Chapter 147: Volume 2, - 147: Across Lisbon, the Approach Changes

Chapter 147: Volume 2, Chapter 147: Across Lisbon, the Approach Changes

The evening chill off the Mersey pressed against the hotel windowpanes as Rayan sat on the edge of his bed, turning the modest souvenir badge over in his palm.

Following the afternoon’s brief city excursion, the rest of the evening settled into quiet routine. Rayan pulled out his phone and snapped a quick photo of the Liverpool badge and the simple postcard he had picked up, sending them directly to the family group chat with a brief caption: Proof of life. Don’t say I never bring you anything.

Within seconds, the screen lit up.

Leonor’s text arrived instantly: That’s it? A tiny piece of metal and a postcard of a building? You went all the way to England and brought back a keyring for tourists?

Rayan let out a slow sigh, typing back: It’s a souvenir badge. Be grateful I didn’t just bring you a wrapper from the hotel soap.

It looks like something you find on the floor of a bus station, Leonor replied immediately with a laughing-crying emoji. Absolute garbage, Rayan.

Before Rayan could fire back a defence, a second notification popped up from Sofia: Leave your brother alone, Leonor. It’s a sweet gesture, and at least he remembered to buy something while he was working.

You only like it because you’re biased, Leonor shot back. If I brought you a piece of scrap metal from a petrol station, you’d throw it in the bin.

Rayan shook his head with a faint smirk, tossing his phone onto the mattress. He already regretted buying her anything at all, exactly as he had anticipated.

A gentle knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Rayan pulled it open to find Pedro standing in the corridor, holding a game controller in one hand and a bag of crisps in the other.

"You alive, Rayan? Or did walking past the docks finish your legs off?" Pedro asked, leaning against the doorframe.

"My legs are fine," Rayan muttered, stepping aside to let him in. "Just resting."

"Good. Come through to Morel’s room. We’ve got the screen hooked up, and if I have to watch Morel play another match where he passes backward for ninety minutes, I’m going to throw myself out the window."

For the next hour, football tactics took a back seat. Rayan joined them in the cramped hotel room, sitting cross-legged on the carpet as they ate crisps, argued over terrible room-service menus, took turns on EA FC and mocked Morel’s atrocious form. Everton was mentioned only in passing when someone wondered aloud what time the team dinner would be served on Friday, but the conversation quickly drifted back to music, terrible stadium catering across the Portuguese league, and complaints about long bus rides.

The official Friday schedule arrived via the team app later that evening: breakfast at eight, tactical walkthrough at ten, and the afternoon trip to Goodison Park for stadium familiarisation and match-eve setup.

While Rayan’s evening unfolded against the grey backdrop of Liverpool, warm sunlight still stretched across the quiet suburban avenues of Lisbon, casting long shadows through the Faria family’s living room in Benfica’s wider catchment.

The envelope sat squarely in the centre of the polished wooden dining table. Thick, creamcoloured card bearing the formal letterhead of Sport Lisboa e Benfica’s youth recruitment directorate. It was a formal request for a sit-down discussion regarding Duarte’s long-term development pathway, age-group progression and educational safeguarding.

Miguel Faria sat at the head of the table, his arms folded across his chest, his civil engineer’s pragmatic gaze fixed intently on the paper. Across from him, Ana Faria adjusted her glasses, her expression a careful mix of maternal protection and analytical calm.

Duarte sat between them, his training bag half-unzipped on the floor by the door.

"They aren’t asking for a commitment," Miguel said quietly, his voice measured as he tapped a finger against the edge of the proposal. "They want a proper meeting. They’ve listed travel logistics, medical monitoring and academic support among the things they want to discuss, along with higher-age exposure and what they think Duarte’s pathway could look like."

"And safeguarding," Ana added, her pen resting on a notepad where she had already jotted down a list of questions. "It is... structured. I’ll give them that. But the timing is what concerns me. Why now? Why are they accelerating this conversation this month specifically?"

"Because the landscape changes the moment a player starts appearing in senior pre-season groups," Miguel said, glancing up at his son. "Benfica watch every academy across the city. When someone from your age group starts making waves, departments move. It’s business, Duarte. Nothing more, nothing less."

Duarte stared down at the grain of the wooden table, his fingers tracing the edge of his mobile phone. He hadn’t asked for this meeting, and he hadn’t requested to leave Sporting. His entire life was painted in green and white; his kit bag, sitting by the door, still carried the mud from the club’s Alcochete pitches. Yet the weight of the document in front of him felt heavy, shifting the boundary of what his career was supposed to be.

His mind drifted unbidden. Earlier that afternoon, a notification had flickered across his lock screen, a repost on a supporter-run academy Telegram channel showing a photograph of the Sporting travelling squad touching down in England, with Rayan standing near the back of the group in a club-issue travel tracksuit.

Duarte’s thumb had hovered over the screen, pausing for a fraction of a second before he jammed the power button and threw the phone face-down onto the table.

"Duarte?" Miguel’s voice cut through his thoughts.

Duarte blinked, snapping back to the room. "Yeah. Sorry."

"I asked what you think about them wanting to discuss higher-age exposure compared with your current pathway," Miguel repeated, his eyes narrowing slightly with quiet observation. "Were you listening?"

Duarte opened his mouth, but the words stuck in his throat. He couldn’t repeat a single sentence his father had just said.

Miguel let out a soft, patient breath, leaning back in his chair. He didn’t lecture. He didn’t demand an explanation for his son’s wandering attention.

Instead, Ana leaned forward, resting her arms on the table and looking directly into Duarte’s eyes. The analytical sharpness in her face softened into something entirely steady.

"Duarte. Look at me," she said gently. "Forget the letters. Forget what Sporting is doing, and forget what Benfica are offering. At the end of all of this... what do you want?"

Duarte looked between his mother and father. The formal Benfica contact details lay silently on the table before him, waiting for a reply that wasn’t there. He had Sporting history, a lifetime of club loyalty, and a pathway he had always assumed would follow a straight line. But for the first time, he realised the path didn’t belong to the club, and it didn’t belong to his parents.

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Miguel reached out, calmly picking up the Benfica envelope and sliding it neatly into a leather folder alongside Ana’s notes. Neither of them pushed him further.

Duarte sat in silence as the evening light faded across Lisbon, his Sporting bag resting untouched by the door.