Chapter 153: Volume 2, - 153: Matchday in Merseyside

Chapter 153: Volume 2, Chapter 153: Matchday in Merseyside

The amber display of the bedside clock glowed 07:54 AM, blinking softly just six minutes before his alarm was set to fracture the hotel silence. Rayan was already awake, lying flat on his back with his eyes fixed on the pale grey northern light bleeding through the edges of the blackout curtains. His body felt light and clean, free of any lingering soreness from yesterday’s training session. At fifteen, his recovery was fast, but the club’s medical staff still monitored his workload with meticulous, conservative care.

He slipped out from under the duvet, the cool hotel carpet greeting his bare feet, and headed straight for the bathroom. A quick, cold splash of water chased away the residual haze of sleep. He brushed his teeth, checking his reflection with clinical detachment, hair slightly flattened on one side, eyes sharp, expression neutral.

Back in the room, he checked his phone. The weather app predicted intermittent drizzle and a biting fifteen degrees Celsius in Liverpool. Classic August conditions for Merseyside.

At eight sharp, Rayan joined the stream of players filing down into the private dining room. The room hummed with a different frequency than yesterday; the casual, sleepy leisure of match-eve had been replaced by a tight, focused silence. Plates of poached eggs, sourdough toast, and sliced turkey were consumed with methodical precision. Performance staff drifted between tables, handing out individual electrolyte pouches and logging hydration and readiness checks on digital tablets.

Rayan nursed a glass of water mixed with magnesium, his leg bouncing a restless rhythm against the chair leg.

"Calm down, kid, you’ll drill a hole through the floor," Daniel Braga murmured, sliding past with a plate of fruit.

"I’m calm," Rayan replied smoothly.

"Doesn’t look it," Braga grinned, taking a seat nearby.

Following breakfast, the squad moved through a brief, thirty-minute medical check and light muscle activation session in the ground-floor gymnasium. Physios tested joint mobility, taped ankles where necessary, and ensured everyone was moving cleanly. Antonio Adal, Eduardo Quaresmo, Ousmane Diamande, and Gon?alo Inásio stretched side by side, while Viktor Gyoker moved through heavy foam-rolling blocks with quiet intensity.

At ten-thirty, the internal matchday selection sheet was distributed across the printouts in the tactical briefing room and synced to the squad’s private mobile portal.

Rayan froze as he opened the PDF on his phone.

His eyes scanned down the starting eleven: Antonio Adal in goal; Quaresmo, Diamande, and

Inásio across the back three; Geni Catano and Mateus Reiz at wing-back; Daniel Braga and Hidemasa Morino in central midfield; with Francisco Trincano, Pedro Gonsalves, and Viktor Gyoker ahead of them.

He dropped his gaze down to the substitutes list.

#82 – Rayan.

He didn’t jump. He didn’t fist-pump or let out a shout. He simply stared at the screen, reading the digit once, then twice, verifying that his temporary academy number hadn’t been swapped out in a clerical error. It hadn’t. He was on the bench. It was a pre-season friendly selection, and it offered zero guarantee of a single minute on the pitch, but his name was officially printed among the matchday reserves.

Rayan locked his phone, sliding it into his pocket with deliberate casualness, trying desperately to pretend his heart wasn’t hammering against his ribs.

"Found your name, then?" Pedro Gonsalves asked, leaning over his shoulder with a sharp smirk.

"Yeah," Rayan said, keeping his voice level. "Travelling squad."

"Don’t trip over your own boots when the gaffer calls you down the touchline," Pedro laughed, clapping him on the back before walking off.

There was no cinematic speech from Rui Amorim, no dramatic locker-room gathering to crown the fifteen-year-old. The manager simply walked in, pinned the tactical board, ran through final set-piece assignments in three crisp minutes, and told the group to get their travel gear on.

Before boarding the bus at twelve-thirty, Rayan pulled out his phone in the corridor and sent a flurry of quick messages.

To Sofia:

Matchday squad. On the bench.

Sofia:

Good. Drink your water, stay warm, and don’t do anything stupid if you get on. We’ll be watching.

To Dad:

I’m on the bench today, Dad.

Karim:

I TOLD YOU! I knew it! Goodison Park, my boy on the bench against English opposition! Get ready, keep your eyes open, wear your shin pads properly! I’ve got the stream ready!

To Leonor:

Made the bench for Goodison today.

Leonor:

Try not to trip over the substitutes’ ball bags, little bro. Should I call the Guinness Book of Records for the youngest benchwarmer in history?

To Bia:

In the matchday squad. Substitutes’ bench.

Bia:

That’s huge, Rayan. Good luck today. Try to actually enjoy it.

Rayan:

I’ll enjoy it more if I get minutes.

Bia:

Naturally. Go on then.

As he pocketed his phone, the team drifted out toward the lobby. Outside, the midday Liverpool streets were already thick with matchday energy.

The Sporting coach rumbled out into a grey, overcast afternoon. Through the tinted windows, Rayan watched the changing face of the city. Blue-and-white Everton scarves choked the pavements outside brick pubs, beer glasses held high despite the damp chill. Police vans sat parked at strategic corners, and mounted officers monitored the swelling streams of supporters flowing down towards Goodison Road.

As the vehicle drew nearer to the ground, the surrounding streets constricted into narrow thoroughfares framed by weathered red-brick housing. Local supporters packed the pavements, many turning to spot the dark-tinted windows bearing the Sporting club crest. A few Everton fans raised pints or gestured toward the coach in good-natured pre-season banter, while high-visibility stewards stepped into the road to hold back foot traffic at the tight junction. A loud thud rattled off the lower side panel as a supporter casually slapped the passing coach, the low vibration shuddering right through the floorboards under Rayan’s feet. Most of the local fans had no idea who was sitting behind the reflective glass, entirely unaware of the fifteen-year-old pressing his forehead against the pane.

The deeper they pushed into the cordon, the louder the ambient noise became. Even through the double-glazed coach windows, Rayan could hear distinct fragments of chanting and whistles bouncing off the brick terraces. Yesterday’s quiet, empty stadium suddenly felt very far away.

Up front, the broadcast feed on a staff member’s tablet flickered to life, the pre-match buildup spilling softly into the cabin.

"...and welcome live to Goodison Park as Everton finalise their preparations for this highprofile pre-season test against Portuguese giants Sporting CP," the co-commentator’s voice resonated through the small speaker. "Manager Sean Dyche looking for a physical response here after last week’s test. Sporting arrive with a strong travelling group featuring the likes of Viktor Gyoker and Pedro Gonsalves. Fifteen-year-old academy attacker Rayan has also made the trip as part of the youthful contingent on Merseyside today..."

Rayan pulled out his left earbud, the live broadcast audio fading into the background hum of the bus engine.

The coach made a sharp, sweeping turn, navigating the tight cordoned perimeter before nosing smoothly into the stadium’s secure loading bay. Goodison Park loomed directly outside the window, massive, concrete, and vibrating with suppressed noise.

Rayan removed his remaining earbud, stood up with the rest of the squad, and stepped out into the damp English air.