Chapter 145: Volume 2, - 145: Ice, Tape and Bruises

Chapter 145: Volume 2, Chapter 145: Ice, Tape and Bruises

The treatment room at the back of the Sporting hotel smelled faintly of wintergreen liniment, antiseptic wipes, and damp rubber.

Rayan sat on the edge of a high medical table, his legs dangling over the side as he winced slightly while pulling off his sweat-drenched left boot. Beneath the sock, a dull, purplish discolouration was already blooming across the bone just above his ankle. The accumulated souvenir of a heavy collision somewhere in the crowded chaos of the morning’s second-ball drills. His lower calves throbbed with a deep, heavy ache, and his right shoulder blade felt as though someone had pressed a blunt thumb directly into the muscle tissue.

Around him, the room was a hive of controlled, clinical motion. The club’s medical and performance staff moved between tables with quiet efficiency, managing the physical toll of senior-team training.

A physiotherapist named Tiago paused beside Rayan’s table, resting a clipboard against his thigh as he surveyed the darkening skin above the boot line.

"Let’s see it," Tiago said in Portuguese, gently taking Rayan’s lower leg in his hands. "Where does it hurt? Point to it."

"Right here," Rayan muttered, indicating the bruised spot. "It’s just a knock. It’s fine."

"Only on pressure?" Tiago asked, his fingers pressing methodically around the perimeter of the discolouration.

Rayan hissed through his teeth, pulling back slightly. "Yeah. Mostly when you press down."

"Any sharp pain when you rotate the ankle?"

"No. Just tight."

"Any swelling?"

"I don’t think so." Rayan kept his voice as level as possible, acutely aware that any hint of a serious issue might prompt the staff to pull him from training tomorrow. Saturday’s fixture at Goodison Park loomed large in his mind, and he had no intention of missing out on the matchday squad list because of a simple training bruise. "Really, Tiago, it’s nothing. I can train tomorrow."

Tiago gave him a dry, knowing look, entirely unimpressed by the attempt to downplay the discomfort. "The club decides if you train, El Mansouri, not you. Relax your foot."

The physiotherapist put the ankle through a series of passive mobility checks, testing the joint’s range of motion and checking for ligament stability. Finding no obvious instability in the initial checks, Tiago reached for a roll of cohesive bandage and a cold pack.

"Nothing in the examination suggests ligament damage. It looks like a contact contusion," Tiago diagnosed professionally. "You’re available for tomorrow’s training, but we’ll check it again in the morning. If the pain increases under load, you report it immediately. Understood?"

"Understood," Rayan breathed, a quiet wave of relief washing over him.

Across the room, the atmosphere was far from solemn. Senior players were crowded around adjacent tables, shedding tape, laughing, and trading complaints about the morning session. Eduardo Quaresmo was sitting half-stripped of his kit, wincing as a trainer ripped a stubborn strip of white zinc tape away from his hairy shin.

"Bloody hell, go slower, man," Quaresmo groaned, swatting at the trainer’s hand while the rest of the corner dissolved into laughter. "You’re taking half my skin off with it."

"That’s what you get for wrapping your legs like a mummy," Afonso Morel called out from the next table over, where he was busy arguing with a staff member about the lunch menu. "Did anyone actually ask the kitchen if they’re serving rice today, or are we expected to eat more of those green moss balls?"

"Rice is at twelve-thirty, Afonso, calm down," Morino said mildly, lying flat on his back as a therapist worked a knot out of his hamstring. "Though if you complain enough, the chef might give you an extra portion of sadness."

Rayan watched them for a moment, the tension slowly draining out of his shoulders. The minor soreness in his legs didn’t feel so uniquely catastrophic when surrounded by teammates groaning through their own routine maintenance.

Quaresmo hopped down from his table, grabbed a bottle of electrolyte water, and wandered over to lean against the edge of Rayan’s station.

"How’s the ankle, kid?" Quaresmo asked, nodding toward the ice pack Tiago had strapped to Rayan’s leg. "Welcome to senior football. The adults don’t pull their boots away just because you’re fifteen."

"I saw that," Rayan muttered, adjusting his posture. "I should have moved the ball quicker."

"You’ll learn," Quaresmo said, taking a swig from his bottle. "Everton will be more physical than this."

"Do you think I’ll get minutes?" Rayan asked, trying to keep his tone casual as he fished for some indication of the tactical plans.

Quaresmo offered a non-committal shrug, tossing his empty bottle into a nearby recycling bin. "Who knows? Rui hasn’t posted the XI yet. You travelled with the squad, so be ready when your number is called. That’s all any of us can do."

Once Tiago released him, Rayan walked back to his hotel room, his legs feeling slightly lighter after the targeted treatment. He picked up his phone from the bedside table, unlocking the screen to find a cluster of unread notifications.

A message from Sofia sat at the top: How was the morning session? Did the coaches push you too hard in that cold weather?

Rayan hesitated for a second, staring at the blinking cursor. He knew if he mentioned the bruise on his ankle, his mother would immediately launch into a full investigative cascade of questions. But hiding it felt worse, especially with the physio’s clearance fresh in his mind.

He typed back a cautious reply: Training was good. Took a slight knock on the ankle during a drill, but the medical staff checked it out.

Within thirty seconds, his phone buzzed violently with an incoming video call. Sofia hadn’t even waited to text back.

Rayan accepted the call, and Sofia’s face instantly filled the screen, her expression shifting immediately into high alert.

"A knock? Where? Let me see it," Sofia demanded before he could even say hello. "Is it swollen? Did they X-ray it? Are you walking on it normally? Why didn’t you wear better shin guards? Did the doctor give you anti-inflammatories? Are you icing it right now?"

Rayan held the phone up, flipping the camera to show the wrapped ankle and the ice pack resting on the mattress. "Mum, breathe. It’s just a bruise. Tiago looked at it, nothing suggests ligament damage. I was cleared for tomorrow."

"If they cleared you, fine," Sofia said, her shoulders dropping a fraction. "But if it hurts more tomorrow morning, you tell them immediately. I don’t care about your match on Saturday."

"I’m fine, Mum. Really."

"Alright. Get some rest."

The screen blinked black as Sofia disconnected. A moment later, a second notification popped up. Incoming Call: Dad.

Rayan tapped the green icon. Karim’s face filled the screen, illuminated by the overhead light of his garage workshop in Amadora, half-dismantled electronics scattered across the bench behind him.

"Your mum just messaged me. Said you took a knock," Karim said, studying Rayan’s expression through the screen with a knowing, weathered half-smile.

"Yeah. Got caught in a crowd during the second-ball drills."

Karim nodded slowly. "That’s football, champion. You wanted to play with the big boys, now you get to feel what they weigh." Karim paused, his eyes narrowing slightly with practical concern. "The doctors checked it properly, right? No guessing?"

"They checked it, Dad. Full mobility test. It’s just a contact contusion."

"Good. Then stop complaining and listen to the staff," Karim instructed firmly, though his tone was entirely grounded. "Ice it, eat your lunch, and get some rest. Let me know when the squad list drops."

"Will do, Dad."

Rayan disconnected the call, letting out a long, slow breath as the screen went dark. He set the phone down on the bedside table, pulled the compressed ice pack away from his ankle, and flexed the joint once more. The bruise answered with a dull throb, but the joint moved cleanly. He sat back down, pressed the cold pack over the darkened skin, and reached for the lunch schedule beside his phone.