Chapter 158: Volume 2, - 158: After a Loss

Chapter 158: Volume 2, Chapter 158: After a Loss

Rayan released the Everton defender’s hand and stepped away as the remaining players exchanged greetings around him. Near the halfway line, Pedro Gonsalves accepted a handshake from an Everton midfielder, his shoulders squared back against the chill, before turning to lead the Sporting squad toward the corner of the pitch where a pocket of travelling supporters braved the rain.

A small cluster of green-and-white scarves rose behind the advertising boards, snapping wetly in the Merseyside breeze.

"SPORTING! SPORTING!"

Pedro raised both hands and applauded them, his expression tired but respectful. Hidemasa Morino joined him, clapping above his head as a supporter shouted something urgent and encouraging against the wind.

"Unlucky, boys! We go again next week!" a man near the front called out, his voice cracking over the barrier.

"See you in Lisbon!" another supporter shouted.

Rayan lifted his hands and joined the applause, his palms stinging slightly from the impact. Rain ran down his forehead, matting his hair against his brow as he stared up at the loyal faces standing out in the chill long after the final whistle.

"Come on," Pedro said, dropping his hands and turning toward the tunnel.

As the squad walked off the pitch, the physical toll of ninety minutes began to manifest more heavily. Boots dragged against the damp concrete, and shoulders slumped. Match officials moved past them toward the tunnel with quick, functional strides, while Everton’s coaching staff exchanged brief nods with Sporting’s assistants near the technical area.

Inside the away dressing room, the atmosphere settled into a mix of quiet processing and raw fatigue. Boots were unlaced and dropped onto the floor with dull, heavy thuds. Tape was ripped away from ankles and wrists, sticking instantly to discarded plastic water bottles. A portable recovery tub stood in the corner while players took turns heading into the showers or sitting on the wooden benches to massage their bruised calves.

Staff moved swiftly through the room. A kit assistant hurried past carrying a crate of fresh bottles, dodging towels thrown over benches.

"Pedro, your shake," a staff member called out, thrusting a protein bottle toward him.

Pedro reached back without looking and took the bottle. "Cheers."

"Drink it down before you get changed," the staffer added, already moving on to the next player.

Rayan sat quietly on his bench near the corner, pulling off his boots and setting them neatly beside his locker. His hamstrings were tight from the repeated warm-up sprints, and the spot where Tarkoski had caught him still ached whenever he twisted. He had just pulled off his match shirt when Pedro stopped beside his locker, pausing to unwrap the remainder of the sticky tape from his wrists.

"Good run down the line for that counter-attack," Pedro said, his tone casual and direct as he tossed the ball of tape into a bin. "Got your head up early."

Rayan looked up, resting his forearms on his knees. "Thanks. But I completely wasted the cross at the end."

"Yeah, you did," Pedro grinned slightly, clapping a firm hand on Rayan’s shoulder. "Viktor was waiting in there. Next time, drive it across the six-yard box instead of lifting it. Learn from it and move on."

Viktor Gyoker, sitting a few lockers down wrapping white tape around his wrist, didn’t look up from his task, but added, "Speed was there. Execution wasn’t. Fix the pass."

A few seats away, Inásio dragged a towel through his damp hair, his eyes fixed on the floor between his boots.

"When Onano picked the ball up in the second half, who was supposed to close him?" Inásio asked quietly.

Quaresmo looked over from the adjacent bench, unlacing his second boot. "Fernandis went with the runner."

"Then somebody has to cover the space in front of the back four."

"I know. He drove through the middle before we could shift."

"He nearly made it two. If that hits the inside of the post instead of bouncing away, we’re chasing two goals."

Franco Ismael peeled off his right glove and flexed his fingers, listening from the end of the bench.

"That shot off the post," Franco said, looking towards Inásio. "Thought it was going in."

"So did I," Inásio replied.

Franco shook his head. "He had too much room to hit it."

"I know. We were too slow getting across."

A recovery staffer stopped beside Franco with a bottle. "Drink."

Franco took it, twisted off the cap, and swallowed half before setting it beside his boots.

Quaresmo pulled at the remaining tape around his ankle, his expression tight. "I was watching it from the bench by then, mate. What did you want me to do about the spacing from out there?"

Inásio looked at him, studying his face for a second, then shook his head.

"Fair enough. Just saying we’ve got to lock down that central channel."

Rui Amorim stepped into the centre of the room, standing quietly until the low murmur of conversation subsided.

"Listen," Rui said, his voice measured and calm. "We moved the ball well in the first half and pushed them back again towards the end. But we’ve got to finish those chances, and we can’t give away soft penalties when they’re putting us under pressure. The performance gives us a clear picture of what needs fixing before the league begins in a week. Rest up, recover tonight, and we work on Monday."

As Rayan stood up to grab his towel, a club physiotherapist approached him, clipboard in hand, checking names off a recovery list.

"How are the ribs, El Mansouri? That centre-back gave you a proper welcome to England."

"They’re fine, just caught me clean," Rayan answered, rotating his torso slightly to test the muscle.

The physio pressed two firm fingers against his lower ribs. Rayan winced slightly against the pressure. "No sharp pain when you breathe?"

"No. Just bruised from the shoulder."

"Keep an eye on it, but you’ll live. Go shower before the hot water runs out."

Rayan hung his temporary #82 shirt on the locker hook, grabbed his towel, and headed for the showers. The warm spray washed away the cold Merseyside chill, loosening the tight muscles across his shoulders and back while the steam filled the tiled room.

After stepping out and changing into his dark travel tracksuit, Rayan sat back down on the bench and pulled his phone from his kit bag. The screen lit up instantly with a string of notifications, glowing brightly in the dim dressing room. A handful of supporter tags and academy group-chat notifications crowded the bottom of the screen.

Mum — 3 new messages.

Dad — 2 new messages.

Leonor — Watched the game, you suck!

Joca — Unlucky with the result mate

Bia — Hope you’re having fun in England!!

Before he could tap to open any of them, a kit assistant began clearing out the remaining lockers with brisk efficiency.

"Come on, boots and match kits in the trunk now. We’re moving in five," the staff member called out as he began clearing the equipment.

Rayan locked his phone and slipped it safely into his bag. The assistant reached into his locker and took down the green #82 shirt, folding it neatly. Rayan watched him place it among the other match kits in the massive nylon trunk. Above the empty hook, the handwritten 82 marker remained taped securely to the wood.