Chapter 148: Volume 2, - 148: No Answer Tonight

Chapter 148: Volume 2, Chapter 148: No Answer Tonight

The silence around the dining table had lost its sharp edge by the time Ana served the evening meal, settling instead into an ordinary, muted rhythm.

Miguel had already slid the cream-coloured Benfica envelope and its contents back inside the leather folder, placing it neatly on the sideboard away from the plates. Over a simple dinner of grilled chicken and rice, neither parent forced the conversation back toward recruitment directors, developmental pathways, or training schedules. Ana recounted a frustrating morning at the pharmacy involving an elderly regular who refused to accept generic prescriptions, while Miguel complained mildly about a delayed structural delivery at his engineering firm.

Duarte listened in silence, pushing his food around his plate with a fork. He appreciated the deliberate pivot away from the tension, yet the weight of the document across the room still pressed against the back of his mind.

"More rice, Duarte?" Ana asked gently, breaking her own story to look at him.

"No, I’m good, Mum. Thanks," Duarte murmured.

"Alright. Just make sure you finish your water," she replied, her tone carrying that familiar, protective care that had nothing to do with football academies.

After clearing the dishes, Duarte retreated to his bedroom, closing the door softly against the hallway light. The room offered a familiar sanctuary, posters of technical midfielders pinned to the back of his wardrobe, a bookshelf lined with school texts and sports management paperbacks, and his laptop resting open on the wooden desk.

He needed a break from the noise inside his own head. Booting up his PC, he pulled up a stream of recent Formula 1 technical analysis videos, watching aerodynamics breakdowns of floor upgrades and front-wing loading. For twenty minutes, his focus narrowed entirely to apex speeds, downforce coefficients, and tactical tyre degradation, tracking the subtle differences between how the leading constructors managed their rear tyre wear through high-speed sweeping corners.

When his phone buzzed beside the keyboard, he picked it up with a faint sigh. It was a message from a school friend, Tiago, pinging him with a link to an online racing lobby.

@Tiago_Ramos7: Get on. Need someone to test setups for the Silverstone track before I completely ruin my rating.

@Duarte_Faria8: Give me ten minutes. Just clearing some stuff off my desk.

@Tiago_Ramos7: Ten minutes means twenty. Hurry up.

Duarte cracked a slight smile, shaking his head at the message before closing out of his browser tabs. He spent the next forty minutes trading fast laps and sliding around virtual wet kerbs, shouting friendly insults back and forth over a voice headset about missed braking points.

"You absolute donkey, you carved right across my apex," Tiago yelled through the headset as Duarte’s virtual chassis clipped his rear wing on the entry to Stowe. "That’s a five-second penalty in any real league."

"You left the door wide open, Tiago. I’m legally obliged to drive through it," Duarte retorted, correcting a snap of oversteer on exit and accelerating hard down the Hangar Straight. "Keep complaining and I’ll lap you before the session ends."

"Try catching me first. Your setup is way too stiff for these damp conditions."

"Blame the engineers, not the driver," Duarte laughed, feathering the throttle through Vale and managing a clean exit onto Club. "Though if you miss your braking marker into Abbey one more time, I’m reporting you to race control."

"Shut up and just finish your lap," Tiago shot back.

They traded telemetry notes and banter for another twenty laps, completely absorbed in the virtual timing screens. It was entirely disconnected from Alcochete, recruitment letters, or academy politics—just pure competition over a screen, burning off the leftover static in his system.

When they finally signed off, Duarte left the PC running on idle and stood up to stretch. He walked over to the small corridor bathroom to splash cold water on his face, lingering by the kitchen doorway on his way back. Ana was wiping down the counter, humming quietly to herself while she loaded the dishwasher. She handed him a fresh glass of water without a word, giving his arm a brief, reassuring squeeze before he drifted back down the hallway.

Back in his room, Duarte picked up his phone again. His thumb drifted instinctively over his lock screen, unlocking the interface before he could fully talk himself out of it.

A notification from a supporter-run academy Telegram channel caught his eye.

@LeoninoBase: Squad out in England ahead of the Goodison friendly. Rayan El Mansouri working with the senior group during training today.

Attached was a photograph from Sporting’s training gallery, showing Rayan sharp and focused in a green training bib, surrounded by senior professionals.

Duarte stared at the screen, a cold spike of frustration hitting his ribs. He wanted to know where Sporting actually saw him in twelve months. He wanted more responsibility, more answers about his own trajectory, rather than feeling like he was simply standing still while the rest of the world accelerated. With a sharp flick of his thumb, he jammed the power button, plunging the display into darkness, and threw the phone face-down onto the desk.

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his palms over his face as the silence closed back in around him.

A quiet knock preceded Miguel pushing the door open just a few inches. His father leaned against the frame, holding a glass of water.

"Thinking?" Miguel asked quietly.

"Not really," Duarte muttered, staring down at his desk.

Miguel walked into the room, setting the glass down on the edge of the dresser before resting his hands in his pockets. Miguel’s expression remained calm, without any urgency.

"We don’t need an answer tonight, Duarte," Miguel said, his tone steady and reassuring. "The letter requested a meeting, not a commitment. We can listen first, see what they actually have to say, and decide as a family later. There’s no rush to lock anything down." Duarte’s shoulders loosened before he could stop them. He looked down at his hands, still irritated by how badly he wanted an answer he wasn’t ready to give.

"Okay, Dad," Duarte murmured.

"Get some rest," Miguel added, turning toward the door. "Goodnight."

"Night."

Left alone in the quiet room, Duarte turned his attention to the practical reality of the morning ahead. He checked his phone’s alarm settings for seven o’clock, making sure he had enough time to catch the early club shuttle. Then he walked over to his kit chair, reaching down to check his training boots. A stubborn patch of dry mud still clung to the stud tips from the afternoon session at Alcochete; he pcked up a small brush from the side table and spent a few minutes cleaning them out, tapping the plates clean against the heel of his palm.

Once his boots were sorted, he lined up his water bottle, his shin pads, and his fresh socks beside his bag. Finally, he reached down and picked up his Sporting training clothes for the next morning, feeling the familiar weight and texture of the club badge. He stared at the green and white fabric for a long moment, tracing the embroidered emblem with his thumb before laying the kit out neatly on the chair.

Then he reached across, switched off the desk lamp, and climbed into bed in the dark.