Chapter 152: Volume 2, - 152: Curfew

Chapter 152: Volume 2, Chapter 152: Curfew

Before leaving Goodison Park to board the evening bus back to the hotel, the travelling squad paused in the lower-tier corridor near the media mixed zone. Sporting’s club-media crew held Coatez and Viktor Gyoker back for brief pre-match interviews against the branded backdrop while the rest of the younger players and reserves continued down toward the loading bay without delay.

The evening return to the Liverpool hotel followed a heavy, predictable rhythm. After the stark, wind-swept concrete of Goodison Park, the warm, softly lit corridors of the team hotel offered a quiet sanctuary. There were no more tactical projections, no more chalkboards, and no more video loops of direct English clearances. The match-eve preparation was essentially complete; the remaining hours belonged to recovery, routine, and the slow unwinding of professional tension.

In the dining room, the atmosphere was relaxed, characterised by the low clatter of cutlery and drifting conversations. Senior players clustered around tables, talking about everything except the upcoming fixture. Across the room, a debate raged over the quality of the hotel pillows, with Quaresmo loudly maintaining that they felt like stuffed plastic bags while a small group near the corner bickered good-naturedly over a paused television broadcast analysing Premier League transfers.

Rayan ate a measured plate of grilled chicken, rice, and steamed vegetables, washing it down with a glass of electrolyte water. A few tables away, a high-stakes card game had broken out among the younger reserves, accompanied by groans of simulated despair as someone dropped another hand.

By nine o’clock, the players dispersed to their rooms or went down to the basement treatment area for final massages and ice packs. Rayan spent twenty minutes on a physio table, letting a club therapist work the mild tightness out of his calves before heading back up to his room.

The hotel room was quiet, lit only by the amber glow of the bedside lamp. Slipping into a comfortable hoodie, Rayan settled onto the edge of the mattress and pulled out his phone. The evening routine of family and friend check-ins began.

His first call was with Sofia. Her tone was steady and practical, stripped of any nervous flutter.

"How does your body feel?" she asked without preamble. "Any heavy soreness from the pitch session?"

"No, legs feel fine," Rayan replied, leaning back against the headboard. "Sharp enough. Just standard match-eve stiffness."

"Good. What time do you leave for the stadium tomorrow?"

"Bus leaves the hotel at twelve-thirty for a three o’clock kick-off."

"Alright," Sofia said softly. "Eat your proper breakfast, don’t overthink whatever Rui told you in the meetings, and sleep when we hang up. You need the rest anyway."

"I know. Talk to you tomorrow."

Next came his father. Karim answered on the second ring, the background noise faint with the clatter of a kitchen counter and the distant murmur of a television news broadcast. Karim was audibly excited for both of them, his voice carrying the warm, unrestrained pride of a father watching his son break into the senior first-team world.

"Goodison is a proper English ground, Rayan," Karim said, his tone rising with enthusiasm over the line. "None of these modern corporate plastic bowls. When the wind comes off the Mersey tomorrow, you’ll feel what English football actually is. I remember watching matches there when—"

"Dad," Rayan interrupted respectfully, a quiet smile touching his lips. "I might not play. I’m on the travel list, but I haven’t been promised minutes."

"I know, I know," Karim chuckled on the other end, undeterred. "You made the trip. You’re there. If Rui needs you, be ready. I’m watching regardless. Just keep your head down and eat something else if you’re hungry; you’re still growing."

After hanging up with his father, Rayan’s phone buzzed almost immediately with a FaceTime request from Joca.

The screen flickered to life to reveal Joca sitting in his bedroom back in Lisbon, surrounded by gaming peripherals and looking deeply aggrieved.

"Where is the behind-the-scenes tour, then?" Joca demanded immediately. "Why aren’t you live-streaming the team hotel? What is Sporting playing at?"

"Joca, club staff wouldn’t let me film inside the restricted areas, and I’m not allowed to film the tactical rooms," Rayan deadpanned. "Sporting are actively destroying modern cinema."

"I knew it," Joca groaned, throwing his hands up. "Stifling artistic expression. If you don’t score a hat-trick tomorrow just to spite the board, our friendship is under review. Did you see the latest patch notes for the server update, by the way?"

They spent five minutes bickering about an online game update before Joca signed off to deal with a family errand, leaving Rayan alone in the quiet room once more.

His final call was with Bia. Her evening had evidently been chaotic; she spent the first three minutes venting about an impossible literature assignment and a dispute over cinema tickets with a mutual friend before the conversation drifted toward the weekend.

"Are you even nervous, or do you just pretend to have ice in your veins?" Bia asked, her tone light and teasing.

"A bit of both," Rayan admitted, staring out the dark window at the streetlights of Liverpool.

"Well, try to enjoy it," she said quietly.

"I’ll enjoy it a lot more if I actually get on the pitch."

"You would say that," Bia laughed softly. "Just don’t do anything reckless. I’ll be watching."

"I won’t. Talk later."

After ending the call, Rayan tossed his phone onto the mattress, but the restless hum of the evening lingered. At ten-fifteen, the team app buzzed softly against the bedside table with the final administrative reminder: rooms by twenty-two-thirty, no visits between floors, and breakfast starting from eight. A few minutes later, the muffled sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor, followed by Vasco Fernandes knocking once lightly at each door and verifying names before continuing past. It was mundane, professional, and entirely devoid of boarding-school theatricals.

As the corridor gradually quieted down, the heavy thud of neighbouring doors sealing shut rippled through the walls. Rayan stood up, plugged his phone charger into the wall outlet, laid his crisp travel tracksuit neatly over the back of the wooden desk chair, and placed a full bottle of water within arm’s reach of the mattress. He drew the heavy hotel blackout curtains tight against the streetlights, plunging the room into a deep, muted shadow.

Idly, he picked his device back up for a final moment and checked a handful of supporter posts on social media. A small thread of club discussion flickered across the tags ahead of the Goodison friendly.

User @AlvaladeLion99 posted: Heard #82 made the trip to Merseyside. Is the kid actually getting minutes tomorrow?

Reply from @SportingDNA_06: Doubtful, Amorim won’t throw a fifteen-year-old into a hostile away crowd in pre-season. Probably just squad experience.

Another account, @Leo_Verde, chimed in: Even if he doesn’t play, travelling with the senior squad on MD-1 is massive for his development.

Rayan locked his phone screen and dropped it onto the bedside table. He reached out, picked it up one last time to verify his alarm for eight o’clock, checked the team reporting schedule for breakfast in the morning, and finally slid the screen face-down.

The room went dark. Tomorrow, Goodison Park would open its gates.