Chapter 143: Volume 2, - 143: The Call Home

Chapter 143: Volume 2, Chapter 143: The Call Home

The digital clock on the hotel bedside table blinked a silent 21:45 in amber numbers.

The small, air-conditioned hotel room was quiet save for the low, muffled hum of the ventilation unit and the rhythmic patter of a fresh Liverpool drizzle striking the double-glazed windowpane. Rayan sat on the edge of the firm mattress, a damp grey towel draped over his shoulders, methodically winding his phone charger cord around the white plastic brick before plugging it into the wall socket.

Across the room, his travel bag lay unzipped on a luggage rack, revealing a neat stack of folded training kit, shin guards with scuffed white shells, and a pair of recovery slides. A single television screen mounted opposite the bed played a low-volume British news broadcast, though the anchor’s rapid, clipped cadence served as little more than background white noise against the stillness of the hotel floor. Outside, the distant shimmer of wet tarmac reflected the amber glow of streetlamps, reminding him of how far he was from home.

The physical treatment session down on the second floor had left his limbs feeling heavy and loose, the post-walk ice bath leaving his calves noticeably less stiff. According to the printed schedule clipped to the team board outside the lifts, Thursday morning brought a sharp shift in tone: full tactical shape work and high-intensity second-ball transition drills. The lighter recovery window was officially closed, replaced by the demanding standards of senior-team preparation.

His phone buzzed against the duvet, the screen lighting up with an incoming video call.

Rayan swiped to accept, propping the device against a plastic water bottle on the table. Sofia’s face appeared on screen, framed by the familiar kitchen light in Olivais, with the gentle clatter of ceramic plates audible in the background.

"You look tired," Sofia said by way of greeting, her eyes narrowing slightly as she inspected him through the camera lens. "Did you actually sleep on the bus or were you up late messing around with your phone?"

"I slept fine, Mum," Rayan sighed, leaning back against the pillows. "We got in late, we had dinner, and then we went straight to our rooms."

"And your calves? Does that muscle pull when you step down?"

"They’re fine. The physio checked them twenty minutes ago. No pulling." Rayan rubbed a hand across his forehead. "You sound like you’re conducting a border inspection."

"Somebody has to, since you won’t remember to check yourself," Sofia retorted, though the slight softening around her eyes betrayed her. "Did you eat properly? I know what English hotel food is like—all grease and potatoes."

"We had fish and chips," Rayan muttered. "And mushy peas."

"Mushy what?" Sofia frowned.

Before Rayan could explain, the camera angle jerked violently as Leonor elbowed her way into the frame, shoving her mother aside with a dramatic sigh.

"Rayan! Are you in the hotel room? Show me out the window, can you see the Beatles museum?" Leonor demanded, her voice cutting through the speaker at full volume. "Is Viktor Gyoker sitting next to you? Can you get his autograph on an old shirt?"

"I am not knocking on Viktor’s door at ten o’clock at night to ask for an autograph, Leonor," Rayan groaned, pulling the phone slightly back. "And you can’t see anything out the window except a brick wall and some rain."

"Liar. You’re probably staying in some luxury five-star suite with a balcony overlooking the river," Leonor accused, squinting at the background of the room. "Show me the bathroom. If your room is messy, I’m telling Mum."

"Give me the phone back," Sofia’s voice murmured off-screen as she gently wrestled the device away from her daughter. "Leonor, stop bothering him. Rayan, make sure your gear is packed for tomorrow morning. What time does training start?"

"Ten sharp," Rayan said. "I have to go down for breakfast at eight."

"Alright. Get your rest, and call if your legs feel tight. Love you."

"Love you, Mum. Bye."

The screen blinked black, and almost immediately, a second notification popped up. Incoming Call: Dad.

Rayan tapped the green icon. Karim’s face filled the screen, illuminated by the harsh blue glow of an overhead fluorescent light. In the background, the familiar cluttered workbench of the garage in Amadora was visible, half-dismantled electronics and copper wire scattered across a metal tabletop. Karim was eating a late-night bifana from a foil wrapper, wiping a stray drop of sauce from his thumb with a paper towel.

"Hey, Rayan," Karim said, chewing slowly. "Saw a photo online of you down by the docks earlier. Looked freezing."

"It was," Rayan smiled, his shoulders dropping noticeably as he slumped further into the pillows. "The wind comes right off the river. It’s completely different from Lisbon."

"Good for the lungs," Karim chuckled, swallowing his bite. "Some of those Sporting pages already think you’re getting minutes Saturday. One of them has you starting beside Viktor like Rui sent them the team sheet."

Rayan let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "I don’t know if I’m playing, Dad. I’m just trying to survive the tactical sessions. The manager hasn’t named the bench yet."

"He knows what he’s doing," Karim said simply, pointing a finger toward the camera. "You just stay sharp when you get your chance. Don’t overthink it. Once you cross the white line, it’s still football whether you’re at Alvalade or some old stadium in Liverpool."

They talked for another ten minutes about routine things, Karim’s workload at the shop, the broken espresso machine he was trying to fix for a neighbour, and how the local bakery had changed its recipe for custard tarts. There was no club pressure here, no tactical clipboard hanging over their heads; it was just an easy, grounding rhythm that made the grey walls of the English hotel room feel a little less distant.

"Alright, go to sleep, Rayan," Karim said eventually, crushing the foil wrapper in his palm. "Call me after the match on Saturday. Win or lose."

"See you, Dad."

The call disconnected, leaving the room quiet once more.

A moment later, a softer notification pinged. A brief text from Bia: How are the local delicacies? Surviving the northern wilderness?

Rayan typed back a quick reply: They feed us green mushy paste that tastes like lawn clippings. Send help.

Bia’s reply was almost instantaneous, accompanied by a laughing emoji: Consider it character building. Don’t let the English media bully you.

He smiled, staring at the screen for a second before locking it. He set the device aside and rubbed his face with both hands, taking a deep, quiet breath in the stillness of the room.

Reaching out, Rayan pulled the printed schedule from the bedside table and flipped it to Thursday, 3 August. The bolded text stared back at him: 09:30 Tactical Briefing / 10:00 Full Squad Shape & Second-Ball Transitions.

The easy, holiday-adjacent novelty of arrival day was officially over. Tomorrow was about earning every yard on the pitch.

Rayan placed the phone face-down on the dark wood of the bedside table. Outside the window, the steady hum of Liverpool traffic blurred against the dark, wet glass, and he reached out to click off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into shadow.