Chapter 140: Volume 2, - 140: Light Legs, Grey Sky

Chapter 140: Volume 2, Chapter 140: Light Legs, Grey Sky

The turf at the rented university complex on the outskirts of Liverpool was dense, slick, and dark green.

Fine, needle-like rain drifted sideways under a low roof of grey cloud, wetting the top layer of grass without soaking the soil beneath. The air smelled of damp earth and crushed clover.

Rayan trotted out from the side building, his studs cutting shallow, quiet grooves into the grass. Around him, the senior squad was already scattered across the middle third, completing individual dynamic warm-ups under the eye of the strength coaches. Eduardo Quaresmo was doing short, lateral high-knees over low plastic hurdles; Pedro Gonsalves was loosening his hips with slow, sweeping lunges; and Viktor Gyoker stood near the centre circle, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet as he watched a secondary physio lay out orange cones.

"Alright! Two groups! Ten-by-ten grids! Two inside, six around! Two touches maximum! Keep the ball moving!" a first-team coach called out, his voice sharp against the open air.

Rayan pulled a yellow bib over his waterproof jacket and stepped into the outer ring of the rondo. Beside him stood Hidemasa Morino, his hands on his hips, breathing heavily through his nose.

In the middle, Geni Catano and Afonso Morel pressed hard the moment the ball was played in.

"One touch! One touch!" Ricardo Esgaia shouted from the left edge.

"Man on!" Rayan called as Catano closed down Morino’s back-shoulder.

The ball zipped across the slick surface. Rayan scanned right, saw Catano lunging to cover the inside line, and shaped his body to open up his hips.

"Here!" Morino demanded loudly, opening his palms toward Rayan.

Rayan took the pass on his right instep, cushioning the ball just enough to kill the slick skid, and pushed it across his body to Morino before Morel could close the distance.

"Good! Next!" the coach called.

The tempo was quiet, fluid, and relentlessly precise. Nobody was sliding or throwing heavy shoulder tackles, but the speed of decision-making was twice what Rayan faced in his normal youth sessions. If a player paused for half a second to look at his feet, the pass was cut off.

"Inside! Leave it!" Pedro barked across the circle as Morino let a firm pass slide between his legs to reach Esgaia on the far side.

The drill shifted into a six-versus-six positional possession game within a thirty-metre box.

Rayan took a central position between the lines, receiving in front of Quaresmo with the defender tight behind him. The ball moved from Esgaia to Pedro, who swept it low into Rayan’s path.

Rayan saw the space behind him. He dropped his left shoulder, preparing to execute an Explosive Exit to turn into the open space. He planted his left foot, pushing off into the space to break away from his marker.

Quaresmo didn’t bite. Without committing his weight, the defender simply stepped back half a pace, extending a long right leg to plant his foot directly into the space Rayan meant to occupy.

The ball hit Quaresmo’s boot and bounced harmlessly out of play.

"Wrong play, kid," Quaresmo said calmly, pointing two fingers at his own eyes as he jogged back into position. "I’m already standing there."

Rayan wiped a line of wet hair from his forehead and nodded once, stepping back into the grid. In his head, he briefly pictured how Duarte would have handled that exact entry. Holding the defender on his hip, taking a dead stop on the ball, and forcing Quaresmo to commit before releasing a lateral pass. Rayan shook his head slightly, clearing the thought, and reset his stance.

"Again!" the coach yelled, tossing a fresh ball into the position. "Red ball!"

The ball came back to Rayan three plays later. This time, as Quaresmo closed the distance behind him, Rayan didn’t attempt the turn. He scanned early, felt the pressure on his spine, and laid a soft, one-touch wall pass back to Pedro.

"Set!" Pedro called, receiving the ball on the move and driving it across to the far wing.

"Better," Pedro added over his shoulder as he jogged past.

They moved into low-acceleration tactical shape work, walking through defensive lines against a shadow opposition set up by assistant coaches holding yellow poles.

Rayan lined up on the right flank of the secondary defensive block. As the ball moved across the backline, he drifted inward to cover the central space, but stayed three steps too wide, leaving a clear gap between himself and Morino.

"Rayan! Narrow!" the assistant coach barked immediately, stopping the play with a sharp whistle. "Look at the gap! If that’s Everton’s full-back, he plays straight through that gap! Get inside!"

Rayan bit his lip, a flash of heat rising in his neck. He didn’t answer back. He took four quick steps to his left, closing the distance to Morino until their shoulders were three metres apart.

"Right there! Stay connected!" the coach called, throwing his arm forward. "Restart from Esgaia!"

On the next repetition, as the shadow ball swung wide, Rayan checked his distance to Morino twice before the pass was even played, shifting his weight inward early and sealing the lane before the assistant coach could raise the pole.

"That’s it! Good adjustment!" the coach called out.

By fifteen-thirty, the session wound down to a light cooldown. The players completed three easy laps around the area of the pitch, their breath misting faintly in the cool, damp air.

As they reached the touchline, players began breaking off toward the changing rooms at different paces. Gyoker and Pedro walked directly toward the physio van to collect cold compression wraps for their ankles, discussing a golf video they had watched on the flight. Mateus Reiz and Esgaia lingered near the bench, kicking balls back toward the kit bag while debating whether the evening meal would feature salmon again.

"Check the studs before you step off," Morino mentioned to Rayan as they unstrapped their shin pads near the bench. "You’ll want the six-studs if it stays this wet tomorrow."

"Thanks," Rayan said, dropping his pads into his mesh boot bag.

He pulled his wet hair back, looking up at the solid, unbroken sheet of grey sky above the treeline. Fine rain was still falling steadily.

"Does it always look like this here?" Rayan asked, unlacing his left boot while standing on one leg.

Afonso Morel stopped beside him, slinging a damp towel over his shoulder. He looked up at the sky, then down at the green pitch, wiping a drop of rain off the end of his nose.

"What are you talking about?" Morel asked, his tone entirely flat. "This is great weather. Pitch is fast, skin is cool, no sun in your eyes."

Rayan looked at him, waiting for a smile or a wink, but the older winger simply grabbed his water bottle and kept walking toward the door.

Rayan stood on the damp concrete path, staring after him, unable to tell if Morel was joking or completely serious.

Vasco stepped out of the side door, holding a clipboard and looking over the group.

"Coach back in ten! Dry tops on!" Vasco called out over the sound of the rain. "At four-thirty, we have a supervised waterfront walk down by the docks. Low load, fresh air, thirty minutes total. Don’t be late."

Rayan unlaced his second boot, picked up his gear, and walked inside out of the rain.