYouthWatch:Wouldn’t mind seeing another twenty minutes against Everton.

@Pedro_CP99:Easy. One decent friendly cameo doesn’t make him first-team ready.

@VerdeEBranco_:Nobody said it does 😂 Let the kid play.

Rayan tapped the search bar, switched the location filter to Liverpool, and typed his own surname: El Mansouri.

He hit search.

Nothing.

He cleared the box and typed Rayan Sporting.

Two posts came up, both from Portuguese fans tagging the club’s official pre-season photos from Lisbon three days ago.

He switched to the general Liverpool news tab. Local sports pages were covering Everton transfer rumours, Liverpool FC pre-season updates, and weather warnings for the Merseyside area.

Not one mention of him anywhere in the local feed.

Rayan pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek, pulled down to refresh, and watched the loading wheel spin once before settling on the same Everton article.

He tapped his phone against his palm twice, set it face down on the duvet, and looked out the window at the wet grey docks.

His phone chimed as a text popped up from Vasco in the team group chat:

Downstairs for lunch in five minutes. Bring your rain jackets for the afternoon session.

Rayan picked up his phone, slipped it into his pocket, and stood up. He grabbed his dark waterproof jacket off the chair, opened the door, and stepped back out into the hall.