Chapter 154: Volume 2, - 154: The Away Dressing Room

Chapter 154: Volume 2, Chapter 154: The Away Dressing Room

The doors of the Sporting coach hissed open, letting in a sharp gust of Merseyside wind and the heavy, ambient roar of Goodison Park beginning to pulse outside. Private stadium security and club stewards formed a tight, cordoned corridor from the bus steps straight into the subterranean loading bay. Equipment staff immediately swarmed the luggage bays, hauling heavy nylon kit trunks and boot bags out with practised, hurried efficiency.

Rayan filed off the vehicle behind the younger reserves, his travel trainers scraping against the concrete as the equipment staff unloaded the boot bags behind them.

The interior route into the away dressing room was narrow and utilitarian, stark breeze-block walls painted in institutional grey, low-hanging pipes, and damp concrete floors echoing with the steady trudge of the squad. Inside the away dressing room, players moved straight to their designated lockers, dropping bags and unzipping kits as the room filled with the low murmur of professional preparation.

Rows of match kits hung neatly in their designated lockers, every shirt pressed and numbered. Rayan found his spot near the corner: a tight wooden bench with his temporary #82 shirt hanging beneath a handwritten 82 marker.

Around him, Viktor Gyoker sat silently with noise-cancelling headphones pulled over his ears, staring intently at his taped ankles where a physio had just finished reinforcing the strapping. Eduardo Quaresmo was stretched out on a massage table, grimacing as a therapist dug an elbow into his hamstring, while Antonio Adal paced near the entrance.

"Where are my other gloves?" Adal shouted.

A kit assistant looked up from an open equipment case.

"Which ones?"

"The white pair. These are still wet."

"They’re in your bag!"

Adal unzipped the side compartment, pulled out the fresh pair, and shook his head. "Right. Found them."

"Has anyone seen my shin pads?" Daniel Braga barked across the room, tossing his kit bag upside down.

"Check your boots, mate, you left them in the hotel gym last week," Pedro Gonsalves laughed, not even looking up from his phone.

A club official rushed past with a stack of tactical sheets, while another player bolted for the communal toilet down the corridor. Rayan sat on the wooden bench, unlacing his travel trainers and pulling on his football boots, double-knotting the laces with precise mechanical care before sliding his shin pads into place.

At two o’clock, Rui Amorim stepped into the centre of the room. The chatter died instantly as the manager tapped the tactical whiteboard.

"When Everton go long to Calvert-Lewis, what happens if we win the header but lose the second ball?" Rui asked, scanning the group.

"They come straight back at us," Morino answered immediately.

"Exactly. Braga, I don’t want you watching the defender jump. Look at what’s dropping behind him."

Braga nodded.

"And Inásio, don’t get dragged out when Ducoure makes that run. Communicate with Reis."

"Got it," Inásio replied.

Rui lowered the marker. "Make them work for every second ball. Don’t give them another attack for free. Start fast, finish strong."

Moments later, the squad rose in a collective surge and marched out toward the tunnel.

As they emerged from the concrete bowels into the stadium bowl, the sound hit them. Goodison Park was filling rapidly, the low murmur of nearly thirty thousand voices swelling into a heavy, continuous wall of sound that vibrated off the steep, compact stands. The air smelled of damp turf, rain, and fried onions from the concourses.

Rayan joined the substitutes jogging out for the pre-match warm-up, wearing a training top over his thermal layer.

"Open the hips! Both sides!" the fitness coach instructed.

Rayan lifted his right knee, rotated it outwards, and repeated the movement with his left. "Yellow cone! Sprint!"

He accelerated five metres, planted his foot, and jogged back.

"Again!"

Rayan pushed off harder on the second repetition.

"Rayan, you’re next!" the fitness coach called.

Rayan jogged into the passing square.

"Two touches! Keep it moving!" the fitness coach called.

Morino rolled the ball towards him. Rayan received it with his right foot, opened his hips, and returned it cleanly.

"Again!"

The next pass came harder. Rayan’s first touch ran half a metre away.

"Too far!" the coach snapped.

"I’ve got it!" Rayan hurried after the ball, retrieved it, and moved straight back into position.

Across the pitch, Everton’s goalkeepers were put through their paces, their shouts echoing across the damp turf.

"KEEPER!" Jordan Pickfort charged off his line and caught a cross cleanly above his head.

"Again! This one closer to the penalty spot!" the goalkeeper coach called, sending another delivery into the box.

"MINE!" Pickfort jumped between two teammates, punched the ball clear, and landed on the turf.

"Good!" the coach called. "Next one!"

Rayan glanced toward Dominic Calvert-Lewis, who was deep in conversation with a teammate and never looked over during the pre-match routine.

High above the pitch, the television cameras followed Sporting’s final preparations. In the commentary position, the lead broadcaster leaned towards his microphone.

"A final preseason examination for Sporting this afternoon, and Amorim has gone with plenty of his established names."

"Viktor Gyoker leads the attack. He’s still getting used to his teammates, but that physical presence gives Sporting something different."

"And Pedro Gonsalves will be important around him. If Gyoker can occupy those Everton centre-backs, Pedro might find space between the lines."

"Everton won’t make it comfortable, though. Calvert-Lewis gives them a target, Ducoure can arrive from midfield, and Onano will contest those loose balls."

"Which is exactly what Sporting need before their league campaign. They’ll have to move the ball quickly and deal with the contact."

Above the crowd, the stadium PA system crackled to life.

"And your Everton goalkeeper! Number one! JORDAN PICKFORT!"

The Gwladys Street End erupted in a wall of noise.

"Number six! JAMES TARKOSKI!"

Another roar rolled down from the steep stands. Rayan looked up from the touchline, wiping a drop of rain from his forehead.

"Loud, isn’t it?" Quaresmo muttered, jogging past during a recovery phase.

"Can’t even hear myself think," Rayan admitted.

"Wait until they start booing us."

The broadcast camera turned towards Sporting’s substitutes as they completed their final passing drills.

"And there’s fifteen-year-old Rayan El Mansouri. Number eighty-two for Sporting this afternoon," the broadcast commentator noted over the live feed.

"A fascinating opportunity for the youngster. But today is primarily about the established firstteam players and getting ready for the new season."

Back on the pitch, Rayan chased a loose pass toward the touchline, gathered it, and flicked it back to the group before the warm-up concluded.

His mouth was bone dry. He jogged back to the rack, grabbed his water bottle, and took three measured gulps before spitting. Back in the away dressing room, the players stripped off their training tops, pulled on their crisp match shirts, and stepped back out.

Rayan pulled down his socks, checking his shin pads once, then twice, smoothing the fabric over.

"Stop fussing with your gear, Rayan," Pedro Gonsalves muttered, walking past with a quick pat on the shoulder.

"It keeps moving," Rayan protested.

Pedro glanced down. "You’ve adjusted it three times."

"Twice."

"I watched you do it in the dressing room."

Rayan looked at him.

Pedro grinned. "Four times, then."

Minutes later, the teams lined up in the subterranean tunnel. The cool, damp air was thick with tension. Rayan took his place among the substitutes, slotting in behind the senior starters as a tunnel marshal gave the signal for the players to move.

The wall of sound from Goodison Park swallowed them whole as the teams stepped out into the grey Merseyside daylight. Rayan took his designated seat on the bench, pulling his training jacket tight against the chill.

Out on the pitch, the referee raised his whistle, preparing to start.