Chapter 156: Volume 2, - 156: Take the Bib Off in England

Chapter 156: Volume 2, Chapter 156: Take the Bib Off in England

The swing doors of the away dressing room banged shut behind the last of the players, sealing off the muffled, echoing roar of the Goodison Park tunnel. Inside, the room was thick with the heavy scent of liniment oil, damp cotton, and the sharp tang of sweat.

Performance staff moved through the crowded rows with quiet, practised efficiency, distributing handheld water bottles and tearing open electrolyte sachets.

"We were too far apart," Inásio said, pulling a towel across his face as he slumped onto the bench.

Quaresmo shook his head, staring at his boots and dragging a towel over his neck. "That ball bounced straight into my arm. It shouldn’t have been a penalty."

"Forget the decision," Pedro Gonsalves said, pulling the tape sharply from his wrist. "I should’ve scored before that."

Viktor Gyoker looked up from his boots, his expression hard. "Then get another chance. We’ve still got forty-five minutes."

"Enough," Rui Amorim ordered, his voice cutting through the noise as he stepped into the centre of the room and tapped the whiteboard with his marker. "Inásio, hold the line. Quaresmo, don’t follow him into midfield. Morino, you have to be underneath them when that ball drops. Keep your lines narrow, compress the space on Calvert-Lewis, and make them play around us."

Over in the corner, Franco Ismael pulled on his goalkeeping jersey, double-checking his glove straps as Antonio Adal unlaced his boots in silence. Adal unfastened the captain’s armband from his left bicep and walked it across to Gon?alo Inásio, handing it over with a firm grip and a sharp nod.

Moments later, the whistle sounded from the corridor, and the squad marched back out into the damp Merseyside air.

"We’re underway again at Goodison, and there’s a change in goal for Sporting," the lead broadcast commentator noted over the gantry audio feeds as the second half kicked off. "Franco Ismael has replaced Antonio Adal."

"That’s an opportunity for Ismael, but it’s the midfield Amorim will be watching closely," his partner added. "Everton started collecting too many loose balls towards the end of that first half."

The second half resumed with a scrappy midfield battle. Morino collected the restart under pressure, turning away from an advancing opponent.

"Morino under pressure already, Ducoure closing him down!"

Morino turned away from the challenge and sent the ball back towards Inásio.

"And that’s what Everton want. Sporting forced backwards again."

"SECOND!" Onano shouted.

Morino stepped across him to collect a bouncing ball. Onano leaned heavily into his shoulder. Morino stumbled but managed to hook the ball towards Braga.

"Turn!"

Braga took one touch before Ducoure slid across his path, chopping his momentum. The whistle blew sharply.

"That’s twice!" Braga protested, throwing his arms out and pointing towards the Everton midfielder.

James Tarkoski barked at the Everton defensive line, gesturing with his hands. "Hold the shape! Don’t let them turn!"

"Rayan! Morel! Fernandis! Warm up!" the fitness coach called out.

Rayan sprang from the bench and pulled off his jacket, tossing it onto the seat.

"How long, coach?"

"Until I tell you otherwise. Come on!"

They jogged along the touchline, their boots splashing against the damp grass.

"Yellow cone! Sprint!"

Rayan accelerated, planted his foot, and turned sharply. Behind him, the Goodison crowd suddenly erupted into a sharp roar. He looked over his shoulder toward the pitch.

"Rayan! Eyes here!"

"Sorry!"

"Again!"

Rayan jogged back, wiping moisture from his brow. He glanced quickly toward Rui, but the manager was pointing angrily towards the central midfield channel.

"Two touches! Keep it moving!" the fitness coach called, firing a ball into his path.

Rayan returned the pass cleanly, then looked back toward the bench. Nobody called him over. He dropped straight back into a rhythmic side-step and shuffle.

Around the sixty-ninth minute, the fourth official raised the electronic substitution board. Rui Amorim triggered a quadruple change to reshape his side.

"Here come the changes for Sporting! Amorim wants some fresh legs for the final twenty minutes," the broadcast announced.

Afonso Morel replaced Geni Catano down the right, Mateus Fernandis came on for Daniel Braga in the middle, Ricardo Esgaia took over from Eduardo Quaresmo at the back, and Markus Edwins stepped in for Francisco Trincano on the left wing. ℯℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

"Morel brings pace, Fernandis gives them another midfield option, Esgaia provides energy, and Edwins adds fresh width. Sporting need to turn their possession into chances."

"Everton have defended their lead reasonably comfortably since halftime, but this could change the picture."

Everton nearly capitalised on the transitional spaces as the game opened up. In the seventythird minute, Amadou Onano drove powerfully through the heart of Sporting’s midfield, shrugged off a challenge, and unleashed a thunderous twenty-five-yard strike that beat Franco Ismael all ends up before crashing violently against the right-hand post and rebounding to safety.

"ONANO! SO CLOSE!" the lead commentator cried. "He saw the space open up and let fly, but the woodwork comes to Sporting’s rescue! That would have put the game beyond reach."

"And that’s the danger when you push bodies forward. Sporting are leaving acres in the middle now as they chase this game."

Sensing the shifting momentum, Sporting surged forward. Afonso Morel drifted across to the left flank, instantly making his presence felt by driving past his marker with blistering acceleration.

"PEDRO! TURN!" Morel shouted, cutting a sharp ball back towards the edge of the area.

Gonsalves received it, shifted the ball away from his marker, and struck firmly towards the far corner. Tarkoski lunged across, blocking the shot with his thigh.

"Gonsalves denied! Sporting are pushing now!" the commentator called.

"That’s better movement. Everton are having to defend deeper, and Sporting are finally finding space around the box."

Around the eighty-first minute, a Sporting coach walking down the line caught Rayan’s eye amidst another round of lateral shuffles.

"Rayan! Hold up. Get over here."

Rayan jogged towards the manager, breathing heavily, expecting another sprint instruction.

Rui Amorim pointed directly at Rayan’s chest.

"Take the bib off."

Rui looked towards Mateus Reiz, who was still defending Sporting’s left flank.

"Reiz is coming off," Rui instructed concisely, his expression unyielding. "Morel drops to leftback. Esgaia goes right, Edwins switches to the right wing, and Pedro moves inside behind Viktor. You’re taking the left."

Rayan nodded.

"Their right-back. Press him when his touch gets away from him. Don’t dive in."

"Right."

"Don’t leave Morel alone when they break. You recover with him."

"Got it."

"When we win it, get behind their midfield. If two come at you, give the ball back. And if we lose it—"

"Sprint back."

"Exactly. Don’t leave us exposed."

"Understood, boss," Rayan said, his voice steady.

Up in the gantry, the broadcast commentators caught the number lighting up on the board.

"And a notable change coming up for Sporting here," the lead commentator noted, scanning his match sheets. "Number eighty-two is being prepared. Fifteen-year-old academy winger Rayan El Mansouri is about to enter the fray for the closing stages."

"Another valuable senior run-out for the youngster in a high-intensity environment," his partner analysed. "Amorim giving him a taste of English opposition when the game is stretched. It’s a big ask for a fifteen-year-old, but a fantastic opportunity to see how he handles the tempo."

Rayan stood at the edge of the technical area, pulling off his bright yellow substitute bib and tossing it toward the assistant coach. He dropped down on one knee, pulled off his left boot, and reached down to adjust his shin pads.

His fingers were less steady than he wanted them to be, trembling slightly as he smoothed the sock back over the guards. He forced his breathing to slow down, double-knotted his laces with sharp, mechanical precision, and stood back up.

The fourth official checked the electronic board, Reiz’s number glowing red and Rayan’s eighty-two glowing green.

"Wait for the whistle," he instructed.

Rayan stopped just behind the touchline as the ball continued rolling towards Everton’s defensive corner.