Chapter 161: Volume 2, - 161: Back With the U17s

Chapter 161: Volume 2, Chapter 161: Back With the U17s

The Monday morning sun cut sharply across the manicured pitches of the Sporting Academy at Alcochete, baking the dew off the grass and casting long shadows from the perimeter fencing. The air here smelled of cut turf, damp grass, and the faint diesel fumes of the groundskeeping tractors rather than the damp street-smoke of Merseyside, but the low hum of competitive urgency remained entirely unchanged.

Rayan pushed open the door to the under-seventeen dressing room. The interior was immediately familiar, yet after the towering scale of Goodison Park and the sprawling, hushed tunnels of Alvalade, the space felt noticeably compressed. The benches were packed tight, the lockers slightly smaller, and the boots scattered across the floor worn by teenagers still growing into their frames.

"Look who survived the English chill," Tiago Silva called out from the corner bench, tossing a rolled-up pair of socks directly at Rayan’s chest.

Rayan caught them instinctively, offering a tired grin as he ducked past. "It rained the whole time. You didn’t miss much."

"Right, because training under a grey sky for ten minutes makes you an international traveler now," Bernardo Rocha muttered, unlacing his boots with a clatter. "Did Pickfort actually scream at you, or were you too busy hiding behind Gyoker?"

"Pickfort didn’t even know I was on the pitch until I tracked back and pressed his right-back," Rayan countered, pulling his kit bag out and unzipping it.

"Rubbish," Tiago laughed. "You probably spent seven minutes running away from Tarkosky."

"Tarkoski," Bernardo corrected, pronouncing it with exaggerated accuracy. "At least get the name right if you’re going to invent stories about Premier League defenders."

A few lockers down, Salvador Almeida looked up from his tactical tablet, his expression deadpan. "Did you win any duels, or did they just bounce off you?"

"They bounced off me the first time," Rayan admitted flatly, sliding his shin guards out of his bag. "Then I figured out how to move my feet."

Before the teasing could escalate, the dressing room door swung open, and Nuno Marques stepped inside. The under-seventeen head coach didn’t waste time with introductory speeches or ceremonial welcome-backs. His eyes swept the room with sharp, operational precision.

"Kit on, boots laced, out on Pitch Three in four minutes," Nuno ordered, his voice carrying over the chatter. "Move."

As the players scrambled to their feet, Nuno caught Rayan by the elbow, pulling him slightly aside near the doorway while the rest of the squad filtered out into the corridor.

"El Mansouri," Nuno said, his tone entirely level. "Good to have you back."

"Thank you, coach."

"Don’t thank me yet. You spent a week upstairs. That means you experienced a different speed of thought. But you aren’t here to play hero-ball, and you aren’t here to carry the team on your own because you tasted senior pre-season. You are here to execute our structure, carry responsibility, get your repetitions, and keep developing. You help the team win matches, and you stay sharp in case the senior staff ask for you again. Understood?"

"Understood, coach," Rayan said, though a familiar knot of restless impatience tightened in his chest.

"Good. How long am I here for, coach?" Rayan asked, unable to stop himself from pressing. "Is there a timeline for going back up?"

Nuno’s expression didn’t flicker. "You’re here until the club tells you otherwise. Now get out to the pitch."

During the tactical small-sided games on Pitch Three, Rayan found himself over-anticipating the velocity and physical pressure he had faced against Everton and Sporting’s first team.

Receiving a clean pass from Salvador Almeida in midfield, Rayan took a sharp, anticipatory touch, expecting a senior-level central midfielder to crash violently into his ribs. He snapped a hurried, blind early-release pass toward the flank, only to realize the space around him was wide open. The defender hadn’t closed him down because the under-seventeen defensive line held a different, more cautious recovery shape.

"What was that?" Tiago Silva called out, throwing his hands up in mild frustration as the ball rolled harmlessly out of bounds. "Nobody was even near you!"

"My bad," Rayan muttered, jaw tightening.

A few moments later, during a positional possession drill, Rayan drifted into space and tried to force a quick, vertical combination, misjudging the timing. Bernardo Rocha, reading the play cleanly, stepped across him with crisp, aggressive timing, intercepted the ball cleanly, and immediately drove past him into open space.

"Wake up, El Mansouri! You’re back in Portugal now!" Bernardo shouted over his shoulder as he sprayed a pinpoint diagonal pass to the opposite wing.

Rayan exhaled sharply, shaking his head as he jogged to adjust his defensive recovery.

Later in the morning session, during an eleven-a-side tactical block, Rayan found himself pinned wide on the left touchline against the under-seventeen B-team right-back. He checked his run, dropped his shoulder, and used a sharp, explosive first-step exit to leave his marker flat-footed.

The right-back spun around and chased, but Rayan was already approaching the edge of the box.

"EARLY!" Tiago shouted, making a run between the centre-backs.

Rayan shaped to cross, but a covering defender stepped into the passing lane. He stopped the ball under his boot and rolled it backwards to Salvador.

"Again!" Nuno called from the center circle. "Don’t stand there after the pass!"

Rayan checked his shoulder and moved inside. Salvador returned the ball, but the defenders had recovered their positions.

"Switch it!" Bernardo shouted.

Rayan sent the ball across to the opposite side and jogged into space for the next phase.

The next time Rayan received on the half-turn during a quick transition, Bernardo stepped across to close the passing lane. Rayan knocked the ball beyond him and accelerated.

Bernardo turned to chase, already losing ground.

Duarte Faria came across from the central channel. He’d read the first touch early, cutting across to reach Rayan’s shoulder and block the route inside before Rayan could fully extend his stride. Rayan tried to shift the ball across his body, but Duarte stayed with him, his balance disciplined and unyielding.

"Out! Reset!" Nuno shouted.

The players jogged back towards their starting positions. Duarte remained near the touchline for a second longer, staring blankly through the perimeter fencing towards the distant academy car park.

"Duarte!" Nuno called.

He didn’t move.

"Faria!"

Duarte turned sharply, jaw tight, and jogged back into position. Rayan glanced at him as they lined up. Duarte rarely needed Nuno to repeat himself.

When the drill restarted, Duarte took a pass under pressure, turned away from Salvador’s outstretched foot, and threaded a left-footed ball into the opposite channel. Rayan twisted to follow it, already a step behind the play.

On the next move, Rayan received a clean pass out wide. With Duarte occupied elsewhere on the pitch, Rayan kept his head up, spotted Tiago’s run between the centre-backs, and drove a firm pass along the pitch into the six-yard box. Tiago arrived ahead of his marker and swept a first-time finish into the roof of the net.

"Good movement! That’s the rhythm!" Nuno’s voice echoed across the pitch, sharp and approving.

Rayan wiped the sweat from his forehead and nodded towards Bernardo. His thoughts still drifted back to Goodison, but Nuno’s next whistle gave him no time to linger on them.