Chapter 146: Volume 2, - 146: A Few Hours in Liverpool

Chapter 146: Volume 2, Chapter 146: A Few Hours in Liverpool

Author’s Note: HEYA. So I saw a complaint about the novel having a lot of filler. That wasn’t my intention, my intention was to have a novel that conveys everyday life of a football player. So showcasing their everyday life.

But If it’s too much, I’ll change it then. Also, privelage Chapters are coming out tomorrow, so ready your coins 🤑!!!!!

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The afternoon sun broke briefly through the grey northern haze, casting a sharp, pale light over the damp pavements of Liverpool city centre.

Following lunch and the completion of individual treatment blocks, the Sporting travelling party entered a brief, permitted window of supervised downtime. Under the watchful eye of a security liaison and two club operations staff members, small groups of players were allowed to stretch their legs beyond the hotel perimeter. Rayan found himself walking alongside a relaxed cluster of teammates—Afonso Morel and Eduardo Quaresmo.

The streets hummed with a restless, industrial energy quite unlike the sun-drenched plazas of Lisbon. Traffic crawled past in double-decker buses and black cabs, while the sharp, salty tang of the nearby Mersey estuary drifted on the wind.

"If anyone finds an actual espresso that doesn’t taste like burned battery acid, let me know," Morel muttered, pulling his dark hoodie tighter against the wind as they crossed Lord Street.

"I’m convinced these people boil their coffee beans out of pure spite."

"You just don’t appreciate northern culture, Afonso," Quaresmo laughed, dodging a puddle with a light footwork step. "Look at this architecture. It’s proper old-school."

"It looks like it’s been raining for three hundred years," Rayan added, grinning as they paused outside a large multi-storey sports store.

The window display featured the latest range of boots and streetwear, drawing an immediate pause from the group. They stepped inside out of the chill, the artificial warmth of the shop hitting them instantly. The interior was a loud mix of thumping bass, brightly lit product walls, and shoppers shuffling through racks of replica shirts and hoodies.

While Morel gravitated immediately toward the footwear section to inspect a rack of limitededition trainers, Rayan wandered over to the accessories and souvenir displays. He had a specific mission in mind, driven by Leonor’s parting threats about bringing back proper proof of his travels.

He picked up a sleek, city-skyline keyring featuring a classic Liver bird design, checking the price tag. Twelve pounds. He winced and put it back. Even twelve pounds felt steep for a piece of cheap metal, but he knew he couldn’t return empty-handed. He picked up a smaller, simpler souvenir badge instead, inspecting the quality before adding it to his hand.

"Found something for your little sister?" Quaresmo asked, appearing over his shoulder with a pair of neon-green training sliders in hand.

"She wanted a full tourist tour and an autographed shirt from half the squad," Rayan sighed, holding up the badge. "I think this and a postcard are about her speed. If I bring back anything too nice, she’ll just lose it within a week."

"Smart," Quaresmo chuckled. "Siblings never appreciate the effort anyway. Kids at my old club used to nick anything that wasn’t tied down. Boots, tape, training tops, nothing was safe."

They spent another twenty minutes browsing without buying much. Morel debated purchasing a bulky retro jacket before deciding the baggage allowance wouldn’t permit it, while Quaresmo complained half-heartedly about the price of imported trainers compared to Lisbon outlets.

As they left the shop and headed down a bustling side street, the conversation drifted effortlessly away from football and into the familiar, bickering rhythm of group travel.

"Mate, your tactics on Ultimate Team are an absolute disaster," Morel argued, turning back toward Quaresmo with a grin. "You play a high defensive line with slow centre-backs and wonder why you’re conceding five goals every match."

"That’s because my press actually works when the server isn’t lagging," Quaresmo retorted, throwing his hands up in mock offence. "You just sit back in a low block and counter-attack with pace merchants."

"It’s called pragmatic football, Eduardo. Try winning a trophy sometime," Morel shot back, before shifting topics abruptly as a scent drifted past them from a nearby bakery. "Actually, forget the game. If we get a free evening when we’re back in Lisbon, someone needs to drag you both to that little seafood place near Cais do Sodré. Your standards of food are appalling."

"The seafood place? You just like it because the owner lets you run a tab," Rayan laughed.

"At least I don’t subject people to whatever horrendous playlist you had hooked up on the bus coming from the airport," Quaresmo countered, jabbing a finger toward Rayan. "That underground hip-hop you had playing the whole ride. I thought my ears were going to bleed."

"It’s called culture," Rayan protested, grinning defensively. "And besides, nobody lets the youth players near the main hotel speaker anyway. You senior lot hog the auxiliary cord with the same three dated tracks every single day."

"Because good music is a professional standard, El Mansouri," Quaresmo laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. "When you’ve spent enough years around senior dressing rooms to earn control of the speaker, then you can complain. Until then, the veterans choose the music."

"That’s a terrible system," Rayan said. "No wonder the playlist hasn’t changed in five years."

As they stepped out onto a wider pedestrian thoroughfare under the pale afternoon light, an older man carrying a grocery bag, evidently a Portuguese expatriate living in the north of England slowly stopped in his tracks as he recognised Rayan’s face from the online highlight clips of his early youth appearances and his brief Villarreal cameo.

"Desculpe," the man said, stepping forward with a broad, welcoming smile. "Are you El Mansouri? From Sporting?"

"Yes, sir," Rayan replied politely, coming to a halt as his teammates hung back with amused grins.

"I follow the Sporting academy pages. Saw the Portimonense clip and your minutes last month," the man said, adjusting his glasses. "Good luck on Saturday. Give them a hard time at Goodison."

"Thank you, I appreciate it," Rayan said, obliging with a quick photograph before shaking the man’s hand.

As the supporter walked away beaming, Rayan turned back to his group, trying to keep a neutral expression.

Quaresmo immediately burst out laughing, clapping a heavy hand onto the back of Rayan’s neck. "Look at him! Our little star. Next thing you know, you’ll be signing autographs on scraps of receipt paper."

"Shut up," Rayan muttered, feeling a slight flush of heat rise to his cheeks as he checked the time on his phone and locked the screen quickly. "We have to start heading back toward the designated meeting point anyway. Vasco doesn’t like waiting."

The walk back to the hotel was brisk, the pale afternoon light still hanging over the stone façades despite the thickening cloud. True to the schedule, the small group rendezvoused with the club operations staff right at the hotel entrance exactly fifteen minutes before their permitted window expired. The security liaison ticked off their names one by one as they stepped back through the doors.

Up in his room, Rayan dropped his small carrier bag onto the desk, pulling out the modest Liverpool souvenir he had bought for Leonor. He stared at it for a moment, shaking his head with a quiet smirk. She would undoubtedly complain that it wasn’t flashy enough, but it would have to do.

Outside the window, the grey, overcast afternoon sky stretched endlessly over the Mersey, and the distant rumble of traffic reminded him that the brief city excursion was over. Saturday was coming, and the work awaited.