Chapter 151: Volume 2, - 151: Goodison, Empty

Chapter 151: Volume 2, Chapter 151: Goodison, Empty

The team bus navigated the congested, tight-fitting corridors of North Liverpool with measured, professional patience. Through the tinted windows, the late-afternoon Friday light caught the wet tarmac of narrow streets flanked by rows of dark, soot-stained Victorian terraces and corner pubs with peeling paint. Inside the air-conditioned cabin, the atmosphere was subdued and rhythmic. Most of the players sat in low, quiet clusters, eyes locked to their glowing screens or plugged into wireless earbuds, burning off the final hours before matcheve routine wound down.

Up front, team manager Rui Amorim conferred in low tones with Vasco Fernandes over a laminated sheet of logistics timings, while kit staff checked manifest lists for the evening return.

Rayan stared out at the passing street signs, watching ordinary pedestrians pull their jackets tight against the damp British chill. He had played in massive venues before; he had tasted the intense atmosphere and immaculate turf of the Estádio José Alvalade. This wasn’t his first time stepping inside a professional arena, nor was he some provincial youngster dazzled by the mere presence of stadium seats and a green pitch. But Goodison Park was different. It was his first foreign senior away ground, steeped in an industrial, weathered history that felt entirely detached from the modern, sunlit bowls of Lisbon.

When the bus swung smoothly into the stadium’s secure loading bay, the machinery of professional away-match arrival kicked in immediately. Private stadium security guards met the doors, guiding the travelling contingent past cordoned steel gates and into the subterranean concrete bowels of the venue.

The away-team route was functional and sparse. They passed utility doors marked with faded lettering, concrete corridors echoing with the muffled clatter of stadium staff rolling heavy cables, and provisional broadcast setups taking shape near the main media mixed zone. Kit managers hauled trunks toward the away dressing room, laying out boots and fresh towels with mechanical efficiency, while operational staff mapped out emergency exits and medical access points.

Rayan walked in the loose cluster of young reserves and travelling players, filing out toward the tunnel mouth.

There was no cinematic roar of forty thousand fans echoing off the brickwork. The stadium was entirely, hauntingly empty. The stands rose steeply on all four sides, a tight, compact amphitheatre of weathered blue seats and historic upper tiers that leaned claustrophobic over the pitch. The air smelled sharply of damp turf, old mortar, and a faint trace of stale beer.

Rayan paused for a fraction of a second near the mouth of the tunnel, looking up at the towering tiers of empty seats where tomorrow’s storm would break.

"Move along, kid, you’re blocking the exit," a gruff voice muttered.

It was Coatez, shoving past him with a light nudge to the shoulder, carrying his boots by their laces with total professional indifference. The established seniors treated the stadium familiarisation like an administrative chore, just another pitch to inspect, another routine to tick off before the hotel curfew. That sharp contrast between Rayan’s internal hum of nervous tension and the veterans’ bored nonchalance settled heavily over him.

Sporting’s coaching staff fanned out across the pitch, inspecting the length of the grass, checking the moisture levels near the technical area, and testing the bounce of the ball in the goalmouths. Rayan stepped out onto the pitch alongside a few teammates, his boots gripping the short, heavily watered blades. He walked along the touchline, taking in the towering three-tier Main Stand behind him and observing how the dense framework of the ground enclosed the playing surface. Across the pitch, the old Bullens Road tiers seemed to hang almost over the touchline, their supporting framework, cramped rows, and exposed timber-and-iron architecture making the area feel intensely boxed in.

Grounds staff were still finishing the pitch markings, pushing white-line carts across the damp green rectangle while broadcast technicians bolted heavy camera cranes into place near the corner flags. Rayan paused near the edge of the technical area, tracking the sightlines toward the corner flags and noticing how the slope of the turf dipped slightly toward the touchline drain.

Before moving further, the younger group retraced their steps, walking back through the narrow concrete tunnel from the pitch edge to the away dressing room door to familiarise themselves with the exact matchday routing. They noted how short the distance was from the changing rooms to the pitch mouth, a cramped, subterranean sprint that would funnel players straight into a wall of noise tomorrow afternoon.

Near the dugouts, an operations team administrator was walking a group of younger players and substitutes through practical logistics.

"Substitutes’ bench is here," the administrator pointed, his voice carrying over the emptyseat echoes. "Warm-up bibs and resistance bands go in the designated zone behind the fourth official’s table. If your name is called for an active warm-up, you clear the bench immediately and head down the touchline toward the corner flag. No wandering, no standing in the technical box. You know the venue protocol."

Rayan nodded, mentally cataloguing the physical layout of the dugout, the exact distance to the warm-up bibs, and the tight boundary of the fourth official’s jurisdiction.

A few moments later, as the inspection broke into a casual wander, Rayan found himself standing near the tunnel entrance alongside Viktor Gyoker and Pedro Gonsalves.

"Quiet place when nobody’s screaming at you," Viktor remarked, crossing his arms and squinting up toward the towering Bullens Road Stand opposite. "Feels smaller than Alvalade, but the stands sit right on top of your neck. You can hear every breath from the front row."

"That’s the point," Pedro grinned, leaning against the damp brick wall and tossing an elastic band between his palms. "By tomorrow afternoon, those blokes in the lower tier are going to be close enough to tell you what they think of your first bad touch, Rayan."

Rayan looked over, keeping his expression neutral. "I’m not planning on having one tomorrow."

Pedro let out a sharp, barking laugh, glancing sideways at Viktor. "Hear that? Kid’s not planning on a bad touch. Did you plan your touches last season, Viktor?"

"My first touch is a weapon, Gonsalves," Viktor deadpanned, though a corner of his mouth twitched upward. "Unlike yours, which usually needs a search party."

"Alright, keep your jokes for the dressing room," Pedro chuckled, clapping Rayan lightly on the chest. "Just stay switched on. In games like this, the crowd does half the pressing for them before you even control the ball."

Rayan watched them drift back toward the main group, the casual banter washing away some of the tight, cold knot in his stomach. He took another slow walk across the penalty box, looking back from the penalty spot toward the tunnel. The historic balconies hung directly over the boundary, creating a physical sense of confinement that no modern arena matched.

Before turning to follow the team back inside toward the waiting coaches, Rayan stopped one last time at the mouth of the tunnel. He looked back out across the immaculate, silent expanse of Goodison Park.

The stadium was still empty.

Tomorrow afternoon, it would not be.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked down the concrete steps, leaving the quiet pitch behind.