Chapter 159: Volume 2, - 159: The Flight After Defeat

Chapter 159: Volume 2, Chapter 159: The Flight After Defeat

The transition from Goodison Park back out into the damp Saturday evening air felt heavy and subdued. The players moved in a loose, exhausted cluster across the asphalt of the stadium’s secure parking bay, their kit bags slung over their shoulders or dragged along the ground with plastic wheels rattling against the tarmac.

The team bus idled against the curb, its diesel engine humming softly in the chill, glowing amber against the wet gloom of Liverpool. Inside, the cabin was dim, illuminated only by the faint orange footwell lighting. There was no music playing over the speakers, no rowdy post-match chatter dissecting every micro-incident of the ninety minutes. Players climbed the steps in silence, dropping heavily into the plush leather seats.

Rayan found a vacant seat midway down the aisle, tucked his kit bag beneath the bench, and slid in by the window. As the bus pulled away from Goodison Park, navigating the slow, congested traffic winding through the Liverpool streets, the streetlights cast long, smeared shadows across the glass.

The bus turned off the main road and approached the airport’s secure service entrance, stopping outside the private terminal.

"Passports ready, lads!" a club official called out from the front of the cabin.

"Mine’s in my hand luggage," someone muttered a few rows ahead.

"Then check it before you step off the bus."

Rayan unzipped the side pocket of his backpack, pulled out his passport, and tucked it securely into his tracksuit jacket. The squad filed down the bus steps into the cool night air, stretching their legs after the cramped journey. Equipment staff unloaded the heavy nylon trunks filled with kit and tactical gear, while the players wheeled their smaller personal bags toward the terminal doors.

Inside the private aviation lounge, a Sporting staff member stood by a folding table, checking names against a digital passenger list.

"El Mansouri?"

"Here."

"Passport."

Rayan handed it over. The official checked the photograph against Rayan’s tired face, handed the document back, and waved him through the security checkpoint.

Beyond the document checks, the squad gathered in the quiet waiting area while the flight crew completed final preparations. Club staff distributed simple recovery boxes. Viktor Gyoker opened his meal container and stared down at the contents with a quiet grimace.

"Chicken again?" Viktor muttered.

"Want to trade?" Hidemasa Morino asked from the adjacent leather chair.

"What’ve you got?"

"Chicken."

Viktor shook his head, gave a dry huff of amusement, and picked up a fork. Rayan accepted a wrapped sandwich and a bottle of water from a staff member, eating slowly while watching the equipment handlers load the final crates onto the tarmac outside.

When boarding was called, the players collected their belongings and followed the staff across the floodlit tarmac, stepping up into the chartered aircraft.

The mood on the flight was a stark, muted contrast to the restless excitement of the journey over. Excitement had burned itself out, replaced by the deep, physical lethargy of competitive exhaustion. Some players sat staring blankly out the small aircraft windows into the black expanse above the clouds; others wore heavy-duty noise-canceling headphones, lost behind closed eyes.

As the aircraft droned steadily through the night sky, the cabin’s satellite Wi-Fi network connected automatically, allowing Rayan to finally pull his phone from his pocket and work through the backlog of personal messages.

The first messages were from Mum:

Mum: Did you get hurt? I saw that defender knock you down.

Mum: How do your ribs feel now? Does it hurt when you breathe, or only when you move?

Mum: Have the physios checked you?

Mum: What time are you landing? Do you have everything?

Rayan typed back a quick reassurance:

Rayan: I’m fine, Mum. Just sore ribs. The physio checked me after the match.

Rayan: We’re supposed to land around midnight.

Mum: All right. I’m proud you got to play, even if the result wasn’t what you wanted.

Mum: Message me when you land, please.

Rayan: I will ??

Next came the message thread from Dad:

Dad: Saw that burst down the left line, son. The Everton right-back had no chance against you.

Rayan shook his head slightly, a small, weary smile touching his lips as he tapped out a reply.

Rayan: There was literally a second defender, Dad. He cut me off immediately.

Dad: Details, details. You left the first one flat-footed. Are you okay physically? No stupid tackles?

Rayan: Just a bruised rib. Everything’s fine.

Then came the inevitable message from his sister, Leonor:

Leonor: That final cross went into orbit. Did you think you were passing to an aeroplane?

Rayan scowled at the screen, tapping back an indignant defense.

Rayan: You couldn’t make that pass in an empty park with a stationary ball.

Leonor: True. And that is exactly why Sporting did not fly me to England.

Before he could fire back a retort, a notification from Bia popped up on the screen, softening the sibling crossfire.

Bia: How do you actually feel after all that?

Rayan paused, staring at the text for a long moment before replying.

Rayan: Fine.

Bia: You know ’fine’ means nothing when you type it like that. Was it awful?

Rayan: Not awful. Just annoyed about my last action. Missed a chance to do something useful with the ball when it mattered.

Bia: Did you do anything good before that?

Rayan hesitated, then typed out a grudging admission.

Rayan: Yeah. Had a good burst down the flank. Made a clean pass when I needed to.

Bia: See? One bad cross doesn’t wipe out the rest. Sleep on the plane.

He locked his phone for a moment, letting the conversation settle. When he glanced down briefly at his social media notifications, the online landscape reflected a mixed, localized reaction:

@Lion_Core_89: El Mansouri’s pace on that counter was ridiculous. Needs more minutes with the first team.

@LisbonGreen99: Looked lively for seven minutes, but that final cross was atrocious lmao. Still a kid though.

@Sporting_DNA: Good run out at Goodison. Pre-season is for mistakes. On to next week.

Curious, Rayan flicked open the System interface in his peripheral vision, calling up the newly awarded Away-Routine Analysis Module. The minimalist digital window tracked his telemetry without fanfare:

[AWAY-ROUTINE ANALYSIS MODULE ACTIVE.]

[LOGGED METRICS — TRAVEL DAY: SATURDAY, 5 AUG 2023.]

[ESTIMATED FLIGHT DURATION: 2H 45M.]

[MATCH MINUTES RECORDED: 7.]

[HYDRATION STATUS: NORMALIZING (POST-SUPPLEMENT).]

[SELF-REPORTED SORENESS: RIB AREA — MILD.]

[RECOMMENDED SLEEP TARGET: 8.5 HOURS.]

There was no magical recovery coefficient attached to it, no sudden healing property that washed away the ache in his ribs, and no mysterious boost to his overall rating, which remained firmly anchored at 53. It was simply a cold, highly organized logistical tracker designed to optimize his recovery pathways across future away campaigns.

Rayan closed the window with a quiet mental blink.

A flight attendant dimmed the overhead lights as the tired squad settled into their seats.

Beside him, Mateus Fernandis had fallen asleep with his chin tucked against his jacket, breathing softly in the dim cabin.

Rayan turned his face back toward the passenger window. Below the aircraft’s wing, the scattered, glittering constellation of Lisbon’s night lights began to break through the cloud cover, signaling the end of the journey and the start of a new week.